CHAPTER SIX
If you had told me a week ago that I’d be lying in bed at six-thirty in the morning, replaying a kiss with Truman Alexander in my head and working myself into a hot, bothered mess, I would have said you didn’t know me at all.
Maybe I didn’t know me at all.
So does this mean the reunion site was right? And if it is, what does that mean for the next eleven years of my life? Do I have a say in whether or not I spend them with Truman? Or now that the wheels are in motion, do I ride this train into the sunset with everything laid out on one straight track?
As if to add absurdity to an already surreal situation, the website has started sending me notifications. Whenever someone comments on a photo or leaves a note in the guest book, my phone pings. The first ones came in last night. I checked in to find messages from the future versions of Anna Larkin and Ryan Oard.
The notifications started again this morning. As I lie here in bed, listening to ping after ping, a wave of terror washes over me. It’s Friday. I should get up, shower, and get myself to school, but I can’t face Eli. Or Truman. I need a day—possibly the entire weekend—to hide and figure out what to do next.
Shuffling out of my room, I head downstairs. Dad’s already at work, and Mom is in the kitchen on video chat, making coffee while Piper’s voice crackles out of her phone.
“Well, hang in there,” Mom is saying. “We’re cheering you on over here. Oh wait! Here’s Skyler! Skyler, say hi!”
“Hi, Piper.” I lean into the camera frame and wave. She’s got early-morning bedhead and mascara under her eyes, but she still manages to look studiously successful as she waves back.
“Hey, Sky. How’s everything going?”
I almost respond with, Well, Piper, it’s going freaking unbelievably weird, to be honest. I can inexplicably see the future through my phone, which often refuses to send a simple text but somehow has no trouble letting me know what random people from my class are doing more than ten years from now. And on top of that, yesterday I kissed a guy I can’t stand. If you think that sounds like a good time, then I’d say everything is going just awesome, thanks for asking.
I do not say this. Obviously. I tell Piper everything’s fine, and I try not to read anything into the way she says, “Oh, that’s good to hear.” Because I’m pretty sure neither of us is going to apologize for the things we said at Christmas. I think we’re to the point where we just pretend the whole thing didn’t happen and hope it doesn’t come up again. But it’s not easy to forget the message behind her words: You can’t coast by anymore. Step up and take more initiative. What it really means, if we’re being honest, is that I’m not good enough.
“I don’t feel well,” I tell Mom, quietly so Piper won’t judge me for missing school. Mom doesn’t press her hand to my forehead like she used to, or even ask about my symptoms. She’s too busy getting her lunch together and trying to get out the door.
“Go back to bed and I’ll call the attendance office from the car,” she tells me. I tell Piper “bye,” then I go back upstairs, where I spend the next couple of hours obsessively scrolling through the reunion site. It remains stubbornly unchanged. My Instagram is pretty much the same too, except oh, look, Future Me went to Seattle. That’s one nice photo of a cup of coffee in front of a rain-spotted window. At least Future Me’s filter game is on point.
Around lunchtime, my phone starts blowing up with texts—real texts from my Present-Day friends. Jordan and Harper say they hope I’m feeling all right. Eli wants to know if I’m up for a date tomorrow night.
I am not up for a date. Or a breakup. Because isn’t that what’s supposed to happen when you’ve kissed another guy?
I don’t want to break up with Eli, though. I want to go back a day and stop myself from kissing Truman. If a website link can travel through time, then maybe time travel is possible for me too. Because right now the near future looks a lot scarier than the distant one: Eli will be beyond upset when he finds out what I’ve done.
I text back.
He sends me back a sad selfie, and I can’t look at those pouty eyes for more than a second without massive guilt gnawing at my insides.
The guilt is so intense that I can’t bring myself to go to school on Monday, either. I spend the day watching Hulu, trying to ignore my phone. Sometime in the late afternoon, I haul myself off the couch and decide to see if I can start dinner so Mom won’t have as much to do when she gets home.
While I’m surveying the contents of the fridge, a new notification comes through from Future Harper, commenting on a photo of her with Jordan and me at the reunion:
That’s when I notice where the reunion is taking place. The details on the homepage say “Blessing Memorial Garden.” And when I look closely, I see the rose wall in the background, the trees, and the gazebo.
Harper says under another photo.
Okay, I can’t take much more of this. I know it’s ridiculous, but I have to check one more time; maybe this whole thing really is a joke.
I call Harper. “So…did you post something just now?”
“Where?” she says. “Instagram?”
“No…” I try to keep it vague. “I mean like a comment. To an album on a website…”
“Seriously, Sky? Are you still looking at that thing?”
“Yes. Fine.” I abandon all attempts at hiding. “I’m looking at something that was supposedly sent by you. It’s about the garden, and it’s got you and me and Jordan….” I fumble with my phone. “Ugh, I want to screen grab this….”
“Don’t.” Her voice is tense. “I told you I don’t want to see it.”
“I couldn’t pull it up if I wanted to.”
“Oh. Well, so…” I can hear her relaxing, trying to be helpful. “You say I’m posting comments about the garden?”
“Yes. It looks like the whole reunion is being held there.”
“Well, that’s good news! Maybe it won’t get torn down after all.”
“You’re right, I guess. I mean, of course, you’re right. But everything else about this is making me want to pull out my hair.”
“Which is exactly my point. Nothing good can come from messing with something like that. Why don’t you just delete the link? Block the notifications?”
“You really think I should?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s best to just leave all this alone. It’s freeing to think I could let go and forget it ever happened.
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks, Harper.”
And I almost do manage to forget. I block notifications on my phone. I trash the original message from Future Jordan. For a few glorious hours, I am blissfully free of all things reunion site.
Then, after dinner, Truman shows up at my front door.
“Is this a bad time?”
He stands at the edge of the step, like he’s prepared to dash away if needed. His overstuffed backpack perches on his shoulder, and he clutches his omnipresent black notebook. He stares at me, unblinking, while I attempt to shift gears from what I thought was just going to be a two-second exchange with the UPS guy.
“Haven’t you heard of calling ahead?” I ask, painfully aware that I am wearing a shapeless T-shirt and a pair of old leggings, and have bed-matted hair. “Calling ahead is a thing.”
“Hey, Skyler, who’s this?” Dad appears behind me, a mug of tea in his hands.
“Good evening, Mr. Finch. My name is Truman Alexander. I’m in several of Skyler’s classes at school. She and I are working on a project together, and I came by to see if we could get something done on it. We’re under a tight deadline.”
This resonates with Dad, who never met a deadline-oriented person he didn’t like.
“Ah, well, don’t let me hold you up,” he says. “Skyler, aren’t you going to ask Truman inside?”
I step back to let Truman in. Dad closes the door behind him.
“I’m dealing with some tight deadlines myself,” he tells us. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything. Your mom had a long day and went to bed early. Nice meeting you, Truman.”
Frowning, I lead Truman into the den, suddenly hyperaware of every clutter-strewn surface and every inch of carpet that needs vacuuming. We had to let our housekeeper go when Dad lost his job. The three of us do the cleaning now, and we lack both the time and skill to do it well. I hope Truman doesn’t notice.
I show him how to work the TV, then announce that I’m going to change my clothes. I make it quick, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take a little extra effort with my appearance. No reason to look like a complete slob just because I stayed home from school.
When I return, Truman’s got his laptop fired up, the black notebook open in his lap. Dominating his screen is a massive spreadsheet. I notice too that his notebook has been divided and subdivided with color-coded tabs.
I sit in Dad’s old leather chair, unsure what to say. All weekend, I’ve been trying not to think about Truman. Trying to remind myself that I don’t want him to text or call, then trying not to wonder why he hasn’t. Trying not to speculate on what he thinks about that kiss.
But the truth is, I’m dying to know. His voice keeps playing in my head, repeating over and over what he said just before: You’re fierce and fearless and completely captivating when you feel strongly about something.
No one’s ever called me fierce or captivating.
He types a few lines into his spreadsheet, then looks up. “We need to write our speeches for the council meeting. We don’t have much time.”
Irritation shoots through me. I’m cool with playing it cool, but this is ridiculous.
“Thanks for asking how I am, Truman. I missed two days of school, and for all you know I could have the plague.”
“I didn’t think there was anything to be too concerned about. And I can see now that my assessment was correct. You look very nice, by the way—not sick at all.”
I cross my arms over the cute top I just put on, wishing I’d kept my face pale instead of wearing makeup.
“So what did you think I was doing all this time?”
“I thought you might be avoiding me because of what happened the other night.”
“You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself if you think my health depends on you.”
“I don’t think that. Like I said, your health appears to be fine. But I didn’t call ahead because I didn’t want to give you a chance to back out when we have so much to do.”
I can’t tell if he’s being an ass or just awkwardly honest. One thing he definitely is, though, is infuriatingly adorable in a polo and deck shoes, with a spot of hair on the side of his head that looks like he slept on it wrong. He looks like a nerdy country club valet.
“So you thought I’d flake out on my responsibilities. You assumed I wouldn’t be able to overlook my emotions and focus. You must really think I’m shallow.”
“I think you don’t like me,” he replies. “I believe the exact word you used was loathing.”
Now I know he’s being an ass. I even caught a hint of a smile as he started to flip through his notebook. This is classic Truman doing his classic Truman thing. And it’s driving me crazy.
“I don’t loathe you, Truman. Okay? Are you trying to get me to prove that or something?”
He shrugs. “I’m just trying to get these speeches written.”
I have no other choice but to wipe the smug expression off his face. I crash into him, grabbing his shirt, pressing my lips to his.
And that’s how we spend the rest of the evening: Arguing. Making out. Jumping apart and pretending to work whenever Dad leaves his office. Something happens when Truman and I touch that I can’t figure out. The second our lips meet I get this buzzing way down to my toes, along with the feeling that I’m riding in a fast car, knowing I should probably be scared but loving the way my stomach flips over all the little hills. The part of my brain that remembers current boyfriends and past insults and the fact that I am supposed to loathe Truman with every fiber of my being shuts off. He’s either a really good kisser…or he’s just really good at kissing me. Whichever one it is, time stops when I’m kissing Truman, and nothing exists but the delicious, thrilling now.