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“None of this is familiar?” I ask, weaving through the aisles and plucking out books I remember. When I toss Black Holes and Baby Universes to him, he just barely catches it.
I’m still riding the high of my Washingtonian meeting. Annabel asked for a few edits to my profile, and as long as I can get them to her by the end of the weekend, they can fit it into next Wednesday’s issue.
Barrett Bloom, Washingtonian reporter. That might finally be real.
I had some extra time before meeting Miles here, so I stopped at the campus health center and made an appointment with a counselor for next week. I don’t know what to expect, but that feels right, too.
All of it has given me the courage I need to see if the Miles I fell in love with is still in there somewhere.
“Are we working on a project?” Miles leans against our usual table, fiddling with his pen in that cute way he does. “I don’t recall my m—Dr. Okamoto assigning one.”
“Relax. I know she’s your mom.”
I finish stacking books on our table and go to the chalkboard, trying to summon his loops from memory. Library. PHYS 101. LHC attempt.
“Look, I don’t know why you brought me here or what you’re doing, but I’m starting to get a little anxious. First you approach me by wishing me happy birthday, and then you show up with mozzarella sticks in an eight thirty class, like—” His face goes slack.
“What?” I pause in the middle of scribbling learned how to drive stick. “Feeling a particular way about all that fried cheese?”
“Nothing,” he says, scraping a frustrated hand through his hair.
I tap the chalk against the board. “What did you do on Wednesday?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just answer the question.” I flutter my lashes at him, hoping he can remember he finds me irresistible. “Please.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. If memory serves, that’s his your mere presence exhausts me sigh. The way this is riling him reminds me of our first time in the library, and despite how contentious that meeting was, there’s some nostalgia there, some affection for the Miles who was still wearing his own armor.
We can do this.
We’ve gotten through much worse.
“Wednesday. The day before yesterday. I—” And then he breaks off.
“What is it?”
“I—I can’t remember.” His shoulders hunch in a very un-Miles way, and he grips the edge of the chair, as though this whole situation is starting to freak him out.
“Would you believe me if I told you we’ve been trapped in a time loop for months?” I drop the chalk, inching closer to him. “And that you were alone at first, but then I got stuck too, and we didn’t completely hate each other, but we definitely didn’t get along, and then we gradually became… friends? And when we got back yesterday, you didn’t remember any of it?”
He shrinks back against the table, jaw tightening. Four days ago, in the middle of our sweaty, indulgent afternoon, I told him I wanted to kiss away all the tension there. All the tension everywhere. And he laughed as I proceeded to do exactly that, dragging my lips along his cheeks and his neck and his shoulders and his chest, until I moved lower and lower and then he stopped laughing altogether.
“No, I wouldn’t.” Now his eyes are fixed on the dingy brown carpet. “Because that’s impossible.”
I fling an arm out, gesturing to the campus above us. “Then how would I know that your dad also teaches here, in the history department? Or that vanilla is your favorite ice cream flavor?”
“It’s a very popular flavor,” he insists. “And you could have easily looked up my dad.”
“What about how you and your brother hit a tree while sledding, and that’s how you got that scar.” I touch that spot beneath my own eye.
“I don’t—”
“Or that you love period pieces and want to double major in film,” I continue, and when he looks back up at me, I keep my gaze locked to his. “Or that you get scared on airplanes, but holding my hand made you feel better. Or that—that before you kissed me for the first time, you asked me if I was going to cry?” My voice breaks.
I’m no longer moving closer, but Miles keeps backing up, seeming to forget the table behind him. He shoves against it too hard, and the ancient piece of furniture scoots backward, banging into a bookshelf.
It seems to happen in slow motion, my haphazard stack of books crashing to the table and then to the floor. Together we watch, Miles tripping over his feet in an attempt to catch the falling books, managing to save only one from landing in a mess of pages and well-worn spines. A Short History of Nearly Everything.
