8:15 a.m.
ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE
9:15 a.m.
ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE
11:56 a.m.
ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE
It’s been four days since my blowup with Blake, and in the past ninety-six hours, I’ve gotten nine calls and two voicemails from him. I’m not sure if that’s something I should be proud of.
“You totally should be proud of it,” Isobel had said during my self-imposed lunch break at the library. She drove halfway across town to meet me and bring me my favorite—a Philly cheesesteak.
Who said platonic love isn’t as valuable as romantic love?
“I mean, come on,” she scolded. “You have a boy from one of the most powerful families in Boston calling you. That means something.”
After our first interaction with Mrs. McIntyre, Isobel did her research. The McIntyres are a big philanthropic family, giving money to the symphony, education reform, mayoral campaigns, plenty of other political campaigns, and of course, medical research.
Mrs. McIntyre, at least on paper, is the one who has the money. She’s from one of those old-money Boston families who came over on the Mayflower or something. Professionally, she’s no slouch. She’s a partner at McIntyre, Weston, and Grant, the best law firm in Massachusetts, one of the top three law firms on the East Coast, and one of the top five in the country.
Mr. McIntyre is no slouch either. Though not a power lawyer like his wife, he holds two PhDs, one in physics and one in biology. Rumor has it he was long-listed for a Noble Prize three years ago for his research regarding how time affects living organisms. Which, honestly, fits.
“You sure you don’t want to know about the boys?” she asked. “I found some good dirt that you can use to your advantage. Knowledge is power, you know.”
“I already put my foot in my mouth once. I don’t need to do it again,” I said and hugged her, promising to call her after my classes so we could hang out.
But instead of calling Isobel at four o’clock, all I can think about are the missed calls and voicemails from Blake. They’re staring at me—taunting me—begging me to react.
“I should just delete them,” I mutter, getting in my car and putting my book bag in the passenger seat. I have three classes worth of homework to do. I’m taking three yearlong classes crammed into six weeks. I don’t have time to focus on anything else. Not Blake. Not time travel. Not Michael.
If I want to have any hope of graduating on time, of continuing my life and being me, this needs to be my priority.
Isn’t that why I did all this? Why I fought so hard to survive? So I could have a normal life, or at least the chance at one.
Being a time traveler isn’t normal.
Being associated with the richest, most powerful family in Boston isn’t normal.
Traveling into the past to date someone isn’t normal.
And yet, with all that truth staring me in the face, I still press Call Back on my phone.
Ring.
Maybe I should hang up.
Ring. Ring.
The truth is, our argument? It wasn’t completely his fault. Ignoring him is passive-aggressive, and I know this. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling—white-hot rage. It’s the way he turned the tables on me; he pushed me into the past, and then, somehow, he makes it about him and how I was wrong?
Ring. Ring. Ring.
I should hang up. I shouldn’t give him a second chance. I should tell Claire that I want her to teach me how—
“Andre?”
Blake’s deep voice catches me off guard. There’s a hint of discomfort in it, too, an upward inflection that makes him seem softer, less in control than usual.
“You there?” he asks.
“Yeah. Hey,” I say, after a beat.
“Hey.”
The clouds are turning a darker gray more quickly than I expected. Soft droplets of rain pat against my windshield. It’s going to get humid quickly. And my car doesn’t have AC. Great.
Who should speak first? Should it be me?
He did reach out first. He made the first move by calling. The ball’s technically in my court.
Screw it.
“Look, I’m—”
“I’m—”
We both speak at the same time, then we both fall quiet at the same time too.
“You go first,” he says.
“No, you,” I suggest. “When I lead a conversation, it tends to go off the rails.”
A soft chuckle comes out of Blake’s mouth. Finally, after seconds passing, he speaks.
“Can you come over? Just for a little bit? I want to apologize.”
I pull my phone away from my face to check the time—4:15. Mom and Dad will be home around 6:00. It’ll take twenty minutes to get to Blake’s. I can stay for an hour, and then head home. Make up some excuse about how I was studying or hanging out with Isobel, who’ll cover for—
Shit. Isobel.
I promised I’d hang with her today. We’ve barely hung out at all since I got back from the hospital, except for the time we went to visit Blake’s house, and that could barely be classified as a hangout session. I promised her, and knowing Izzy, she probably has a whole evening planned.
But this is more important. I’d be a fool to think, even for a moment, that I could just let the world of time travel and all its possibilities slip through my fingers.
“Andre?” Blake asks again.
“Heading your way now.”
I hang up without another word and send a quick text to Izzy, then throw my phone onto the seat next to me. As I drive, it vibrates, and I know exactly what her reply is going to say.