“Is your dad’s hair naturally brown, or does he dye it?”

Blake stops mid-sip, slowly putting his glass down. He doesn’t even swallow the mouthful of liquid for a moment, not until his mind seemingly remembers that he’s holding it in his mouth. He gives an exaggerated gulp, never looking away from me.

“Let me get this straight. I just confirmed a family secret that only about a dozen people in the world know, and you’re concerned about my father’s hair color?”

I nod. “It’s for science.”

“You know time travel is science, too, right?”

“Science fiction, maybe.”

“Science fiction is something that’s not real.”

“I’m still not completely convinced that I’m not losing my mind—or that I’m not in a coma and this is just some fabrication that my brain has made up to help me deal with some horrific trauma.”

“Are you always like this?”

“All the time.”

“So, Mr. I’m-Stuck-in-Some-Dantesque-Coma, what do you think all this is?” He gestures toward the smoothies.

“A lucky guess?”

“You’re stubborn as hell.”

“You’ll grow to love it.”

A slow grin spreads over Blake’s face as he crosses his strong, well-defined arms over his broad, bare chest. “Naturally that color.”

“So, you’re the lucky one,” I reason. “There was a fifty-fifty chance that you’d get the gene for red hair. Well, you might still have it, actually. But a fifty-fifty chance that it would manifest. Your brother got it. You didn’t. It’s basic science, really.”

“That’s not basic at all,” he replies.

“If you pay attention in science class—genotypes and phenotypes—it is.”

Personally, I think the tidbit about red hair is interesting. It’s a mutation, after all. A dying out one at that. But Blake’s sullen face proves that he doesn’t think the same. His muscles tighten, and he looks sharper, more angular and threatening than he did before, when his edges were rounder. Quickly, he stands, taking his glass and rinsing it out.

“That’s another thing David got that I didn’t,” he mutters.

The tension in the room instantly becomes so thick that it’s hard to breathe, and to combat it, I check my phone. Two texts from Isobel and one from my mom asking how the meeting went. Before I can finish my informative three-sentence reply, Blake says, “Here’s the deal. I didn’t call you back for smoothies or to talk about genealogy.”

“Technically, I called you, but…point taken.”

Blake rolls his eyes. “My mom is, frankly, obsessed with time travel. She’s been looking for other people like us, our family, for…I think her whole life. There aren’t many. It’s a dying genetic trait.”

“Like red hair.”

“Get over the red hair, but yes.”

“All right, next question then.”

“There’s more?”

“How much do you know?”