But then again, he has all the knowledge, which gives him the power, and there’s nothing I can do except play his game.

For now.

Before I can step over the threshold, he speaks without bothering to turn around.

“Take your shoes off,” he shouts.

I toss them into the corner before following his voice into the kitchen. There he is, leaning against the counter, swiping idly through his phone, his right bicep slightly flexed. He doesn’t look up but gestures toward two glasses on the counter. Sure enough, they are filled with the same purple-colored smoothie that I remember making dozens of times.

“Let me know if I made it right. Not sure I got the percentages down. Do you use whole milk or skim milk?”

“Whole. But I’ve switched to oat milk recently.”

“Of course you have,” he mutters.

I walk around the other side of the counter, taking the drink and sipping it slowly. From the thickness, I can tell that there’s a little too much yogurt, and from the tartness, I can tell that it’s the plain kind.

“So you can do it too?” I ask.

Blake looks up from his phone, turning it screen-side down. For the first time, I notice that he has the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. The type that look like some sort of biosphere lives and thrives inside of them.

“Yes and no.”

“I feel like ‘can you time travel’ isn’t the type of question that can yield a ‘maybe.’”

“Har har,” he says. “I can’t. Mom did it. She likes…learning about people. It’s the scientist in her.”

“What’s her field?”

Blake shrugs. “She’s a self-proclaimed scientist. Mom’s actually a lawyer. The fancy type that helps foundations keep out of legal trouble. But I think, deep down, all time travelers think they are scientists. I mean, if you can observe and make logical deductions about anything in the world, in any time period, isn’t that what a scientist is?”

“Not really,” I say bluntly.

Blake chuckles mid-sip and hisses. “Smoothie went up my nose.” He turns and grabs a napkin, blowing his nose loudly.

“So she…”

“Stalked you through time? Yes.” He empties his glass and puts it in the dishwasher, closing it with his foot. “Creepy, right?”

“Extremely.”

“Welcome to my life.”

Blake gets a new glass from the top shelf and pours himself the remainder of the smoothie from the blender. I have half a mind to ask him why he got a new glass, but I know the answer: rich white wastefulness. He’s probably never been told not to run the dishwasher with only half a load. Or to make sure he has all the clothes he needs for the week in the laundry because there won’t be another chance to do it this weekend. That’s what happens when you’re rich.