“I was an ass when you came over to visit,” he says.

“You were justified. I mean, this is a lot.”

He shrugs. Again. “Sure, but it’s a lot for you, too, I imagine. Learning that you can time travel. Meeting the family of the person who gave you his liver. It’s a lot to take in, and I should have…considered that before lashing out.”

Blake reaches back with his right hand, rubbing the back of his head. My breath hitches. It’s a beautiful sight, the way his abs flex and his skin stretches, how his bicep shows. It’s almost model-worthy, the type of pose and body that you think is unobtainable, just a figment of reality crafted by the beauty industry. But Blake actually has it. The strong pecs. The V in his hips.

Riverdale should just cast him right now.

“Ask anything you want,” he offers. “Any question that you think you need to know to help you process this. I know it’s a lot. Trust me, I grew up in a family of time travelers and it’s still sometimes too much for me.”

“To clarify, you’re offering me a free pass.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“On anything?”

“Well, if you asked me if I wear boxers or briefs, that’s probably not the best use of your question, but I’d answer anyway.”

“Trust me, that’s not a question I’m going to be asking you.”

But there are a lot of others: the rules of time travel, why he isn’t able to do it, what the limitations are, the consequences. All logical questions that a scientist would ask. All questions that my parents would ask.

And something about that makes me feel sick.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been compared to them. I’ve been told that I have my father’s knack for quick thinking. My mother’s skill in logical deduction. Two years ago, one of Dad’s colleagues said that I was the perfect mix of both of them.

And it never struck me how screwed up it is to say that to someone.

I like being like my parents. But I don’t want to be a perfect copy of them. I want to be my own person. That’s what everyone wants, right? Call it a teenage cliché or the need to rebel, but it’s true.

“Can I get…three questions?”

Blake’s brow furrows for a moment. It’s like watching something click in his head in real time. “You asked for three instead of two because you knew I’d say that question right there was one question, didn’t you?”

“You’re smarter than you look,” I fire back.

“Some of us have beauty and brains. It’s possible, you know.” He gestures. “Go ahead.”

So I do something that my parents would never do: I ask a completely off-the-wall question.