“We absolutely don’t need to talk about it, Dre,” he says gently but with a firm edge to it, making it clear where he stands on the topic. “I’m fine with it, really. College is soon. I’ll flourish there. It gets better and all that.”

The clock reaches 10:55, and I see the shadow of Dad moving in the window. I sigh, giving his hand another squeeze.

“Bonus. At least you got me home on time. My dad’s going to love you for that. I swear, sometimes I think he wishes he had a daughter.”

Blake laughs and leans across my body as he looks out my window at my house. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne.

He smells the best in this moment, the way the air smells right after a thunderstorm, while Michael smells of faint cologne and a light musk that comes from too many days focused on one thing and forgetting everything else. Blake is different from Michael, in so many ways, but not a bad type of different.

Finally, he pulls back, but only enough so that our faces are close together.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers.

I hesitate for a second, which turns into two, and then into five, and then ten. Far longer than anyone should pause when asked by a hot guy, whose voice is nothing more than a low, hungry whisper. But it’s not for the reason he thinks.

It’s because the memory of Michael’s lips against my own feels as real as if it’s happening right here. Every smell, every touch, every thought that was going through my head with him in 1970 feels as real as if it were happening right now.

Except it’s not. I’m not with Michael.

I’m with Blake, and by the time I can process this, he has already pulled back, clearing his throat.

“I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat too. “It’s not…”

Blake waves me off. “It’s fine, really.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m not…” I pause, thinking over the right word. “Not interested?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“Statement.”

Blake adjusts his jacket, fiddling with the collar before folding it and opening his door. He signals for me to wait, walks around the car, and opens my door for me. It’s a simple gesture, but it makes the inside of my chest turn warm and my cheeks burn.

“Then what is it?”

My mouth suddenly grows dry. Blake deserves to know the truth, doesn’t he? Of course he does. Everyone deserves the truth. How did I feel when Claire lied to me? Blake doesn’t deserve that. No one does.

So I take a deep breath and explain.