“Do you want to go find them?” he asks, breaking the silence and pulling me out of the depths of an existential crisis that threatens to engulf me.

I snap my eyes up. “Wait, what?”

He shrugs. “I mean, do you want to?”

I open my mouth twice and close it twice. Is that even possible? Can we? Blake told me not to meet my past self, but there has to be some rule against talking to my parents before I’m even born.

“They’re children,” I argue.

Michael shrugs.

“What would I gain from it?”

Michael shrugs again.

“I don’t even know where they are!”

“Oh, come on. You don’t think it would be unreal to see them right now?” Michael suggests.

“That’s not something I want to do.” I’m pretty sure it ventures too close to violating one of those rules Blake mentioned, anyway.

Michael throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine. Ignore my idea of fun. But there’s something else we can do instead.”

“I’m listening.”

There’s a glint in his eyes that could only be described as mischievous, and at this moment, I notice that his hands haven’t left my shoulders. And I don’t mind.

“Spend some time with me,” he mutters, his voice low, like saying it too loudly will shatter the moment.

I study Michael’s eyes—really study them. Boys are tricky beasts. Their words are like weasels that can wiggle their way into the smallest of cracks in another person’s armor. When I came out as gay, my mother told me to watch out for them, for the way they can wrap around you and strangle what makes you special.

But that’s not Michael. He’s biting his bottom lip. His pulse, which I can feel in his thumbs, grows faster. His neck and his sharp clavicle become more pronounced as he swallows thickly.

Since I appeared here, I’d been out of my element, out of my time. But now, I held the power in my hands.

“I mean, where else would I go? It’s not like I know anyone here. So the real question is, how are you going to make it up to me if this perfect place isn’t actually perfect?”

* * *

Michael and I get two candy bars and Cokes from the corner store. It’s not really a meal, but it’s something, and the sugar feels like a rush of power and energy.

“Sorry, it’s not much,” Michael mutters as he chews.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m…low on cash. Journalism doesn’t pay much, you know? We do it for the value of the free press, First Amendment, all that jazz.”

“It’s fine, Michael,” I say, adding a reassuring smile. “This is great. Besides, who can ignore a Snickers bar? It really is perfect.” And that’s not a lie.