A smile creeps onto my face that I do my best to hide. I shake my head and leave, heading down the stairs two at a time.

* * *

I hurry down the stairs and follow the sound of running water, the sweet smell of burning butter, and the heat that breaks through the blanket of chill that the AC provides. In the kitchen, Claire is leaning over the counter and reading a recipe, her brow furrowed.

“How are you with cooking?” she asks without looking up.

“Decent. I can make a mean set of waffles and eggs.”

The right corner of her mouth lifts into a smile, and she points to a pot. “Want to man the mashed potatoes for me?”

“Sure.”

Is this what she wanted? A cooking partner? Why not ask Blake?

“Just keep stirring them until they are thick,” she instructs.

I listen, staring at the bubbling off-white substance like it has secrets to tell me. Mom doesn’t allow me in the kitchen whenever she’s trying to perfect even the simplest of recipes, which is kind of hilarious considering she usually fails and ends up ordering takeout. Even though she’s bad at it, she cooks to feel calmer, and my father and me being in the kitchen doesn’t help her relax.

But she’s taught me a few tricks, enough so that when I go to college, I won’t be one of those kids who eats Pop Tarts and pizza bites for every meal.

“Can I add something to it?” I ask.

Claire sucks on her finger when she looks at me and nods.

I move through the kitchen, searching for what I need, finding the paprika and cayenne pepper. I fold them into the fluffy whites, adjusting the percentages depending on my taste. I want to ask her Why Blake? to settle my burning urge for knowledge once and for all. Cut the snake’s head off before it multiplies.

“When did you find out you were a time traveler?” I ask instead.

Claire doesn’t stop stirring the concoction that she’s creating, but a smile does appear on her lips.

“How old are you, Andre? Seventeen?”

“Eighteen in six months.”

“So you’re a December baby. Just like me.” She beams proudly. “Then I was about ten years younger than you when I first jumped.”

She pours the mixture into the pot. It sizzles, and the air fills with aromatic smells of chives, onions, and peppers.

“I was obsessed with history as a kid, you see. A double-edged sword for a time traveler. The desire to learn about someplace is sometimes enough to actually make you jump. And for me, that was Paris, two weeks before the Germans invaded.”