“Dave took me to see them when I was fifteen. Mom and Dad were more focused on me passing algebra, but Dave argued that it was important to have fun and let loose every once in a while. He drove down from Harvard at eight o’clock one night when Mom and Dad were working late, picked me up, and took me to the concert.”

“Their first Boston concert? I heard it was a once-in-a-lifetime show.”

The corner of his cheek rises in a grin. “Yeah, it was.” Blake gently puts the photograph down and stands, dressed in a pair of joggers and a well-fitted T-shirt. He rocks back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets. He looks smaller than me, even though that’s not the case. Blake’s easily three inches taller.

He breathes out, speaking his whole sentence like one word. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like I did, just to test you. Especially before you were ready.”

“And?”

“And that was…a shitty thing to do?”

I want to reply with something sarcastic. No shit, perhaps. But I bite my tongue.

“You suck at saying sorry, you know,” I say, keeping my voice light so he won’t take it too personally. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you the components of a good apology?”

Before he can answer, I bridge the space between us and push him back so that his knees buckle and he sits back down in his chair.

“An apology has three parts—” I begin.

“You’re serious?” Blake asks. “Oh my God, you are serious.”

“The first: I’m sorry. The second: what you are sorry for. And finally: how you are going to do better next time. So let’s try that again.”

Blake narrows his eyes, studying me for any cracks that he can exploit. But he won’t find any.

“I’m serious,” I urge. “This will help you in the long run. Help you be a better person. You’re teaching me time travel; I’m teaching you basic life manners. Call it payment in kind.”

“You still want to work with me?”

“Should I not?” Now I’m thinking I shouldn’t.

But before either of us can speak, the front door opens.

“Blake?” Claire calls. “I know you’re here! I saw your car. Is that Andre’s I saw too?”

Blake and I look at each other, his surprised expression mirroring my own. He gestures silently to me— Talk.

“Yeah,” I choke out. “Mrs. McIntyre, it’s me.”

“Good! Are you free to stay for dinner? I insist! Come down and help me, will you?”

She doesn’t ask again or wait for me to confirm. Instead, I hear the soft sounds of jazz music flow through the speakers in the house.

“Who is this?” I ask. “Playing?”

“Juju by Wayne Shorter, I think,” Blake answers. “One of my dad’s favorite composers. Why, you into jazz?”