“There’s someone else,” I say, speaking quickly enough that he doesn’t have time to interrupt me. “In nineteen seventy. Michael, I’ve told you about him. He’s the one I’m tethered to.”

“Uh-huh…”

“And…I don’t know,” I mutter. “I just… We’ve been talking a lot. He’s a musician, and he challenges me. He helped me understand that maybe I don’t want to be a doctor, and that’s huge, you know? And—”

“And you like him.” Blake cuts me off before I have to say it. “Except it’s a total fantasy, because you guys could never really be together.”

“That’s not fair,” I say slowly.

“Not fair? You’re the one who’s not being fair.” Blake lets out a hurried breath and steps back, pacing. “You know what the funny thing is?” he asks, his voice getting louder. “I thought we were connecting. I thought I challenged you. But actually, I was just training you to get to him faster.”

Our block isn’t the quietest block on this street. It’s firmly middle class, and there are always people outside, late arrivals, music playing when there shouldn’t be—but arguing in the street this late at night will attract attention.

There’s more distance between us now, physically and metaphorically, than ever before. Blake stands several feet away, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“I was going to kiss you tonight. I was going to kiss you so good that you would forget about time travel, about college, about everything.

“But now I see that it wouldn’t be good enough for you to forget him,” he says, moving past me and walking around to the other side of the car. I stand there, listening to the sharp sounds of the door opening and slamming shut. He rolls his window down, looking at me with hurt, dark eyes.

“I’ll see you at my house for training.”

“You still want to train me after this?”

“Unlike you, I can separate my feelings and do the right thing. You need a trainer. We work well together. I’m going to keep doing it. If you have a problem with that, talk to my mom.”

Blake doesn’t pull away immediately. He sits there, his hand on the console, staring at me. “You know you can’t be with him, right?” he asks. “He’s in the past, fifty-one years in the past. There’s no future there.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“And you know there’s a future with me, right? I’m right here, Dre.”

Logically, I know that. Deep down, I know that. The safe answer—and the easy answer—is Blake.

So why can’t I say so?

He shakes his head, pulls back, and starts the car. “You know what, never mind. Good night.”