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“I know that I’m awkward around people,” he continues. “That I probably come off as a condescending asshole at first. And I think it might be because I’ve been on my own for so long that I’m not used to thinking about anyone else.”
“I definitely never thought either of those things about you,” I say, as straight-faced as possible. I think back to Miles suggesting that we go out and explore, to him showing up with that ice-cream truck, to our makeshift Shabbat. “And it’s not true, that you don’t think about anyone else. You’re—you’re a good friend, Miles.”
The way it tugs at a corner of his mouth, I can tell he likes hearing this. “You’re kind of the first person I’ve hung out with for an extended period of time in a while,” he says.
“And you almost had the tattoo to prove it.”
He gives my hand the gentlest squeeze before pulling away, and I’m left feeling strangely light-headed.
“My mom’s the same,” I say, trying not to miss the warmth of his fingers linked with mine. “She always told me, ‘I don’t care if you study something impractical, as long as you don’t get pregnant.’ I think she’s happy with the way her life has turned out, though, even if things were rocky for a while.” I shake my head, wondering how I let all of this spill out. “Sorry, this isn’t about me.”
“No, I appreciate it.” His eyes are back on mine, deep and vivid and full of more courage than I ever could have imagined. “I… want to know about you, too.”
Those words feel like he’s wrapped a hand around my heart.
Before I register what’s happening, he’s stretching his right hand toward me, and I am honestly not certain if I can handle holding hands with him again. Not this soon. But he doesn’t linger. He just grazes his fingertips along my wrist, drawing an arc between two freckles, before dropping his hand again. A gesture of understanding, I’m sure that’s what it’s meant to be, but it sparks all my nerve endings. Makes my stomach swoop low, low.
“Journalism and early-2000s pop culture and rarely thinking before I speak. That’s pretty much it.” Any other response to I want to know about you has turned to dust in my throat. I’m not ready to give him my complete history, and only in part because no one’s asked for it before. Despite his reassurance, I don’t want to take anything away from what he’s processing with his brother. The fear of going through this all over again. The hope that this time will be different.
“I do need to ask,” I continue, because it’s about all I can come up with right now. “Why have you never told me that tomorrow is your birthday?”
At that, Miles actually laughs. And then he can’t stop. “My birthday—it’s tomorrow,” he manages, trying and failing to muffle his laughter with his shoulder. “September twenty-second.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!”
“To be perfectly honest, I forgot.”
And then I’m laughing too, because if that isn’t the greatest cosmic joke.
DAY TWENTY-TWO
Chapter 28
THE NEXT MORNING, IT’S NOT Lucie’s voice that pulls me from sleep, but a tight, hot sensation along my forearm. I jolt awake, remembering the buzz of the tattoo needle and the soreness and swelling Gemini warned I’d be feeling for the next few days.
When I open my eyes, there’s no Lucie. No Paige.
Holy shit holy shit holy shit. This can only mean one thing.
It happened.
Relief sings through my veins, bright and shimmering and absolutely unreal. I’ve never been so delighted to be in pain. I grin into my pillow, nearly sobbing with joy. We made it to Thursday. Maybe we got terribly ill-advised tattoos, but we did it.
I will wear this ink like a badge of honor, a reminder that I went through hell and came out of it stronger than ever. I’ll laugh at the jokes people make about it—hell, I’ll make plenty of them myself. I will grow to love this ridiculous tattoo because I traveled through fucking time, and now I’m on the other side.
I’ll race down the hall to Miles’s room and we’ll go out and celebrate his birthday. Or, you know, we’ll go to class, because that’s how Miles would want to spend his birthday. My Thursday psych class—I’ll finally get to go. Sure, I ditched yesterday’s classes, but it was just the first day, and even if Dr. Okamoto and Hot Grant aren’t thrilled with me, I have them memorized at this point. Catching up won’t be a problem.
I roll over and bring my forearm up to my face and—
There’s nothing there.
A knot of panic works its way through me as I skim my fingers along my forearm. The skin is warm, but it’s just skin. Inkless. No mozzarella stick that looks like a piece of anatomy, no cape. No redness. I even hold my arm to the window to catch the shards of natural light, and all the hair Gemini shaved is back.
And yet the pain is still there, pulsing beneath the surface, a reminder of something I did yesterday.
A day that does not exist.
There’s a knock on the door, and then the sound of a key in the lock, and then there’s Lucie, and Paige, staring straight at me.
