He walks by me, heading back up the stairs before Claire can stop him. She sighs and turns to me with a weary smile.

“That was a joke,” I tell her. “It wasn’t meant to be rude.”

“I know, dear.”

“You just stepped into a hornet’s nest and had no idea,” Greg says with an apologetic smile. “He’ll get better.”

But I’m not sure if he’s saying that more to reassure me or himself.

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

Claire shrugs, putting the finished mashed potatoes in a bowl. “You’ll see,” she says, disappearing into the living room.

Again, not at all convincing.

Fifteen

“Andre? Can you join me in my study for a second?”

I’m halfway through setting the table when Mr. McIntyre pokes his head in from the adjoining room.

“It’ll just take a moment.”

Will it, though?

I peek into the kitchen. It looks like Mrs. McIntyre is almost done.

I walk through the living room again and slide into Greg’s study. It’s massive—so big that I think, if we lived here, Mom might divorce Dad to have it to herself. Hell, Dad might divorce Mom for it. It’s lined with about three times as many books as the living room and has three desks with papers, maps, and other documents scattered around. Greg reminds me of an archetype I know far too well: the absentminded professor.

This, I can relate to.

“What do you teach?” I ask, idly picking up one of the papers. It’s written in sloppy Arabic, which I’m guessing is his own writing. “My parents are professors at Boston College and Northeastern, both in the sciences. Well, both in STEM. Mom’s in statistics, and Dad, biology.”

He glances over for a brief moment, adjusting his glasses in the same way my dad does. “Really now? I knew there was something I liked about you. Your parents must be smart. Linguistics, for me; I’m the department chair at Harvard. I specialize in dead languages.”

“I’m guessing being a time traveler helps with that?” I venture. “Being able to go back to when they spoke it, and hearing it firsthand?”

Greg chuckles, stacking some papers and dropping them into a file drawer. “It did, at one point. I stopped being able to travel in my twenties. Not much older than you are now, actually.” There’s a darkness in his eyes when he says that. Not anger or resentment, but sorrow. Like he’s lost an old friend.

“So, Andre. I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more when you first came to visit.”

“Mrs. McIntyre was more than accommodating, Mr. McIntyre.”

“Please.” He gently raises his hand. “Call me Greg. You’re practically family now.”

We both know how awkward that sounds as soon as it leaves his lips. But while I avert my gaze, he does his best to backtrack.