“Does that weird you out? That I took you on a date to a place my brother loved, and you have his liver, and I just spilled my guts to you like that?” He laughs, trying to lighten the moment.

It probably should. I think for any sane, average person it would. But I’m not sure that I, Andre Cobb from Boston, Massachusetts, can call myself sane or normal anymore.

“I think if he were here, he would have told you that it was a great date idea. And I would agree with him.”

Blake grins and squeezes my hand again. “So what that means, I don’t know. It’s unprecedented, sure, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take advantage of what we’ve been given?”

“And what have we been given?” I ask, pushing off the window, looking at him.

I don’t expect an answer—or maybe I do. Maybe I hope Blake will put this all together for me. The time travel. Him. The secrets. Michael. His parents. His mother’s “experiments.” My life is almost entirely different than it was six months ago. That should be a good thing. Change is good, in science, in life, in everything. I should be comfortable with the unknown. That, according to my parents, is where the best things happen.

But right now, I just want someone to tell me what direction to take. What path to walk, which road to venture down.

“I’d like to think we’ve been given a chance,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s not sure he believes it himself. “A chance to see what this is between us.”

“You think there’s something?”

“Don’t you?”

Do I? This night was great; there’s no denying it. But every time I think back on it, on every spark of joy Blake gives me, I wonder, would that spark be a roaring flame if I were with Michael?

“Are you out?” I ask. It’s a sharp left turn in the conversation but also a worthy distraction.

He shakes his head. “I’m just not super out, you know? The right people know, and I let people know when I want them to know.”

“Are your parents cool with it? I’d imagine having a gay kid when you’re members of Boston’s high society could be…”

“My dad and I don’t talk about that,” he says quickly. “My mom and I do, but it’s like clockwork. The same three questions all the time: Am I being safe, am I having sex, is this just a phase?” He chuckles, but I can tell it’s a forced laugh, to keep the space from being too quiet. To keep him from really confronting how much that hurts him. “They mean well, but… Well, you’ve met my parents.”

I squeeze his hand this time. “Listen…”