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While Miles stares down at his hands, I make a play for the last mozzarella stick. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m taking it. That kind of thing probably feels insignificant to him at this point. “So we’re the only two people—that we know of—trapped on September twenty-first,” I say. “And yet we barely know each other, Miles Okamoto.”
“Kasher-Okamoto,” he says, blinking as if to refocus on me. As if he’s been lost in thought, and this is only now bringing him back to earth, back to this booth. “My dad is Nathan Kasher. He teaches Jewish history, and he’s always saying he’s heartbroken I picked my mom’s field instead of his. It’s an ongoing joke between my parents—a friendly competition that my mom is winning.” He holds up a hand, puts down two fingers. “There. Now you know at least three things about me.”
“Jewish history.” I feel like a complete idiot for not even knowing that was something we had at UW. “Are you Jewish?”
“My dad is. I was raised Jewish, so you can try to tell me I’m only half, or that I’m not really Jewish, since it’s matrilineal, but—”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Oh.”
“Have people done that?”
“My whole life,” he says quietly, and I’m surprised by the way this tugs at my heart.
“So you’re Jewish, then,” I say, and at the simple fact of the statement, he relaxes. Nods. “I am too. There’s probably a joke somewhere in here about both of us being Chosen.” This earns me only a soft ha.
On the one hand, it’s a relief not to be alone in this. On the other hand… it’s Miles. I can’t recall ever having been this infuriated by someone in the course of a single conversation. He’s seemingly immune to humor, so rigid his spine is probably made of Kevlar. I’d have gladly taken Annabel or Gopher Girl or Grant of the Spectacular Eyelashes. Even Lucie and I would have made a better team. It’s just my luck that the guy I’m trapped with turns out to be an impossible human to get along with.
“We should at least trade numbers,” he says. “In case we get separated.”
“I guess there’s no point putting it in my phone,” I say.
“Probably best if we memorize them.”
“Right.” I tug on the strings of my sweatshirt, thinking. “Maybe this isn’t based in real science. I’ve seen this plot in movies before. Maybe someone or something out there decided we didn’t do today right the first time through. We weren’t ready to move on to the next day without accomplishing… something. And now we’re supposed to do good deeds, or selfless acts, or find true love, and that’s what’ll get us back to normal.”
“Who are you going to find true love with in a single day?”
I bat my lashes at him in the most exaggerated way I can. “Looks like I’ve got just one option, buttercup.”
At this, Miles does something I was not at all expecting.
He blushes.
And not just the tips of his ears—his whole ears, and the way they’re sticking out makes it impossible not to notice. A muscle in his jaw pulses, only this time I am certain he’s not fighting back a smile. Miles Kasher-Okamoto, ladies and gentlemen, allowing himself to experience an emotion.
Then he clears his throat, soldiering on. “I’ve been going to the library on most days, reading as much as I can about time-travel theories, relativity, quantum mechanics. We could probably make a lot of progress if we work together.”
I gape at him. The idea of spending hours upon hours in the library with Miles, poring over books that make no sense to me… I’d rather eat Cheerios off the floor of the communal bathroom. “You’re repeating the day over and over, and you’re spending it in the library?”
At that, Miles finally snaps. “I don’t know what the fuck else to do!” he says as he springs to his feet, and now it’s his turn to be shocked by the volume of his voice. Except he doesn’t collect himself, he just takes these sharp, jagged inhales, his cheeks pink. He’s been calm up until now, but evidently, I’ve pushed him too far. “You’re the one who seems intent on challenging everything I say, despite having no scientific background whatsoever.”
“I’m just as clueless as you are.” I get to my feet, trying my best to keep my voice level. “And I’m sure it’s really hard to admit that you’re clueless, but it’s the fucking truth. Neither of us knows shit about time travel because up until three days ago for me and sixty-one for you, neither of us knew it actually existed.”
“So you’re going to go out there and find your soul mate?”
“Maybe!” I hoist myself onto the booth, the vinyl springy beneath my feet. I throw my arms wide, beckoning to the dining area around us. “Hey! If anyone here thinks they might be my one true love, I’m in Olmsted 908.”
A few people give us strange looks, while most go back to their food. It’s a rush, yelling like this without consequences. “Anyone?” I say.
“Stop,” Miles says, jaw clenched. “This isn’t accomplishing anything.”
I glare down at him. “Why? No one’s going to remember this tomorrow.” I turn back to the Dawg House. “I’m pretty low-maintenance. No fancy dates or anything, but I will get upset if you ever forget our anniversary.” I spin around, assessing the clusters of tables. A couple people have their phones out, but most aren’t paying attention to me anymore. “No takers? Really? It’s okay, I can be shy too.”
Miles drops back into the booth primly, posture straight, not meeting my eyes. “When you’re ready to take this seriously,” he says, “you know where to find me.”
“Enjoy the library,” I snap back, landing on the booth with a resounding thump. We’re sure as shit not finding any answers in a half-century-old textbook.
