“It’s not that simple.” When she sees their reaction, she quickly adds, “But I want to run some more tests on Andre. See what we’re dealing with. If it is, and that is the worst-case scenario, we caught it early. We can give him drugs and hopefully reverse the effects.”
“Hopefully?” Dad asks. “And, by the way, where is…”
“Dr. Moore? She’s serving at another hospital for the week. I’ve been fully briefed on Andre’s condition, and I’m confident that I can step in here,” Dr. Kapoor says without missing a beat. “There’s nothing you can do for Andre right now, except give him his rest. I’ll have more information for you tomorrow. How about you go and get some dinner or coffee, and we can talk more in, say, an hour?”
Mom and Dad aren’t buying it. Both of them shifted their whole lives around when I got sick. It was always me and them against this cancer. Why change that?
“I’ll be fine,” I promise. “Just get some food and relax.”
They hesitate for a moment before Claire comes in for the kill.
“I know Dr. Kapoor personally,” she says soothingly. “I went to college with her. How about we talk about her credentials over some dinner, hmm?”
There it is. Mom’s shoulders relax. Dad nods curtly. He gives my shoulder a squeeze before walking out with Greg. Mom gives me a kiss before whispering, “If you need anything, call me.”
Blake follows, and knowing that I can’t call her without a phone, places mine on the table next to me. We lock eyes for a moment, and he smiles, though it’s fragile.
“You’re in good hands with Dr. Kapoor,” he vows.
I want to tell Blake to stay—or, at least, ask him to—but before I can muster up the strength, he’s gone, leaving me and Dr. Kapoor alone.
She doesn’t look up from her clipboard at first. I reach over to grab my phone, but my arms feel like lead. Dr. Kapoor glances up, walks over, and hands it to me.
“Now I can ask you the real questions I wanted to ask,” she says, pulling a chair close to my bed. “Are you feeling groggy? Tingling feeling all over? Heavy? Dizzy?”
I nod to each one of them.
“I’m a time traveler,” she says. “Just like Mr. and Mrs. McIntyre, and just like you. They brought me in to deal with your…unique situation.” She smiles softly.
It’s not the type of smile that’s reassuring.
“What’s happening to me?” I whisper, the scratchiness in my throat burning like hot dragon fire. “Everything feels…”
“Painful?” she asks, not looking up. “In the most simplistic of terms, your body is rejecting your liver.”
I can feel the speed of my blood increasing. The panic starting to rise. Rejection is the one thing we’ve all been trying to avoid. What are the chances of another liver coming around, or even someone who is a perfect match who’d actually be willing to donate part of their liver to me? Minimal. Can you live without a liver? No.
I let out a shuddered breath and close my eyes tightly. If I keep them tightly shut for long enough, I can fight back the hot tears starting to form. If I can push them back long enough, then I can do what I do best: come up with a plan. Strategize. Evaluate and then execute.
“What are the next steps?” I ask, eyes still closed.
I hear Dr. Kapoor wheel her chair next to me and feel her press a warm hand to my shoulder. It’s not to comfort me but to get my attention.
Eventually, I open my eyes and look over at her.
“It’s simple, really. There’s no medical intervention that you need. No pills.” She taps my chest softly. “Just you. This one’s on you, Andre.
“Your time traveling is what’s causing the rejection,” she explains. “It happens sometimes with people like you. Individuals who are gifted the ability to time travel, not those who are born with it. The body rejects the ability. In simple terms? Traveling is ripping your genes apart with an intensity that the liver cannot compensate for.
“Well, you didn’t ease into that at all,” I say almost coldly. I should feel something more, but right now, the words just feel hollow. I’m sure I’ll react later. “Anything else?”
She doesn’t need to say it. I know what she’s going to say.
“I can’t time travel anymore,” I finish for her.
Dr. Kapoor nods, writing some notes. “Traveling aggravates your system. You stop traveling, and the pain—and the risk—will go away. I’m going to hold you overnight, give you some pills for the pain, and…”
“And if I don’t?”
She pauses, her pencil stopping in what looks like the middle of a loop. She slowly glances up, only raising her eyes, not her head.
“You refuse to stop, and it won’t only be your liver that your body rejects, Andre,” she warns. “Your whole body will shut down. You’re effectively ripping yourself apart whenever you jump. That’s what’s causing your body to short-circuit. It’s starting with your liver because that’s the source. But it won’t end there.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Medicine isn’t—”
“I’m sure,” she interrupts sternly.
Dr. Kapoor puts the clipboard down and focuses her gaze on me in a way that makes it impossible for me to look away. It’s hypnotizing and threatening all at once.
“Let me make it clear for you. If you continue to time travel, you will be lucky if you can speak, let alone walk. Eventually, you will rip yourself apart in a way that nothing—absolutely nothing—can put back together.”
Dr. Kapoor moves to leave, assuming that this final statement is enough to make me understand the severity of my situation. I get it. In many ways, I’m worse off than I was before the transplant.
“Get some rest, Andre. Right now, that’s all you need to focus on.”
Thirty
School is out of the question, but I’m not worried about that right now. Mom and Dad aren’t either. They’re back to worrying about my health. Which is good for me.
Now I have bigger problems to deal with. Well, two bigger problems.
The pain is gone within the first three days. But my eagerness to get up and get moving—to be doing something—makes me strain my muscles, forcing my parents to remind me that staying in bed wasn’t just a suggestion.
Lying here, doing nothing, is against my nature. There are so many things I should be doing right now, but my body has other plans. Sit. Wait. And recover.
That’s all it’s been doing for almost a year. Waiting. Hoping. Pining.
When do I get to take charge of my own life? When do I get to be in control of my future?
And I can’t stop thinking about my last meeting with Michael. Michael, who loved life and music and wanted to fight for gay rights. For all I know, he could be dead. I guess I could try to find him, see what happened to him. But I can’t bring myself to do it, to know what outcome I might have caused.
But maybe I could change things. With just one more jump. Just ten more minutes.
A soft knock on my door turns my attention away from my own dark thoughts. Mom pushes her head in. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug. “Fine,” I say, sitting up. My abs hurt far less than before. I can walk around and do most things by myself. “Wish I could eat some solid food, though.”
“Next week,” she promises, slipping in. “Then you can have whatever you want.”
“You know the problem is with my liver, right? Not my stomach? I didn’t have stomach cancer.”
“I know what type of cancer my son had, Andre,” Mom quips back.
“And trust me, so do I. Considering I’m the one who lived with it and have a body that might be worse off for it.”
She lets out a frustrated sigh and takes in a deep breath. She pauses, looking anywhere but at me. I know she feels tense; I feel it too. It’s like it’s not the same between us anymore. Moms can detect whe
n their children are different. I’m sure it’s some evolved sense of awareness or something. The usual suspects—drugs, alcohol, skipping school—those don’t apply here. She knows something is up, but she can’t place it, and she’ll never be able to.
I wish I could tell her. Tell her the truth, have her and Dad support me in this like they did with my cancer. But I can’t do that to them. They wouldn’t understand.
But right now, I’d kill for her advice. To know what she’d think I should do. She always has the best advice. The simplest of sentences to solve my problems or at least steer me in the right direction.
Maybe someday.
“You have a visitor,” she says softly and steps aside. Half a beat passes before I hear shuffling. I expect Isobel; she’s been texting me nonstop. But instead, it’s Blake.
“Hey,” he says, waving meekly, half hidden behind my mom. She quirks her brow, a silent exchange that he’s unable to see, asking if I want her to tell him to leave.
And, for a moment, I think about it. But curiosity gets the better of me, as it always does. Isn’t that what’s gotten me into trouble these past few months?
“He can stay.”
Mom nods and steps aside. “I’ll be downstairs if you want or need anything,” she says, talking to me, but I know the offer extends to both of us.
I listen to the sound of her footsteps retreating. Blake stands in the doorway, unmoving.
“You can sit.” I gesture to the chair by my desk. He nods and closes the door behind him.
Blake doesn’t just sit; he collapses, his whole body thumping down into the chair. His shoulders, usually perfectly straight, slouch slightly, and his gaze doesn’t focus clearly on me. It doesn’t focus on anything, really. It’s like he doesn’t know where to look or what to say.
“Me too,” I say, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“Me too,” I repeat. “I’m not sure what to say either.”
“Are you…okay?”
I shrug, shifting toward him with a hiss. “I haven’t jumped, if that’s what you’re asking, so I think I’m fine? Still sore. Mom and Dad are hovering over me like hawks, which I thought I was done with.”
“I get that.” He nods. “I mean, rejection is nothing to take lightly or ignore.”
“If only they really understood it.”
“If only.”
Silence fills the room again, but it’s not quiet, it’s loud. There’s so much unsaid between Blake and me that even the stillness is filled with words. Who should speak first? What should either of us say? We’ve both said things to each other that we regret. We both talk too much, act first, and don’t think.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Blake says. “Truly, Andre. I’m glad. I was…worried. And I’m sorry about how I acted before. I never should have spoken to you like that. I hope you can forgive me.”
I open my mouth to say, Really? But I can tell, when I see his face, that he’s speaking the truth. There’s heaviness in his eyes, a dark weight that reads like fear and guilt.
Guilt that he’s responsible.
Fear of losing me.
“Hey,” I say, swinging my legs over the side of my bed. My bare feet touch the floor. I stand up, ignoring the pain and swallowing a hiss, but I don’t make it more than one step before Blake’s gently pushing me back.
“Get back in bed, Andre.”
“Not until you hear me.”
“I’m going to call your mother up here, I swear to God. Get back in bed.”
I study his eyes, trying to gauge how much I can push back. The rigidness of his jaw tells me there’s no wiggle room.
“It’s not your fault,” I say, sitting down. “And I forgive you. We both made a lot of mistakes.”
Blake looks down at his feet, tapping his right foot against the wood in a beat I don’t recognize. It’s a metronome, of sorts, and the only constant sound in the room for half a dozen passing moments.
“Remember what we agreed on when we first started this? That I’d teach you how to time travel, and you’d grant me one free request? Remember that?”
My body tenses. “I remember,” I say quickly. “But—”
Blake looks up at me, and his foot falls still. “I’ve decided what I want to ask you to do,” he interrupts. “I want us to try, Andre. To really try. You and me, if you’ll have me again. No do-overs, because I don’t believe in those. But I want us to see if what I think there is between us, this feeling… I want us to see if it can become something, you know? If you and I can become something. That’s what I want. A chance for us. But I only want it if you want it. And I don’t want to be your second choice. I don’t want you to be with me because you can’t be with him. So… What do you think?”
I think about it. I think about a future, not only my own but a future with Blake. A life together, with ups and downs, highs and lows. Maybe I’m just daydreaming, or maybe I’m being too optimistic, but it feels so real, so tangible.
And, judging by the way my breath hitches, I want it. I want it badly.
“I can give you that,” I finally say.
Blake’s sharp features turn into a wide smile, one that reflects in his eyes.
“Really? You’re not joking? Oh, shit.” He laughs nervously. “I thought you’d say no! I seriously had a whole speech planned!”
“I thought I just heard your speech?”
“I had even more. I rehearsed it. Be honored.”
A throaty laugh leaves my mouth. “I’m going to need to hear that someday. But first…I need to do something.”
“Anything,” he says without hesitation.
He’s not going to be that eager once he hears what I’m thinking.
“I need to go back, Blake,” I whisper, so quietly that I’m not sure I even say it. “One more time.”
“Andre…you know…”
“I know.”
“The risk you’d be taking.”
“I know.”
Blake looks at me.
“I need to say goodbye. We left on such bad terms. I need to make sure he’s okay if I’m going to let him go.”
I expect him to say no. I’m ready for it. I wouldn’t blame him; he just got me back, I’m alive, and what would saying goodbye do for me, anyway? All reasonable answers. All logical answers.
But what I’m doing, what I am, isn’t logical anymore. It’s emotional, it’s feelings, it’s biochemical reactions fueling my motives in ways I didn’t know were possible. And I know this is something I need to do.
And I want Blake’s support while I do it.
Blake sighs, running his fingers through his hair. Slowly, he takes my right hand into his left one. Then he puts my left hand over his and puts his right hand on top. He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“Make me your tether,” he says. “Think of me when you go, think of me when you want to return. I’ll be here for you. I’ll be there with you. I’ll make sure you come back in one piece. I promise you.”
Is this really happening? I hesitate, waiting for Blake to change his mind, to come to his senses. But as he pulls his forehead back and smiles, that warm, boyish smile, I know he’s not going to. I know he’s in this for the long haul.
I kiss his knuckles, letting my lips linger. “I’ll come back; I promise.”
He nods. “I trust you.”
Thirty-One
Pain. So much freaking pain. The worst I’ve had so far.
It doesn’t feel like before. It’s not a searing or a throbbing pain but a type of surge that takes over every inch of my body. My bones, my muscles, my cells, even my hair and nails feel like they hurt. It feels like every cell is being ripped apart.
It takes me a moment to realize that I’m lying on a cool floor. The cold feels nice against my warm
skin, and when I force myself up to my hands and knees, I can tell I’m drenched in sweat. My stomach heaves, twice actually, but no vomit comes up, and for that, I’m thankful.
My body feels like lead as I stand, and I’m lucky that there’s a counter for me to grab on to when I slip. The walls are a beige color, and there’s a painting of a sailboat looking back at me. It takes all the energy I have to focus on it. Michael’s apartment. I’m in the right place, and I can only hope it’s the right time.
Someone says my name. The voice is muddled, like they are speaking through water and I’m at the bottom of the sea, but I can make out those two syllables. It’s a man’s voice, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. I’d know that touch anywhere.
Michael.
He helps me stand up and helps me walk to the couch, although it’s more like he’s carrying me. I focus my vision on him as best I can, but there are five different versions of him, all spinning around a center version. It takes all the energy I have to make the versions come into one.
And that says nothing of how my body feels like it’s not my own.
“I’m going to get you some water,” he says. I can make out that much. My head lobs back and rests against the couch.
Focus, Andre, I demand. Focus on why you’re here. Focus on the roughness of the couch. Focus on each drop of sweat that trickles down your body.
Focus on anything other than the pain.
Because if I focus on that, I’ll want to scream—and I probably will. Or cry, or even die.
Can someone die from pain? Who knows.
When Michael returns, my body is a little better. All, or at least most, of my cylinders are firing. I can make Michael out. His voice sounds clearer, and the concern on his face? That’s evident.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
“Hey,” he says back. He raises his hand and strokes my cheek. “First of all, before I say anything else, I want to say I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me, but I need to say it. Second of all, what did you do.” It’s a question but spoken like a statement.
“How long have I been gone?”
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