TIme After Time

21

San Francisco, California

I scroll through the calendar on my phone, looking at all the days that have passed since my last trip. I picture Anna doing something similar, adding one more X in today’s square on her wall calendar before she heads off to school. We’re getting closer and closer to the one marked with the word “homecoming.” Three more open squares. Three more days to go.

I’m supposed to be writing an essay on the Zhou Dynasty for AP World Civ, but instead I’m staring at the tabs at the top of the browser: ZHOU DYNASTY—WIKIPEDIA, WORLD CIVILIZATION/ONLINE STUDENT RESOURCES, PANDORA.

I click on Pandora and change the station a few times before I settle on “90s Alternative.” Without even thinking about it, I open a new browser window and a news page pops open. I scan the stories about the upcoming presidential election and watch today’s most popular YouTube video.

I click on the Local News button and scroll through, reading the headlines: VICTIMS OF A SMALL PLANE CRASH IDENTIFIED. MAN ARRESTED FOR ARSON. WOMAN SHOT OUTSIDE MARKET. SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD RUNAWAY FOUND DEAD ON LOCAL BEACH. The list of tragedies and near-tragedies that occurred in the greater Bay Area over the past twenty-four hours goes on and on.

I’m just about to close the window and return to my essay when a story farther down the page catches my attention: FATHER AND DAUGHTER KILLED BY TEEN DRIVER.

I click on the link and it opens to a picture of a light-blue bike, twisted and lying in the gutter. I read the story:

7:34 P.M.—A seventeen-year-old male driver struck a family riding bicycles shortly after 3:30 p.m. today. The teen’s truck lost control and collided with a fire hydrant before hitting a man and his two daughters, killing the man and one girl and injuring the other. The driver was released from the hospital with minor injuries and was immediately arrested on suspicion of involuntary manslaughter.

I tell myself to close the window, but instead, I scroll down and continue reading.

Identities have not yet been released, but according to police, the cyclists were a man, his nine-year-old daughter, and her twelve-year-old sister. Both the man and nine-year-old girl were pronounced dead at the scene. The twelve-year-old was taken to the hospital with minor injuries. The father met his two daughters at school every day to ride home with them, to make sure they got home safely.

The words make me sick, but it’s the pictures that do me in. In addition to the one of the light-blue bike, there’s a photo of the building that eventually stopped the car. Its stucco is scattered and stacked in piles on the ground, its framing exposed.

I stare at the screen, thinking about the driver, and how such a small mistake—something that happened in a fraction of a second—just changed his entire life. He’s only seventeen, but his whole future came to a screeching halt today. Even if the jail time is minimal, how could he ever be the same knowing that a girl and her mother are now without a sister and daughter, and a father and husband. I picture him, sitting in an orange jumpsuit down at county, wishing he could do it all over again, wishing for a second chance. And two keystrokes later, the printer whirs to life. I grab the paper while it’s still warm and head downstairs.

Dad’s office door is ajar, but I knock before I push it open anyway. He’s behind his desk, working at his computer, and he looks up and watches me with a curious expression as I cross the room. I don’t say a word as I set the news story on the desk in front of him.

“What is this?”

“Read it.”

He scans it quickly and looks up at me.

“Tell me it’s a really bad idea,” I say.

He’s quiet for a long time, reading the article, then he grins. “It’s a really bad idea.”

“I know, right?”

He stares at me.

“Want to come along?”

I find Dad’s old backpack on the shelf in the garage reserved for our family’s neglected camping gear, and I shake off the thin layer of dust that’s collected over the years. When I was little, I saw this pack nearly every weekend. I remember how big it used to look as I trailed behind Dad on Cub Scout hikes through the wilderness.

Now I work quickly to ready it for a completely different kind of adventure, filling it with two room-temperature bottles of water from a flat lying on the floor next to the refrigerator. I’m about to head back inside when I spot my skateboard leaning up against the far wall, and it gives me an idea. I jam it into my pack, one end sticking out through the gap in the zipper.

Back in my room, I add the rest of the essentials—large wads of cash stuffed into the front pockets of both packs and a clean T-shirt balled up in the main pocket of mine, just in case. As I pass the bathroom, I grab a big handful of Kleenex from the box on the counter.

Dad’s pacing his office and cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt. I hand him his backpack and shut the door behind me.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to my pack.

I turn around to look at it. “That’s a skateboard, Dad.”

“Thanks, Bennett.” He shakes his head at me. “Why are you bringing a skateboard?”

“I’m sticking to my rules. I still don’t believe I should change things deliberately, but I’ve been sort of…experimenting with altering little things: you know, small, insignificant details that could have a huge effect on the outcome.” I give him a mischievous grin and gesture toward the board. “This is a diversion.”

Dad seems relatively comfortable with the small amount of information I’m giving him, so I hold out my hands. He looks wary as he glances down at them. “It’s been a while. Do you still remember how this works?”

He nods once. When he takes them, his grip is strong and his hands feel rough and large in mine, nothing like Anna’s or Brooke’s. For a moment, I feel like I’m ten again; small, fragile, and not at all like the person with the power.

“You ready?” I ask.

Dad doesn’t say anything as he closes his eyes.

I close mine and lock in the time. I visualize the nondescript alley I found online, a half a block away from the intersection where everything just changed for four people. I muster a silent plea that I’ll be able to fix it for all of them.

“Open your eyes.”

Dad opens them and looks around. I can tell he’s trying not to panic. “Where are we?”

I gesture toward the far end of the alley. Cars are zooming past, and I start off walking in that direction and tell Dad to follow me. When we arrive, I peer around the corner and take in the surroundings. Halfway between the alley and the busy intersection, I see a wide cement stairway that leads to an office building. I didn’t see that on the map, but it makes this spot even more perfect.

I point into the distance, across the intersection, and Dad stands next to me, following my gaze. “See that red fire hydrant on the next block?”

He squints. “Yes.”

I tell him everything I know from the news story online. “The car went out of control and slammed into that hydrant, and a few seconds later, hit the bikers. But all of them passed through this intersection first, at different times, before any of that happened. We have about ten minutes before the bikes arrive at this spot, so here’s our plan.” Dad stares at me with wide eyes as I describe what I have in mind, and when I get to the part where I tell him his role in the whole thing, he lets out a series of “okays” and “got its.” He might be a bit shell-shocked, but as far as I can tell, he’s taking it all in.

“That’s the plan?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I brace myself for criticism or, at the very least, additions. Dad smiles and says, “That’s really good.”

I smile back. “Thanks. I kind of thought so too.” He has a funny look on his face, like he’s about to say something important, but instead, he looks over his shoulder and down the street. A bike courier zooms past us.

“You’d better get going,” he says, pointing toward the intersection. He heads off in the opposite direction.

In one swift string of moves, I pull my skateboard out of the backpack, start into a run as I throw it on the ground, and swing the pack over my shoulders as I skate away. I push with my back foot and glide, weaving back and forth to find my balance. A minute later, I’m at the bottom of the steps. I pop my board into my hand and race up to the top. It’s perfect—the ground is smooth and there’s no one here.

I’m floating around the empty courtyard, feeling the board under my feet and gathering my nerve, when I spot a short cement divider at the far end. I build up speed, heading straight for it. I’m feeling confident as I pop an ollie at the base. I clear it easily and land clean on the other side.

I turn around and skate back toward the steps. I leave my board at the top and race halfway down so I can check the scene. There are other bikers on the road, but I think I spot the three of them on the next block. They’re riding slowly in a single-file line, and when the light turns, they stop. So far, so good.

At the top of the steps I grab my board, jump onto the ledge, do a 50-50 grind to the bottom, and land perfectly. Now I see Dad clearly as he rounds the corner, just in front of the bikers, all of them moving quickly. I run back up to the top of the stairs and skate deep into the courtyard so I can generate enough momentum.

Then I’m off, skating fast toward the steps, the wind pushing my hair off my face. I speed toward them, focused on nothing but the cement ledge that separates the steps from a cluster of trees. I ollie onto it, balance the trucks on the edge, and slide down—fast, but completely in control. And I land, bending my knees to absorb the shock and forcing the board into a quick turn to keep from going into the street. And that’s when I fake my crash.

I let my board slip out from under my feet, sending me tumbling hard toward the ground. I fall onto my shoulder and roll it out like I’ve done hundreds of times, but I imagine the whole thing looks far more dramatic to a nonskater. In case it doesn’t, I add a little flourish, taking the whole display up a notch or two.

Gripping my leg to my chest I lie on the ground, yelling loudly and writhing in pain. And that’s when Dad arrives at my side, wearing his suit and looking like a concerned pedestrian. “Are you okay?” he keeps asking, while I respond with more yelling. And writhing.

He reaches for his cell phone and I have to turn away to conceal the grin on my face. I never thought I’d turn a do-over into a heroic act, and I sure as hell never thought I’d make Dad my sidekick.

Now the man has stopped and is straddling his bike and balancing his weight on the curb. His two daughters are stopped too, waiting curiously behind him and staring at me. I let out a high-pitched groan and return to thrashing on the ground.

Dad has to yell to be heard above the hum of the passing traffic. “My cell phone is dead and this boy needs some help. Can you call nine-one-one?”

I can’t hear what the man says in reply, but he appears to be digging around in the pocket of his jeans.

This brilliant street performance should probably be my sole focus, but I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on. I look past the girls and into the street, and see the truck. Dad’s watching it too, and I’m sure neither one of us is breathing as it shifts into the lane closest to us.

I sit up to get a better view, no longer caring if I’ve broken my cover. In a fraction of a second, no one will be looking at me anyway.

The truck speeds up to make the light and travels through the intersection, and a few seconds later, it veers off the road and up onto the curb. It sideswipes the fire hydrant, sending water shooting into the air. It doesn’t stop moving until it slams into the side of the building. Stucco goes flying in every direction and smoke starts shooting up from the open hood.

I know how this scene will look a few hours from now—I clearly remember the “after” photo of the building: windows shattered, framing exposed, stucco piled on the sidewalk—but when I look at the little girl in front of me, I remember the other picture that ran with the news story. She’s still standing astride her light blue, untwisted bike, and craning her neck to see what happened on the next block. Suddenly, she catches me staring at her. She hops off and hits the kickstand with her foot, and walks over to me.

She crouches down low. “Is your leg okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. I think it’s okay.” I’m sure I look ridiculous, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, wearing this goofy smile.

Then my dad is by my side, his voice loud and direct. “Stay here. We’re going to go check on the driver.” The little girl and I watch as our fathers take off running toward the scene of the accident.

“I hope he’s okay,” she says.

“Don’t worry,” I say in a tone of voice that’s probably far too enthusiastic for this situation. “I have a feeling he’s fine.”

22

Dad opens his eyes and looks around at his office, like he’s seeing the bookshelves and paintings for the first time. “Did we do it?” He drops my hands and starts pacing back and forth in front of me. “How do we know if we changed it or not?”

I look at the clock above the door. It’s only a quarter to four.

He crosses the room in three long strides and stands behind his desk, shuffling papers. “Where is it? Where’s the story you brought in here?”

I keep my voice calm to offset the anxiety I hear in his. “It’s okay, Dad. That hasn’t happened yet.” I point up at the analog clock above his desk. “I came down here and showed you that story around seven thirty. That’s four hours from now.”

His eyes follow my finger but he only gives it a quick glance before he returns to digging through the stacks on his desk. “Dad. Stop.” I rest my hand on one of his. “We’ll check the news tonight, but now there probably won’t be a story. Or, I guess, there will be a story but it will be a completely different one. Are you okay? You look pale.”

He gropes around for his chair, sits down hard, and rolls it toward the desk so he can rest his head in his hands. I can see his shoulders rise and fall with each slow, deliberate breath, but aside from the panic attack, he doesn’t seem to be showing any post-travel reactions.

Which makes me realize I feel pretty good too. My heart is racing and my stomach feels light and I just want to…move. I want to go outside, hop on my skateboard again, and power down the hill, feeling the wind prickle my skin and lift my hair off my forehead. I feel incredible—no nosebleed, no migraine—just buzzy, like my whole body is vibrating, surging with adrenaline.

Dad’s head springs up and he starts typing on his keyboard. I come around to his side of the desk and watch as he types in every possible combination of words that could lead us to today’s events: “bicycle” and “accident” and “intersection” and “manslaughter.”

He’s not getting it.

“Dad, you’re not going to find anything yet. The accident just happened. It won’t show up for a while. Dad…” I lead his hands away from the keyboard. “We’ll check later tonight, okay, but trust me, it won’t be there. It worked. Everyone’s fine, except the kid driving the truck, who’s a bit banged up but probably being arrested right now for reckless driving and not vehicular manslaughter.”

Before I can comprehend what’s happening, Dad stands up and pulls me to him and hugs me so hard I can’t breathe. Eventually, he releases me, but he still keeps my arm in his grip. He stares at me like he’s trying to decide what to say, and finally settles on “They were really nice people, weren’t they?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, Dad, they were really nice.” I picture that little girl, worried about the condition of the driver who—in a version of a timeline that no longer exists—left her family fatherless and cut her life short at age nine.

“I’d better get back to my homework,” I say, gesturing toward my bedroom. “I have an essay I need to start all over again.”

Dad pats my arms hard and chuckles. “Sorry. That sucks,” he says.

“That’s okay. So did the essay.”

My backpack is a lot lighter without the skateboard. As I throw it over my shoulders and readjust the straps, I steal one last glance at the clock on my nightstand. I’m not supposed to be in Evanston until homecoming this weekend, but I can’t help it. I have to see Anna right now. I have to tell her what I just did.

I grab my car keys off my desk and speed out to the Jeep, and a half hour later, I’m backing it into the garage on the other side of town. I switch off the ignition, lower the door, and close my eyes.

I open them on the cross-country course that sits adjacent to the Westlake track. I’ve arrived exactly where I intended, in a quiet spot off the trail behind a cluster of trees and a fat shrub that conceals me from sight. Resting my backpack on the ground, I feel around inside until I find what I’m looking for. Then I sneak out toward the trail, listening for their footfalls. I can’t hear a thing.

It doesn’t take me any time to find the perfect spot. Smack in the middle of the trail I spot a log, large and intentionally placed to be hurdled, and I jiggle the postcard into a crevice so it’s standing up straight. Then I duck back out of sight.

The adrenaline is still surging through me, and even though I know I should stay silent and still, I can’t stop pacing across the dirt. I’m waiting and listening and ready to burst out of my skin. Finally, a few minutes later, I hear the rhythmic sound of feet padding against the dirt, followed by heavy breathing and the occasional grunt. I force myself to relax, pressing my back firmly against the tree bark.

Then the footsteps stop.

“This was just sticking out of the log,” someone says.

“What is it?” asks another.

“A postcard. From Paris.” I still don’t recognize the speaker, but I laugh under my breath when I hear the fascination in her voice as she says the word “Paris.”

“That’s weird.”

More footsteps.

“What’s up?” Ah, there’s Anna’s voice. I stand still, listening.

“It’s nothing. Come on, we’re losing time,” another voice says, and I hear footsteps on the trail again.

“Here, check it out. This was wedged into the log.”

“Huh…” I picture Anna taking it from her teammate, flipping the postcard around in her hands. “Weird. Come on, Stacy’s right, we should go.”

They run off and everything’s quiet until I hear footsteps on the trail again, this time coming from the opposite direction. Leaves crunch and twigs snap, and Anna’s face comes into view as she clears the short incline and peeks around a bush.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, clearly surprised to see me. “I’m in the middle of practice.” She’s taking long strides, beaming as she walks toward me. I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her off the ground. “Ew, what are you doing? Put me down!” She laughs and smacks me with her hand. “I’m all sweaty.”

“I don’t care.” I tighten my hold on her and plant a kiss in her hair. I’d been hyperaware of the adrenaline surge, but now I don’t notice it as much. I feel a headache coming on but I ignore it.

“Is everything okay? You’re shaking.”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. I have to tell you something.” I comb my hands through my hair. “You’re not going to believe what I just did—”

Suddenly, I don’t know where to start. Anna stares at me, looking confused and curious and waiting for me to continue. Every detail of everything that happened over the last forty-five minutes is swirling around in my head, flying around too quickly for me to grasp on to just one. Did all of it actually happen? The bikes. The crash. The girl.

“You’re not supposed to be here until Friday.”

“I know, but—” A faint ringing in my ear makes me stop in midsentence, and before I can say another word it completely changes pitch—high and piercing and constant—and I grab the sides of my head and crouch down on the ground in front of her.

I hear Anna say my name, but her voice sounds far away. I try to take my hands off my head so I can steady myself on the ground, but I can’t move. I feel my whole body grow weak, like my muscles are atrophying as I sit here. I feel my knees buckle and my cheek hit the dirt.

My eyes are open so wide they’re stinging and watering, and I feel pebbles and mud collecting under my fingernails as I claw my way back to sitting. I fall into the ground again and my head hits something that feels like a rock. Without my ability to control them, my eyes shut tightly. And suddenly, the piercing sound is gone and everything falls silent.

23

The pain hits me all at once, so hard and so unexpected I don’t even have time to grab on to anything for support. My head falls forward and my face slams against the ground, and when I open my eyes, I see the blood, pooling under my head. I stare down at the pattern that unmistakably places me in Dad’s office.

No bushes, no trees, no Anna. And no garage, no Jeep.

I crawl over to the end table next to Dad’s leather chair. Using it for support, I try to push myself to standing, but my knees can’t hold me and I fall sideways, collapsing into the side of the ottoman. I feel it slide out from underneath me, and I try to keep my grip, but it’s useless. I’m back on the floor in a crumpled heap within seconds.

The front of my shirt is drenched with blood, and it’s only getting worse. I can feel it trickling down my upper lip, warm and thick, sneaking into my mouth so I taste it too, metallic, disgusting. Using a clean corner of my shirt, I bring my hand to my nose, pinching hard. I sit up again and I let my head fall backward, feeling the edge of the end table dig uncomfortably into the back of my neck.

Every time I blink, my eyes feel like they’re on fire, and I can feel the sweat beading up on my forehead. My head is pounding and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls.

Everything goes dark.

“Bennett!” The voice is far away and muffled, unrecognizable. I try to open my eyes but nothing happens. “Bennett. Wake up. Drink this.”

“Anna?” I can’t see anything, and when I speak the words “Where am I?” I hear them come out slurred and unrecognizable. I try again to open my eyes and finally see a sliver of light. I feel the ground beneath me for clues. It’s soft. Like a rug. “Anna?” I ask again.

“Bennett.” There’s a hand on my shoulder. My head wobbles and I send all my energy to my neck in a desperate attempt to keep it in one place.

“Where am I?” I try again. This time my voice sounds clearer, but still, there’s no reply.

The hand squeezes my shoulder hard. “Drink this, son.”

I feel something cold and smooth at my lips, and before I can even process what’s happening, I feel the liquid, ice-cold on my tongue but searing my throat as it slides down. I cringe and push the glass away.

“Keep going,” he says, and the glass is back at my lips. I take small sips at first, but the water feels so good, so wet, that I lean into it, suddenly desperate for more. The glass tips up and I take huge gulps until it’s empty.

“Good. That’s better.” I open my eyes. Dad’s face is full of worry as his hand settles on my shoulder again. I hear him set the glass on the table next to me. “Do you think you can sit up?” I give him a weak nod and use all my energy to push myself up from the floor.

This bloody nose is nothing like the last one. This time my T-shirt is soaked in blood. I remember the feeling, the taste, and it makes me slump down again, feeling nauseous. Dad grabs me by both shoulders this time and props me up again.

“I’m going to get you some more water. I’ll be right back.” I want to ask him to make it room temperature, but the door clicks shut behind him before I can get the words out. I stare at the ceiling and fix my gaze on a small crack in the plaster. I won’t close my eyes, even though they’re watering and burning and begging me to shut them.

A few minutes later, Dad’s back at my side, pressing a glass of water into my hand and a cold washcloth against my forehead. He opens my other hand, palm up, and sets three pills in it. I give him a weak shake of my head. “They’re just Advil,” he says. “Take them. They’ll help.”

I start to tell him that the headache is normal. That it always passes on its own, and all I need is water, coffee, and twenty minutes to rest. But it occurs to me that this particular headache is different from others, and that what I know about what “always” happens most likely doesn’t apply in this situation. I throw the pills into my mouth and chase them down while Dad watches me. I drain the water in a few gulps.

My hands are still shaking so I clench them into tight fists by my sides. “I’ll go get you a clean shirt,” he says as he heads toward the door.

“Dad.” I stare at the crack in the ceiling again, but in my peripheral vision I can see him stop.

“Would you stay here? Please?” I ask, and before I know it, he’s back by my side, sitting on the ottoman, watching me. We sit like that for a long time, neither one of us speaking.

“Are you ready to tell me where you’ve been?” he asks.

I rub my temples hard with my knuckles, and look across the room at the clock on the wall behind his desk. My eyes narrow as I strain to read it, but the hands keep coming in and out of focus. “Where I’ve been?” I ask, forcing myself to walk through everything that just happened. We were waiting to see the news story about the accident, to see if it was different from the first one I printed out for him. Then I went to see Anna, everything went dark, and when I opened my eyes, I was a bloody mess on the floor and Dad was here with water. “What time is it?” My voice still sounds weak, scratchy. I rub my throat.

Even though the clock is in plain sight, Dad looks down at his watch. “It’s a few minutes after two. Bennett, I need to know where you’ve been.”

“After two?” I repeat, ignoring his question entirely. I rub my temples even harder. That doesn’t match at all. It had to be four o’clock when I left to see Anna.

Suddenly, everything falls into place and I start to realize what’s happening. I was knocked back. Hard.

My heart speeds up as I piece it together in my head. The news story I printed and brought downstairs to show Dad said the accident occurred around three thirty. We haven’t done it over.

Now I’m fully conscious, eyes wide as my head spins in Dad’s direction. My sudden movement startles him and he recoils, but I don’t even try to keep the fear from my voice. “Please tell me we stopped it. We stopped it, right?”

He looks confused. “Stopped what?” Dad asks, and my hands immediately start shaking. “Bennett, I want to know where you’ve been.”

“The bikes?” It comes out like a question. My hands clench by my sides again.

“The bikes?” I can hear the confusion in his voice. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. We didn’t stop it. I got knocked back and we didn’t stop it after all. I cover my face with my hands.

“Dad,” I say without looking up. “There was an accident with these bicyclists and we went back…I brought my skateboard and caused a distraction and you helped. This little girl—” I choke on the last word.

“I know,” he says, as if he’s now concerned about my mental state in addition to my physical one. “She’s okay. They’re all okay. Just like you said they would be.”

I pull my hands away from my face and stare at him. “What? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I was waiting for you to get home so I could show you the article.” He sounds pretty certain but I keep staring at him anyway, as if I’m waiting for him to change his mind. “The news story read exactly the way you thought it would. A kid crashed his truck into a building. There wasn’t a single word about a family of bicyclists.”

He remembers. If he remembers, it happened. I didn’t wipe it out. None of it makes sense, but a huge smile spreads across my face anyway, and as it does, my face feels tight, like it’s cracking. I scratch at my skin and pull my fingernail away. It’s caked with dried blood, but I don’t care. I let out a laugh.

“Bennett, that was yesterday.”

I stop in midlaugh and the smile disappears. “What?”

Dad nods. He’s still looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Yesterday? No…that can’t be right.” I was just in my room. I was just with Anna.

“Bennett, it’s Thursday afternoon.” He scoots the ottoman a little closer to me, and he seems to be choosing his words carefully. “Your mother and I have been worried sick. You left my office, said you were going upstairs to work on an essay, and when your mom tried to find you for dinner, you were gone. You didn’t come home all night. An hour ago, I found you here on the floor.”

I think about the day. I can’t even bring myself to say it out loud. Thursday?

“Son.” Dad draws out the word, nice and slow, like I need more time than usual to process what he’s about to say. “The accident happened yesterday. Do you remember what happened when we got home?”

I try to. I remember returning from the do-over and leaving his office. I walked upstairs, grabbed a postcard from my desk drawer, and stuffed it into my backpack. I closed my eyes and went to the cross country track at Westlake. I hid off the trail, listening to Anna and her teammates speculate about the mysterious postcard. She found me right after that, and we talked. I felt great until the piercing sound brought me facedown into the dirt. And then I was back here in Dad’s office. It all happened fifteen minutes ago, twenty tops.

But it wasn’t twenty minutes ago. It was yesterday.

“I need to know where you’ve been, Bennett. You need to tell me the truth. Why didn’t you come home all night?”

The truth. I look away from him and shake my head. I can’t tell him where I’ve been because I have no idea.

I look right into his eyes. “Dad, I honestly don’t know.”

He looks at me like he isn’t buying it, and lets out a long sigh to make it even clearer. “Don’t lie to me, Bennett. How could you not know where you’ve been for the last twenty-two hours?”

Twenty-two hours? My mouth drops open and I stare at him wide-eyed, shaking my head. I don’t know. I really, truly, in all honesty have no clue where I’ve been.

Dad must be able to tell by the look on my face that I’m telling the truth this time. “You seriously don’t know, do you?”

I shake my head even harder, bring my legs to my chest, and bury my face in my knees. This can’t be happening.

“What happened while I was gone?” I ask without looking up.

He hesitates before speaking, as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “I told your mom everything,” he says quietly, and my head snaps up. “When you hadn’t come back by midnight…” He trails off. I let my head fall into my knees again.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

I lie. “Sitting in my room, working on my report.”

“And then?”

I think about it for a minute, and decide to keep lying. “And then I was trying to peel myself off your carpet.”

I need to get back to Anna and tell her that everything’s okay. I left her standing in the woods, watching me fade away. I promised her I wouldn’t leave like that again. And then it occurs to me. What if I haven’t left at all? What if I’ve been there for the last twenty-two hours and just don’t remember it?

“Look, you did a great thing the other day. You should be proud of yourself.”

“But?” I ask.

“But this is dangerous.” He points down at the bloodstains soaking into the rug. “Bennett, you’re a smart kid and you already know this, but I feel like I have to say it anyway. This is it.” He scoots the ottoman even closer to me. “Whatever is happening to you right now is because of the traveling. You know that, right?”

I stare at him blankly.

“Your mom was right all along. This is too dangerous.”

I inhale slowly, processing his words. Mom’s not the one who was right…I was. I knew all along that I shouldn’t change things. There’s no such thing as second chances, even when they’re deserved.

It felt good after Emma. Even after the fire. There was the nosebleed after I returned from Evanston last time, but I didn’t even think it was connected. Now I can’t account for twenty-two hours of my life and I’m covered in blood; it’s pretty obvious that it is, in fact, all connected. I can use this gift of mine for good, but not without a cost.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask.

“Sleeping. She was up all night. I finally convinced her to get some rest. She’ll be happy to see you home safe.” Dad stands up and brushes some imaginary dust from his pants. “She’s pretty angry at me right now. She thinks I made you do it.”

“Why does she think that?”

He shrugs. “Because I told her I did. Besides, it is my fault. This might have been your idea but I’m the one who pushed you to do it.”

“No you didn’t,” I say, but it doesn’t help. He stares off across the room looking completely deflated.

“Dad?” He looks at me again. I think about my 50-50 grind down the side of the staircase and how I faked my fall at the bottom. I picture the look on that little girl’s face. I remember how hard Dad hugged me when it was all over. “It was really fun.”

“It was pretty incredible wasn’t it?” And there it is: the look I saw on his face when we first returned. He looks triumphant and proud, and I feel emptiness deep in my gut when I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see this expression. “Actually, I was kind of excited to do it again, but…oh, well.” He shakes his head and rests his hand on my knee. “Thanks for taking me along.” He gives my leg a comforting little shake, and then, for something to do with himself, he reaches past me and grabs the glass off the table. “I’ll go get you some more water. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he’s out of the room, I stand up. My legs still feel wobbly and weak, and I grab on to the side of the chair to steady myself. Just as I’m heading for the door, the glow of the monitor gets my attention, and I feel the urge to see that news story for myself.

I hobble over to the desk, sit down in the leather chair, and reach for the mouse. I start to open a new browser window, but I don’t need to because there’s already one on the screen. It’s a news story from this morning, about a local boy who was last seen at his bus stop but never arrived at school.

Dad wasn’t exaggerating when he said he was looking forward to our next do-over.

He’d already found it.

24

I’m halfway up the stairs when Mom sees me from the top landing. She starts racing down the stairs and I grab the railing. “You’re home.… What happened to you?” She blinks fast, like she’s trying hard to focus.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Bennett!” Her eyes travel from my face to my jeans and back up again.

“It was just a bloody nose.” I stare blankly at my shirt.

“That’s a bloody nose?” She presses her lips together and her chin trembles. “Where have you been all night? Please, just tell me what happened to you.”

She looks at me with this glassy stare, and I can see how hurt she is. There are so many things I’d love to tell her, but I’m in so deep now I don’t even know where to start. When my eyes meet hers, I feel like a five-year-old who just fell off the play structure and needs comfort and reassurance. If I told her everything, I bet she’d give me that.

“Where have you been?” she repeats softly.

“I don’t know, Mom.” My voice cracks when I say it, and I suck in a breath. I can tell from the look on her face that she believes me. But I can also tell that it’s not enough. If I ever want to make it to the top of these stairs, I need to come up with something better.

Mom rests her hand on mine, encouraging me to say more. “I woke up in Dad’s office like this.” I pull my T-shirt away from my body and shake my head. Then I look down at the banister, hesitant to go on, choosing my next words carefully. I’ve never really talked with my mom about what I can do. We always just, sort of, dance around it. But now there’s no other approach than a direct one. “Dad told you what we did, right?” Mom nods. “I must have blacked out afterward.”

She crosses her arms. From the neck down, she looks angry, but her face gives her away. “This whole time?” she asks, and she shakes her head as if she can’t believe she’s asking such a ridiculous question.

I shrug, trying to look cool, like it’s no big deal. But I feel my face contort, blowing my cover. I look straight into her eyes. “I honestly don’t know where I’ve been.”

Mom’s expression turns into this odd mix of sympathy and alarm.

The fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, making me tighten my grip on the handrail and pull my shirt away from my body again. “Can we please talk about this later? I’d like to clean up.” Without waiting for her to respond, I plant a kiss on her cheek and squeeze past her.

“Do you need anything?” she calls from behind me.

Yes. I need to be able to be in two places at once. I need to not miss anyone and I need for no one to miss me. “No, thanks,” I say as I turn the corner.

In the bathroom, I work quickly to wash the blood from my face with soap and hot water. I run a comb through my hair, but even when I’m done, it still looks greasy and stringy. I pull my shirt off over my head and toss it into the garbage can. It’s one of my favorites but now I hope I never see it again.

I close my bedroom door and lock it behind me. My eyelids are heavy, and even though I feel the gravitational pull coming from my bed, I ignore it. After all that’s happened, I realize it’s the stupidest thing I could do and that the number of things that could go wrong are practically infinite. But I have to go back and see Anna. Just for a few minutes. Just long enough to tell her that I’m okay and to find out if my version of what happened on the cross-country course matches hers. Then I can sleep.

My jeans feel like they’re glued to my skin. I peel them off and toss them into the hamper and dig through my drawers until I find my favorite sweats and a Cal Bears hoodie. I change my socks and slip my feet into my shoes. My eyes burn and start to water, but I wipe them with the back of my hand.

My backpack’s loaded and I’m almost ready to go. I head to the mini fridge in the closet and grab a Red Bull and reach under the bed for a couple of room-temperature bottles of water, then set everything on the nightstand so they’ll be in easy reach when I return.

I’m standing in the center of my room, about to close my eyes, when there’s a knock at the door. I swear under my breath and chuck my backpack into the corner. “Come in,” I say, once I’m lying on my bed as if I’m about to doze off. The knob turns and clicks a few times.

“It’s locked,” Mom calls out from the other side, and my legs feel heavy as I make my way across the room to open the door. “Can I come in?”

No. I’m about to leave. I need to leave. But I take a few steps backward and open the door for her. She walks in and heads for the turret window over in the corner that overlooks the bay. She runs her fingers along the molding, then crosses her arms, keeping her back to me.

“I remember the day we moved into this house.”

“Mom,” I say. “I’m really tired.” I cover my eyes with my hand. Do we have to do this now?

She continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “You and your dad were on your way over in the moving truck and I walked around, room to room, trying to figure out which ones you and Brooke were going to choose. I was standing right here, admiring this view, when Brooke walked in and said this was the one she wanted. But I talked her into taking the other one.”

“Why?” I ask.

“This one was the nicer of the two. It had this view and I thought it should be yours. You’re the one who got us this house, after all.” She turns around and looks at me. “I gave your father a lot of grief about what the two of you did…”

“We just bought some stocks.” It was more than that, but I don’t feel like getting into it with her right now. I’ve been down this path before, arguing over the nuances of manipulating the market and buying stock based on information neither one of us should have had or been able to use. But last time I checked, insider-trading laws didn’t mention anything about time travel.

“I’m not going to ask you to justify what you did, Bennett. Even though I thought it was wrong, I understand why you did it.”

I don’t say anything.

“You did it to make us happy. To give our family a better life.”

“Yeah.”

“And probably to get your dad off your back.” She smiles.

I smile back. “Yeah, maybe that too.”

She gives me this meaningful look and steels herself, like she’s preparing to say something important. “I’ll always appreciate what you did for our family, Bennett, but I want you to know something.” She takes a few steps closer to me but stays just out of my reach. “You didn’t have to do this.” She holds her arms out to her sides and glances around the room.

I shoot her a skeptical look and she shakes her head. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate all of this…I admit, I’m a bit of a sucker for the finer things in life, and life has been a lot easier with, well, everything we have. But I don’t need it.”

She looks resolute, but I can’t help raising an eyebrow.

“I mean it. Your dad didn’t like his job, and I didn’t like living in that tiny apartment in an unsafe neighborhood. And yes, money was tight and we fought about it a lot. But you know what?”

I shake my head.

“Your dad and I love each other, and we love you and Brooke more than you two will ever know. This family would have been fine without all of this.” She must see a trace of disbelief in my eyes because she adds the word “Really,” and gives me a stern look to demonstrate her conviction.

I still must seem doubtful. I’ve seen the way she cherishes her car and her designer clothes. “You’d give this all away?” I ask, pointing to her pearls.

“Absolutely. In fact, it would be nice to be rid of the guilt.”

I look in my mom’s eyes and see that she means it.

“Dad told me what the two of you did for that family yesterday. And he told me about the fire…” She trails off. Then she takes three steps forward and wraps her arms around me. “I hope he didn’t talk you into—”

I cut her off in midsentence. “He didn’t talk me into anything, Mom. I swear. It was completely my idea.” I feel my face getting hotter. “If you would just stop worrying and see that I have this under control.”

“Do you?” Mom shoots me a sideways glare. She’s right and she knows it. Two days ago I could say those words and mean them, but today…yeah…not so much.

“Look…I love what you did for those kids, Bennett, I really do. But you’re my kid, and I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to trade your safety for anyone else’s.”

I shake my head at her. “Come on… This isn’t about my safety.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve spent far too many nights wondering where my kids are, Bennett. It is about you being here, in this place, living like a normal person.”

I knew the word “normal” would pop out of her mouth eventually. Without even thinking about it, I hear myself say, “Mom. I’m still going back to visit Maggie.”

Her jaw drops. I reach over to the desk and pick up the photo of my grandmother and me. “I told you this picture was taken when I was living with her a few months ago, in nineteen ninety-five, but that wasn’t true. She didn’t look like this in nineteen ninety-five. This was taken in two thousand and three, just before she died.”

Her hands are trembling as she takes the frame from me.

“I’ve been going back there for years. I take care of her.”

Mom looks for something to hold on to but there’s nothing in sight, so she takes two steps back and sits on the edge of the bed. “You go back?” Her lip quivers when she asks, and when I nod, she covers her mouth with her hand.

“All the time,” I say.

Mom sits on my bed staring at the photo, and as I watch her, I realize that now would be the perfect time to tell her about Anna too. All I have to do is grab the album from the bottom of the drawer, say something simple like I also go back to see her. This is Anna, and start turning pages. Then she’d get it. She’d have to.

But before I can move, Mom looks at me, her eyes welling up, and pats the mattress next to her. “Tell me about her.” she says, referring to my grandmother, not my girlfriend.

And instead of going over to my desk, I sit down next to my mom and tell her everything, from the flowers Brooke planted in Maggie’s garden and the bills we paid right down to the details of the room I’ve been staying in when I visit. The tears spill down her cheeks, but she hasn’t even heard everything yet.

I ask her to tell me what happened between the two of them.

“Our fights were about such unimportant things, and I honestly don’t know why I let it go on so long,” she says, her whole body trembling as the tears fall even faster. “I let a few stupid disagreements keep me away from my mother and keep her from knowing my kids…” She takes a deep breath. “And she was all alone when—” She can’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to.

I scoot in closer and fill the gap between us. “She wasn’t alone,” I say quietly and mom looks up at me. I tell her how Brooke and I went back to the day Maggie died, and how we held her hand as we watched her slip away. Brooke called 911 and we disappeared as soon as help arrived.

She hugs me hard and I relax in her arms, relieved to finally have everything out. I try to think of a way to tell her about Anna too, because it would be nice to come clean completely, but this doesn’t feel like the right time. “Thank you,” she says as she rubs my back.

Then Mom leans back and stands up. She brushes her hands on her pants and adjusts her shirt, looking around the room like the walls are closing in and she needs to escape. She gives me a peck on the cheek, tells me she loves me, and looks me right in the eye. “Please do me a favor,” she says, her voice a bit steadier. “Don’t travel for a while. I need to think about all of this, okay? For now, I just need to know you’re here and safe. Will you do that, please?”

Without waiting for an answer, she says, “I should let you rest.” She’s about to leave when she stops and turns around. “Oh, and call Brooke, please.” She glances over at my desk, like she’s expecting to find my cell phone where it usually is. “She’s worried.” The latch clicks shut behind her.

I look at the door, thinking about my mother’s request and wishing I could respect it. I look at my bed, wishing I could lie down and sleep for the next ten hours or so. I look out the window, hoping the Jeep is still in the garage and that my phone is still in the glove compartment, and wishing I could call Brooke and tell her everything. The risks are huge. But the pull to see Anna—to tell her I’m okay and let her help me piece together what happened yesterday—is stronger than all the others.

Once my backpack is out from under the bed and in place again, I stand in the center of my room and let my eyes fall shut. I’m tempted to picture the cross-country track and arrive there again, just a minute or two after I estimate I was knocked back, but I’m still worried about wiping out the bike accident. So instead, I lock my mind on yesterday, a little before midnight. I picture Anna’s room. I visualize the clock on her nightstand. I let myself go. A few seconds later, I open them.

I’m expecting to take in her familiar shelves lined with trophies and CDs, but instead, my eyes open to a view of my boring white room. I close my eyes and try again. When I open them, I’m right where I started.

This can’t be happening.

It’s just like last time, when Anna got knocked back from my bedroom and I was stuck, unable to leave this room. Maybe my brain is simply too exhausted. Maybe it just needs some extra help. I stand in place, spinning a three-sixty, looking for anything that will help me visualize where I want to go.

The photo album is still buried deep in the bottom of the drawer, but I dig it out and flip to the very last photo—the one of Anna and me, lying on her rug in her bedroom. Her arm is extended in the air and we’re both smiling. I bring my fingertip to the plastic and close my eyes. This is where I need to be.

I close my eyes. I open them. Again and again.

After six more attempts, I slump down on the floor next to my bed, feeling sick and utterly spent. The next thing I know, I’m waking up and the morning sun is streaming in above me.

25

I have no idea what’s happening back where Anna is. All I know is what’s happening here. The days keep beginning and ending and I’ve spent four of them trying desperately to get back to the day I left Anna in the woods. I’m closing my eyes, opening them, repeating the same actions over and over again, and hoping for a different result. I think Einstein was the one who called that the definition of insanity.

It’s been three weeks and four days since Emma’s birthday party, which means that homecoming weekend has come and gone. Even worse, I’ve left Anna exactly the way I did last time: alone, without any warning. Just like I swore I wouldn’t do again.

Mom lets me skip school on Friday and again on Monday, but by Tuesday, she insists that I look just fine and completely capable of a day full of learning. So I drag myself from the parking lot and head straight for AP World Civ. I’m not the first one in the room but at least I’m not the last.

I pull my notebook and a pen from my backpack and start doodling while I wait for the bell to ring.

“Hey, stranger.” I look to my left and find Megan taking her seat. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks.” I smile at her and go back to my drawing.

A minute or so later, she leans over across the aisle. “You missed the midterm yesterday. It covered all the material so far.” I stop drawing and look over at her. “It was pretty hard, but…” She shrugs. “I think I did okay. Anyway, if you want to borrow my notes…”

Mrs. McGibney walks in, her briefcase swinging by her side, and looks right at me. “Mr. Cooper,” she says flatly. She drops the case next to her desk and it lands with a thud. She starts writing the day’s agenda on the whiteboard, but I can tell she’s still talking to me when she says, “You missed an exam yesterday. You can come in at lunch and take it.”

I sneak a peek at Megan as she grimaces.

“Today?” I ask.

“Yes, sir. Today would be perfect.” She takes her eyes off the board to look over her shoulder at me. “Don’t worry, you can bring your lunch.” She returns to writing.

“I was kind of hoping for a couple of days to brush up.”

“I announced this test last Wednesday, Mr. Cooper. According to my records, you were here last Wednesday. Judging from the scores, everyone in this class spent the last few days ‘brushing up.’ If you didn’t, that is not my problem.”

“But I was sick.”

More writing. “I’m offering the test today at lunch. Otherwise, it won’t be fair to the rest of the class.” She finishes the agenda and brings the dry-erase marker to the board, punctuating the last line with a loud period. “Sound good?” She turns around and stares at me.

It doesn’t matter. Today, next week, the grade I get on this test will likely be the same either way. I nod.

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

I spend the next forty-five minutes cramming. Every time McGibney turns her back, I thumb through my notebook, desperately trying to recall all the things I’ve learned about world civilizations since school started. The notes are fairly detailed in some places, but I honestly don’t remember writing many of them. In other places, I find page after page with nothing but doodles. Apparently, a few weeks ago, I spent an entire class trying to figure out what to name my garage.

The bell rings and everyone rises from their seats and heads for the door. As I turn into the hall toward my next class, I spot Megan leaning up against the locker bank, smiling and clearly waiting for me. “Man, that was harsh,” she says when I’m within earshot.

“Remind me not to get sick again.”

She smiles. “Here.” She reaches into her messenger bag and hands me a black-and-white composition notebook. The cover is bent and the pages are frayed, and as I turn it over in my hands I notice that it looks a lot more battered than mine does, as if she’s actually been using it to take notes in class and then refer to them later on.

“Really?”

“Sure.” She closes her bag and readjusts the strap on her shoulder. “Maybe you could skip your next three classes and go study in the library.”

Under normal circumstances, that’s exactly what I would do. And after I was finished cramming, I’d go back to the beginning of the day to do it over. The second time around, I’d be ready for both the test and for McGibney’s question. When Megan wasn’t looking, I’d slip her notebook back into her pack before she even realized it was missing. This conversation would never happen, and Megan would never know that there was a version of events that I wiped out, where she stood in the hallway and offered to let me borrow her notes.

But these aren’t normal circumstances. I don’t know if I could go back four hours even if I wanted to. If I had the ability to travel again, I certainly wouldn’t be here at school, worrying about a test. I’d be with Anna.

“Thanks,” I say. I shove the notebook into my pack and start thinking of excuses for missing my next three classes. “That’s really cool of you.”

“No problem.” She stands there, looking at me like she has more to say. “Well, I’d better get to class. Good luck.” Before I can respond, she turns on her heel and walks away. I turn on mine and head for the library.

I’ve been sitting in the same carrel, staring at the same page and trying not to stare out the same window, for more than an hour now. Megan’s notes are clear and detailed, but the words seem to leave my brain faster than I can bring them in.

I twist my pencil back and forth between my fingers, thinking about Anna and the last words I heard her say: You’re not supposed to be here until Friday.

But I can’t get to Friday. And I can’t get to Wednesday and I can’t get to Thursday either. Every time I try, I open my eyes in the exact place I closed them. And suddenly it dawns on me. I’ve been trying to get back before homecoming so I don’t let Anna down. But what if I’m trying too hard to go back to a precise moment, when I should just be trying to get back?

I grab my phone but leave the rest of my stuff at the carrel, and head for a computer kiosk. I look up a 1995 calendar and find the month of October. I open up the calendar on my phone to today’s date and hold it up next to the screen. The calendars are nearly identical, only a day off. In 2012, it’s Tuesday. In 1995, it’s a Monday.

I head straight for the men’s room and lock myself in a stall. I leave my phone on the back of the toilet and close my eyes. I think back to the layout of Westlake Academy, trying to remember the quiet spots I found to hide in every time I felt like I was about to be knocked back to San Francisco.

Right outside our Spanish building, there was a rarely used path obscured by overgrown plants and shrubs. I brought Anna there once, the day we cut class and I told her the last part of my secret.

I have no idea if this will work, but I close my eyes, mutter the word “please,” and picture the location.

My skin prickles from the extreme drop in temperature and I breathe in fresh air that couldn’t possibly exist in a men’s room. As soon as I open my eyes, they dart around the empty field and I let out a gasp. I’m actually here.

I bring my hands to the sides of my face and peek through the glass doors. It’s quiet, and even though I landed where I intended to, I’m still not sure if I landed when I intended to. I pull the door handle and it opens. At least it’s a school day.

The hallway is empty. I look around for a clock and find one just above the next locker bank. I’ve timed it perfectly. I’m only a few feet away from where I need to be and I make it there with a minute to spare. I’m leaning against the lockers, trying to look like I belong here, when the bell rings. That’s when I realize that I’m the only one who’s not wearing a uniform.

Up and down the corridor, classroom doors begin opening and people start spilling out into the hall wearing the traditional Westlake black-and-white plaid. The girls are in skirts and white blouses. The guys are in slacks and dress shirts. I spot the occasional tie or V-neck sweater.

The rules are clear in this circular hallway dubbed The Donut, and because everyone’s required to walk clockwise between classes, they all head in my direction at once. A few people notice me standing here, looking out of place in my street clothes, and shoot me a questioning look as they pass.

I’m combing the crowd for Anna, but I don’t see her anywhere, and as the activity level dies down, I’m starting to question myself. Maybe I was wrong about her class schedule? But then I see her come around the bend, talking with Alex, and my heart starts pounding hard.

When she’s within a few feet of the classroom door, she finally spots me. She stops cold and covers her mouth with her hand. Her expression is impossible to read, and as she takes long strides in my direction, I can’t tell if she’s relieved to see me or furious that I didn’t show up when I was supposed to. I brace myself for the worst, but as soon as she’s close enough, she throws her arms over my shoulders and squeezes me tight. I’ve never been so happy to see her. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper in her ear.

Alex walks past us into the classroom, and mutters the word “asshole” under his breath.

“Ignore him,” she says as she buries her face in my neck.

I try to release her so I can see her face, but she tightens her grip. “I’m so sorry I missed homecoming.”

“I don’t care. You’re here now.”

The Donut empties out and I can tell the bell’s about to ring. I take a step back and rest my hands on her shoulders. “I need to talk to you.” I point with my chin toward the double doors that lead outside, and I can tell by the look on her face that she knows exactly what I mean. “I can’t bring you back this time though. You’re going to have to miss Spanish, for real. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” She says it with a little laugh, as if it’s the only possible answer.

We follow the path up the slope until it ends at the big tree at the top of the ridge. We sit down next to each other, exactly the way we did last year when I told her the third and final part of my secret, and she became the fourth person in the world to know everything there was to know about me. But now, there’s nothing but pain and worry on her face, and I can’t help but wonder if I made the right decision that day.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Her voice is shaking and so are her hands, and I reach for them and scoot in even closer to her. “You were just standing there in the woods that day, all excited about something, and then out of nowhere you just collapsed. What happened? Why couldn’t you come back?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. There’s some stuff…missing. Was that the last time you saw me?” She nods but she’s clearly confused as to why I’m asking when this is information I should already know.

She’s breathing faster now and I can hear the panic in her voice. “Yeah. You got knocked back home.”

Not home. Not right away at least. If I wasn’t here and I wasn’t there, where was I, passed out in the garage for twenty-two hours?

Over the next fifteen minutes, I talk nonstop, telling Anna about everything that happened last week—the news story and me on my skateboard, the two little girls and my dad on sidekick duty—and that I have no idea where I was for nearly a full day, and how I’ve spent the last five days trying to get back to her. Her face contorts when I tell her how painful the returns have become, and how they got progressively worse and a hell of a lot bloodier.

“It’ll be fine now.” I put on my best smile and hope I sound reassuring. “I’ll just go back to doing what I’ve always done. Apparently, as long as I use this ridiculous thing I can do for my own selfish purposes, I’m free to come and go as I please,” I say.

Anna takes my face in her hands and makes me look her in the eye. “You have to promise me. No more do-overs, okay? Never.”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the message I’m supposed to be getting here.” I let out a laugh, but Anna doesn’t join in.

“Promise,” she says.

“Yeah. I promise.” As I say the words, I wonder why it’s so easy to make this promise to her when I can’t make it to my own parents.

I sigh. “Well, at least my mom and dad can now agree on one thing. They’ve both made it crystal clear that I’m not to travel ever again.”

“Not even to see me?” she asks, and I stop laughing.

“No…well. Yes. Not exactly.”

Anna drops her hands and leans away from me. “What does that mean, ‘not exactly’? Did they tell you that you couldn’t come back here anymore?”

I look down at the dirt. “Actually, they did. But that was five months ago.”

She waits for me to explain, but I have no idea what to say next. This conversation was inevitable, and there have been plenty of times I walked through it in my head, but having it today was the farthest thing from my mind.

“My parents don’t…exactly…know about you.” I suck in a deep breath and wait while she stares at me for a painfully long time.

“They don’t know about me?” I can’t tell if she wants to cry or punch me. I shake my head no and Anna’s eyes narrow in disbelief. “What about your sister?”

“Brooke knows,” I whisper.

“Brooke?” Anna’s voice cracks as she says her name, and there’s a questioning tone at the end, like she can’t believe that there’s only one person in my world who knows she exists.

“Listen, please. My parents wouldn’t understand. And I can’t tell my friends…I mean, what am I supposed to tell them?”

“Tell them that I live in Illinois. Just like my friends think you’re a normal guy from San Francisco.” She scoots away from me, looking both confused and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t have to tell them I live in nineteen ninety-five.” She says that last part so quietly that I have to strain to hear her. But then she finds her voice again. “Look, I know you have a thing for secrets, but I thought we were done with that.”

“We are. I don’t have any secrets from you.”

“No, just that I am one.” She lets out a sarcastic-sounding breath.

She looks down at the dining hall windows, and this time, I’m sure she’s wondering why she ever entertained the idea of letting complicated me into her rather uncomplicated life.

“Look,” I say, “last June, when I was stuck in San Francisco and couldn’t get back here, I thought I’d never see you again. I didn’t know what to say to my parents or my friends.”

Anna gives me a hard look and shakes her head. “Everyone in my life knows about you, even though they don’t know your big secret.” She says the last part sarcastically, wiggling her fingers in front of her face for emphasis. “Nobody here gets it. None of them understand why I’m in a relationship with a guy who lives two thousand miles away—and they don’t even know the half of it.” She huffs. “But they know about you.

“I could never keep you to myself.” She says the last part quietly, but loud enough for me to hear.

I rub my forehead with my fingertips as I try to find the right words. “I didn’t want to hurt you. And, I swear, I was going to tell them eventually, but it was just…easier not to.”

Her head snaps up and there’s that look again. “Easier?” she asks. Now I’m pretty sure she’s about to punch me.

“Not more convenient. Easier.” I bring my hand to my chest. “On me. Look, you seem to enjoy torturing yourself with photo albums and things that remind you of the two of us, but I don’t. That only makes it worse. It’s easier for me to pretend you’re not real when we’re not together.”

A tear slides down her cheek and she quickly brushes it away.

I reach for her hands, and I’m a little surprised when she lets me take them. “Do you have any idea how much I hate being there without you? When I’m supposed to be doing homework, I go for drives instead. I take the top down on the Jeep and turn up the music and cruise around the city I’ve always loved, and all I want to do is show it to you. I want to bring you to my favorite café in North Beach, where they serve lattes in bowls instead of mugs. I want to show you this wave organ that’s built into a bunch of rocks and has an insane view of Alcatraz. I want to bring you to my school and introduce you to Sam and the rest of my friends, so you’ll know them the same way I know Emma and Danielle and Justin. But I can’t ever do that.” She squeezes my hand. “We’ve already tried and it was a disaster. I guess I figured, the less I had to be reminded that you couldn’t be there, the easier it would be.”

Anna releases my hands so she can wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“Look,” I say. “All I want is a normal relationship with you, and when I’m here, it feels like I have it. But when I’m there…I just miss you. All the time.”

She grabs one of my hands in both of hers and squeezes it tight.

“I’ll tell them about you, okay? I’ll show my mom and dad your photo album, and I’ll tell them everything. And I’ll explain that I’m done with do-overs—that they’re the only reason I’ve lost control—but that I need to keep coming back here to see you. Okay? I promise.”

The bell rings but neither one of us move. Eventually the dining hall below starts filling with people, and I spot everyone taking their usual places and their usual tables and starting in on their usual conversations.

“Great,” Anna mutters, watching the scene below.

“What?”

“Ten bucks says Alex has already told everyone about seeing you here.” She stands up and brushes the dirt off her jeans. “This should make for a delightful lunch.”

“Do you want me to stick around?” I ask.

Anna offers her hand to help me up and I take it. Then she looks at me and lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.” We start walking down the hill and she threads her arm through mine. “But I’ll tell you, next time you’re in town you better bring me a giant bouquet of flowers or something. If you show up empty-handed my parents might come up with something more painful than being knocked back to San Francisco.”

“That bad?”

“Yup.”

“I didn’t get to see you in the dress.”

She lifts two fingers into the air. “Twice now.”

I wince. “Were you actually wearing it this time?”

She raises her eyebrows and nods slowly.

“God, I am an asshole.”

“Yeah.” She gives me a sad smile and bumps my hip with hers. “But not on purpose.”

Exactly fifty-five minutes after I left, I open my eyes in the men’s room stall. I push through the door just as the migraine hits. My eyes are burning as I stumble over to the sink, feeling my way with the help of the walls.

I find the spigot, turn it on, and stick my mouth under the stream. I drink as fast and as much as I can before cupping my hands and splashing cold water on my face. The fluorescent lights make it impossible to open my eyes, and my head is pounding, but at least it all feels familiar.

I push my hands into the countertop and keep my head down, breathing and concentrating, willing the pain to disappear. Twenty minutes later, the pounding subsides to a dull ache in my temples.

And it feels like everything is back to normal. Well, my normal, at least.