Mrs. McIntyre, at least on paper, is the one who has the money. She’s from one of those old-money Boston families who came over on the Mayflower or something. Professionally, she’s no slouch. She’s a partner at McIntyre, Weston, and Grant, the best law firm in Massachusetts, one of the top three law firms on the East Coast, and one of the top five in the country.

Mr. McIntyre is no slouch either. Though not a power lawyer like his wife, he holds two PhDs, one in physics and one in biology. Rumor has it he was long-listed for a Noble Prize three years ago for his research regarding how time affects living organisms. Which, honestly, fits.

“You sure you don’t want to know about the boys?” she asked. “I found some good dirt that you can use to your advantage. Knowledge is power, you know.”

“I already put my foot in my mouth once. I don’t need to do it again,” I said and hugged her, promising to call her after my classes so we could hang out.

But instead of calling Isobel at four o’clock, all I can think about are the missed calls and voicemails from Blake. They’re staring at me—taunting me—begging me to react.

“I should just delete them,” I mutter, getting in my car and putting my book bag in the passenger seat. I have three classes worth of homework to do. I’m taking three yearlong classes crammed into six weeks. I don’t have time to focus on anything else. Not Blake. Not time travel. Not Michael.

If I want to have any hope of graduating on time, of continuing my life and being me, this needs to be my priority.

Isn’t that why I did all this? Why I fought so hard to survive? So I could have a normal life, or at least the chance at one.

Being a time traveler isn’t normal.

Being associated with the richest, most powerful family in Boston isn’t normal.

Traveling into the past to date someone isn’t normal.

And yet, with all that truth staring me in the face, I still press Call Back on my phone.

Ring.

Maybe I should hang up.

Ring. Ring.

The truth is, our argument? It wasn’t completely his fault. Ignoring him is passive-aggressive, and I know this. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling—white-hot rage. It’s the way he turned the tables on me; he pushed me into the past, and then, somehow, he makes it about him and how I was wrong?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I should hang up. I shouldn’t give him a second chance. I should tell Claire that I want her to teach me how—

“Andre?”

Blake’s deep voice catches me off guard. There’s a hint of discomfort in it, too, an upward inflection that makes him seem softer, less in control than usual.