The description makes my mouth water, for good reason. “How did you…”

“Three years ago, when your mom was diagnosed as prediabetic, she started to change her diet. You and your dad joined in, a whole family endeavor, to be healthier for her. She got her numbers to a better place in a few months, and you learned how to cook. One of your favorite things to make was a berry smoothie, with Greek yogurt and just the right amount of mango.

“Time travel isn’t just about going to the past or seeing amazing historical moments. It’s about reliving the small moments too. Like the first time you made a smoothie and walked to the store by yourself to get the ingredients, so you could make it for her when she came home from work. A person who cares that much about such a small thing is someone…” He sighs, pausing for a moment. The blender stops. “Just come over. Don’t make me say please.”

“What are you, some sort of vampire who is weakened by displaying any sort of manners?”

He laughs on the phone, but it’s not an actual laugh. It’s hollow and forced, but I applaud the effort.

It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, but already the sun is starting to warm not only the asphalt but also my own dark skin. Beads of sweat form and ripples of clear heat rise from the parking lot. The memory is something so small, so insignificant. But now, hearing Blake talk about it? It brings back every sense. The smell of the fresh rain that afternoon. The weight of the bag I carried a mile and a half home. The tourists in the store with me and their bright “We’re from Kansas, Say Hi!” shirts.

“You’re a time traveler and a stalker, a bad combo if you ask me, Blake McIntyre from Boston.”

“Wrong and wrong on both counts. But how about you come over, and I’ll tell you the truth, the whole truth. And why did you just say my name like that?”

“No reason.” That’s a lie, but I quickly answer his question. “On my way.”

Ten

When I arrive at the McIntyres’ home, Blake is shirtless, wearing a pair of workout sweats that he obviously cut into shorts himself.

He’s standing at the front door, leaning against it, chewing on a half-consumed green apple. He doesn’t move to greet me, except for giving a short wave when I park the car.

“Not even a hello?” I ask.

He only shrugs.

Part of me wonders if I should follow him. Maybe I should play this like a game of chicken. Make him say something to me, instead of just assuming that I’m going to trot after him. It’s a power move, after all, and playing into it is like giving unlimited oxygen to a house fire.