I nod, saying nothing, and pull the covers back, sliding into bed. I turn my back to him and hug a pillow, focusing on the cracked etchings on the wall, wondering what shape I can make out of them. Neither of us speak, but I feel him shift, spoon against me, and wrap his arms around me tightly.

And right now, that’s enough.

Part Three

Twenty-Five

“You’ve been quiet.”

Michael and I have been lying in his bed for almost a day and a half now. Well, that’s not quite true. I’ve been in bed for almost a day and a half. Michael went to get us food and played a three-hour gig on the other side of town that he said he couldn’t ignore. But besides that, we’ve been in bed.

And I’ve been thinking.

This has become our safe space. Away from the rest of the world, away from the future. Away from Blake. Just me and Michael. No one else. It’s a soothing feeling. One of the best. But right now, that feeling is distant, and I barely notice his touch. I thought I had been good at hiding it.

“Hmm?” I ask, looking up. “Sorry, mind’s somewhere else.”

“I can tell,” he muses. A record of the Beatles plays in the background. He’s humming along to it softly, with perfect pitch, of course. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I say, far too quickly. It’s not even convincing to me. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

Slowly, he sits up. He’s shirtless and only wearing a pair of boxers. His short hair is messy, and there’s an aura of sleepiness surrounding him.

“Well, wanna talk about it?” he asks, reaching out and grabbing his cigarettes, lighter, and ashtray. I’ve given up on trying to stop him from smoking. But at the very least, he moves over to the other side of the bed. I’ve already jumped back once and had Mom accuse me of smoking, thanks to the scent. It seems even nicotine can travel through time and space.

How do I explain to him what I’m thinking? On the one hand, it’s not like he hasn’t heard off-the-wall things. He’s still around me—a time traveler—so he has to know that nothing about me is normal and that there are plenty of situations where the logical explanation goes out the window when I’m involved.

But what I’ve been thinking? What I’ve really been thinking? It’s risky. It’s bold. It’s terrifying.

He lights his cigarette, resting the ashtray on his abs. As usual, he offers it to me to take a drag of. I refuse.

“Figures,” he teases. “You had to have some flaw.”

“Not smoking is a flaw?”