Ow. My tailbone throbs, but I’m smiling as I rub my injury. Now that the hailstorm of my revelations has settled, I’m left with a few key conclusions.

The depth of my older self’s trickery is even more complicated than I imagined.

If I want answers, I need to investigate without her knowledge.

And in order to do that? I’m going to need Bandit’s help.

…

The next afternoon, I pull into the parking lot of our local hospital, next to a navy Tahoe. Bandit’s car.

By now, my surroundings have stopped tilting, but my life and everything in it continues to feel surreal. Like I’m not truly sitting here, in my Honda Accord. Like the air doesn’t smell damp and sweet from yesterday’s thunderstorm. Like that’s not a tall, good-looking guy hurrying down the sidewalk.

Except it is.

I snap to attention and get out of my car. Bandit scowls as I approach, dispensing with his signature bored face. I never thought I’d say this, but I kinda, sorta miss that aloof expression.

“How did you know I was here?” he snaps.

I suppose I deserve the surliness. Last time I saw him, I broke into his house, tried to kill him, kissed him instead, blurted out that I had a voice in my head, and then ran away.

I would be wary of me, too.

“I rang your doorbell, and your mom answered,” I say. “She was suspicious that some falang girl was asking for you. But when I wai-ed to pay my respects and said I was a friend of Lalana’s, she softened and told me you were volunteering at the hospital, reading to patients in the cancer ward.”

“I’m surprised she even knows.” He tugs at his hair, which is now back to its brilliant blue. “What do you want? Are you planning to stab me here, in front of everyone?” He scans the parking lot as a harried mom speed-walks past, a screaming baby on one hip and a wailing toddler in a stroller. “Not wise. Or maybe you want to invite me into the back seat of your car, in broad daylight? Tempting but also not wise.”

I ignore his sarcasm. “I was going to bring you a peace offering. I make a mean bento lunch, you know. I roll up omelets, add a carrot beak, and voilà! It looks just like a duck.”

“Mallard or Muscovy?” he asks drily, melting my heart a little. Okay, a lot.

I push forward. “But then I assumed you wouldn’t eat anything I brought, since it could be poisoned. And probably wouldn’t even taste good.”

“That’s a safe assumption,” he agrees.

“So I decided to give you the one thing you’ve been asking for.” I spread my arms wide.

“You?” he asks, blinking rapidly.