“Third time’s the charm,” he repeats. This time, his hand lingers when I try to pull back, and once he finally lets go, once he finally stands to leave, hugs me goodbye, and I watch his car drive away, I wish I had held on longer.

Twenty-One

“Holy shit.”

It’s been almost a month since Blake came to my house, and since then, every other day, I find time to go to his. We have a schedule—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he picks me up at the library at one, which gives me enough time to work on my classes, so that I won’t fall behind, but isn’t so late that we can’t get some training done. We work till about five or six, and then I head back home. Mom and Dad, so far, haven’t been the wiser.

This time, we’re practicing traveling farther back than 1969.

This time, I come back soaking wet.

Blake looks up expectantly. He glances at me, arches a brow, and then looks at his watch. “Three minutes this time. Solid. But you’re soaked! Where did you—”

“Nineteen twelve,” I say through chattering teeth and the pain that is blossoming in my side. The pain after jumping is getting more severe, but I don’t want to tell Blake that. He jumps up and gets me a towel from downstairs. It smells like lilacs and honey, and it’s warm. Of course the McIntyres are one of those fancy families with a towel warmer in the bathroom.

“Nineteen twelve? That’s farther than you were supposed to go,” he says, rubbing my arms slowly, to keep me warm. “What’s it like then?”

“Think about it,” I say, as the feeling begins returning to my body.

It takes him a moment, but when he gets it, his arms stop moving.

“Oh. The Titanic?”

“Mm-hmm.” I pull back. I move to sit on the couch but realize that it’s not a good idea in my current state. I can still feel the pins and needles of all that ice-cold water on my body. “I was there when it was going down.”

“Did you see Rose and Jack?”

“You know they aren’t real people, right?”

He shrugs. “Could have been. Here,” he says. “Let me get you some dry clothes.”

He disappears before I can tell him no. There’s something…personal about wearing Blake’s clothes.

But the idea of his skin touching mine via the conduit of his clothes? There’s something personal about that too.

Or, maybe, as Isobel would say, I’m overthinking it.

They are just freaking clothes.

Moments later, he returns with a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

“Bathroom’s—”

“Down the hall to the left, I know.” For a second, I’m worried that the joke won’t land, but he smiles back and hits the side of his head.

“Yeah, you do. You’ve been here enough times.”