by Stacey Jay
But you could be back in that time, couldn’t you?
I shivered and clutched the thankfully cold locket in my fist, scanning the darkening lawn where we’d parked our bikes. “What time did Mitch say he’d meet us?”
“Eight.” Isaac pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Five more minutes.”
Mitch had to drop some paperwork off at Vanderbilt admissions and meet his dad—whose doctor’s office was only a few minutes away—for dinner, but had promised to ride his bike over to meet us after.
I couldn’t wait for him to get here. Isaac had been in a mood since he’d picked me up at the salon. He’d said he loved my hair, but he’d barely looked at me on the way into Nashville, making me nervous about my new look. My hair was gone, hacked to just below my chin and streaked with light blond and a golden honey color. It was gorgeous. The highlights made my eyes look bright green instead of muddy-frog hazel and should have thrilled me to pieces.
Instead, my makeover was just another source of angst. I didn’t look me anymore and it scared me. Maybe it scared Isaac too, or at least turned him off. Or maybe he had other reasons for refusing to look at me—Rachel-type reasons.
Suspicion pinged around in my brain and pressed against the backs of my eyes, slowly driving me crazy. So crazy, I’d almost said something to Isaac a thousand times, but hadn’t. I was a coward who didn’t really want to know if I’d messed with the fabric of time for a boy who had cheated on me.
But maybe he didn’t cheat the first time. Maybe that’s just one of the things that have changed.
How cruelly ironic would that be? If I’d scarred myself for life to keep from cheating on Isaac only to discover my time travel had somehow caused him to cheat on me? It would be awful, a horrible twist at the end of the story, a punch line no one would find funny.
Except maybe the locket. Maybe the locket made bad things happen. Maybe that’s what it had been up to all along. Rachel had almost died, Theo’s future was destroyed, and I was losing my mind, as evidenced by the fact that I was seriously considering a nose job in the name of getting the damn thing off of me.
The chain was the tiniest bit too short to keep me from slipping it over my head. If the tip of my nose were a little smaller, however, I just might be able to—
“Really?” Isaac gave the Parthenon the back of his hand as the night lights flicked on behind the white columns. “They make it glow green now? Since when?”
“Since when do you hate the Parthenon so much?” I asked with more frustration than I’d intended. But I couldn’t help myself. Didn’t we both have bigger things to freak out about?
“I don’t hate the Parthenon.”
“You sound like you hate the Parthenon.” I pulled my knees into my chest, contemplating fetching the jacket out from underneath me and slipping it on. It was getting colder every minute. “You sound really angry.”
“I am angry. It’s dumb.”
“It’s just a building. And it’s a museum. People go there and see art. It’s a good thing.” My words were clipped and tight, little darts thrown at Isaac’s face, hoping to pop him open, make him spill whatever was really bothering him out into the cold air. “And it’s pretty.”
“I don’t think it’s pretty.”
“You don’t think anything’s pretty this afternoon.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“What’s wrong with you? What’s bothering you so much? You were scowly for over an hour before we even saw the Parthenon. I’m . . .”
I’m freaking out that our future—the entire reason I started this nightmare in the first place—isn’t going to happen. That everything is crumbling because of this evil locket I can’t take off and I don’t know how to put the world back together again.
But I didn’t say any of those things. I just reached over and took his hand, holding it tight, willing him to feel how much I still cared about him, how much I wanted him and me to work. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” Isaac said, shifting his attention back to the object of his scorn with a sigh. But he didn’t drop my hand. He held it, tight. A minute passed, then two, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its heat. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I had a fight with my dad before I left the house.”
“About basketball?” As if I had to ask. It was always about basketball.
“Yeah. Since practice was canceled for that career-night thing, he thought I should stay home and work on my free throw in the driveway.” He shook his head, and a muscle jumped near his jaw. “When I said I would rather go see my girlfriend, he freaked out. He tried to take my car keys.”
“Oh, man.” I could imagine how that had gone down, Isaac’s dad red faced and screaming and his mom trying to calm everyone down. “Then how did you—”
“I told him I’d quit basketball if he didn’t stop giving me shit about spending time with you,” he said, perfect blue eyes meeting mine for the first time all night. “I told him you were as important to me as sports and he’d just have to deal with it.”
My heart squeezed in my chest, love for Isaac edging out a bit of the fear and doubt. Maybe some girls wouldn’t have been flattered by hearing they were valued as much as a sport, but after years of feeling like I came second to a gym full of sweaty boys and bouncing balls, his words meant a lot. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“I love you too. And I mean it. I’m not going to be about basketball all the time anymore.” He squeezed my hand one last time before letting it go. “But I should probably get home before too late. I’m sure Dad will be waiting up.” Isaac stood and shook his legs before turning around to help me to my feet. “You want me to call Mitch and tell him we’re bailing?”
“Let’s wait a few more minutes. He’ll be here and we don’t have to take a long ride.”
Isaac sighed and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “I just don’t know how much bicycling energy I have left.”
This from the boy who could play basketball for hours—until his entire body was dripping sweat and his face mottled red—and still want to stay another ten minutes on the court. But I couldn’t argue with him about it being rude to set a date with Mitch and then leave, especially not after the night he’d had with his dad. It was better to let Isaac go sort things out at home feeling good about him and me.
Besides, our anniversary was in a few days. It would be the perfect time to rekindle our old heat and show him he didn’t need anything Rachel had to offer.
“Then why don’t you head home?” I grabbed my jacket from the grass and shrugged it on. “I’ll wait for Mitch and get a ride with him.”
“Really? You don’t mind?” Isaac asked.
“No. It’s fine. I know you’ve had a big week.” I leaned into him, hugging him around the waist, trying not to think about how easy it was for him to leave me.
Isaac hugged me back, the feel of his strong body against mine so familiar, yet strange at the same time. He hadn’t even tried to get under my shirt lately, let alone anything more. I’d been so worried about everything else, I hadn’t had time to stress about it, but now—despite the stand he’d made against his dad—I did. Big time.
What if Saturday was too late? What if something had already happened, something Sarah felt compelled to keep from me in order to make sure Isaac and I stayed together? What if that something had changed the way Isaac felt about me? What if Isaac didn’t want me in that way anymore?
Suddenly desperate to feel his lips on mine, I tilted my head and threaded my fingers through his short hair, pulling him close, kissing him with everything inside me—every ounce of fear and longing and sweetness and sadness, everything I’d ever promised him and everything I’d been too afraid to say.
And he kissed me back . . . the way he always did . . .
But it wasn’t quite the same. He stayed at a safe distance, out of my reach, the heart of him hiding someplace I couldn’t touch. As he pulled away,
I wondered if I’d ever touched it, touched him. Or had I only imagined we fit together perfectly, like missing pieces of the same puzzle?
Isaac laughed under his breath. “Wow. That was . . . wow.” He cupped my face in his hands, smiling that smile that had always made me feel beautiful.
It meant Isaac was pleased with me, happy with his choice. Usually that was all it took to make everything in me light up. At the moment, however, it only made me feel vaguely canine, like a cute puppy Isaac adored but didn’t totally consider his equal.
But then I wasn’t his equal. I wasn’t as gorgeous, as talented, or as charming. I didn’t know many people who were . . . except maybe Rachel. Maybe that was why the kiss hadn’t felt the same. I was too busy thinking about Rachel. Wondering, worrying, stressing about whatever it was that had happened.
“I like this new haircut,” he said.
“It’s not the haircut. It’s me,” I whispered, needing him to really see me, to say something that would make me believe my doubts were foolish, the product of stupid insecurities.
So I wasn’t perfect or extraordinary—did I really have less intrinsic value than someone else because I lacked the qualities that made someone platinum? Didn’t people like Isaac know, deep down, that they wouldn’t be platinum if people like me didn’t adore them, watch them, cheer for them?
“I know.” Isaac brushed his thumb across my bottom lip. “You’re my girl.”
His girl. Defined by my connection to him. That never would have bothered me before the do overs. I’d loved being Isaac’s girl. I still loved it . . . but now I wanted to be more. I wanted him to know I was worth more. And maybe he did. Maybe whatever had happened with Rachel wasn’t the huge deal I was imagining. Maybe if I got up the guts to ask Sarah about it, I’d know for sure.
I shivered, just the thought of having that talk with Sarah making my body revolt. I didn’t want to hear ugly things, I just wanted to move on and have the future I’d dreamt of with the boy I loved.
“I love you.” Isaac leaned in, kissing the tip of my nose, his warm lips making me realize how cold I was. Bike riding didn’t seem like such a great idea anymore. “You sure you don’t want to come with me? We could go sneak in your window and spend some time in your room. Alone.”
“I’d feel bad . . .” I said, though a part of me was tempted by Isaac’s offer. If only he’d been the one to instigate the kiss and hadn’t been so ready to leave me a few moments before. “One of us should stay to meet Mitch.”
“Okay,” he said, hesitating only a second before pulling his bike from the grass. “But it’s you and me on Saturday. I’ll pick you up before the party and we’ll get early dinner anywhere you want. Okay?”
“The party? I thought we were just going to dinner?”
Isaac winced. “Shit. I’m sorry. Ally talked to me tonight about throwing a party at her house for your birthday. I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a surprise.”
These inconsistencies shouldn’t shock me anymore, but they did. It was all I could do to hold on to the ghost of a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll act surprised.”
“Awesome.” He grinned the grin that made his dimple pop, the one that made his whole face come together in a way that made grown women stop and stare. “I hear you drama dorks are good at that acting stuff.”
“Ha ha.” But it wasn’t funny. Nothing about this day was funny.
“See you tomorrow, babe.” Isaac kissed me on the cheek and then swung onto his bike and rolled down the trail, pausing only once to wave before he disappeared around a curve and a clutch of nearly bald bright orange trees.
The leaves were almost gone. When had that happened? Fall had just started and now all the orange leaves were gone? Had that happened every year? Did the orange leaves always fall first? And so soon? It was barely the second week in October.
Even though I’d lived it twice, autumn seemed too short, an abbreviated parody of itself. Or maybe it was my mental outlook clouding everything shades of scary.
At that exact moment, four giant horses plodded around the corner where Isaac had just disappeared. They were mammoth animals with white stripes down their faces and huge mouths that puffed crystalline air into the cold night, and they were pulling a carriage twice the size of any I’d ever seen.
Their appearance would have been crazy enough if the horses weren’t wearing red and yellow floral headpieces or being followed by three men in togas playing fiddles. But they were. Wearing headpieces. And there were men. In togas. With fiddles.
I looked around the park, searching to see if anyone else was seeing this or if I’d finally lost my mind. If someone else saw, if someone else thought this was completely out of the realm of normal, everyday experience, then—
“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Mitch’s voice in my ear made me scream so loud a man jogging by ripped off his headphones and shot me a nasty look.
“You scared me,” I said, spinning around, intending to smack Mitch on the chest but finding myself grabbing the collar of his navy peacoat and holding on for dear life instead. “Do you see that? The horses and . . .”
“And the men in togas playing ‘Amazed’ by Lone Star on fiddles to a carriage full of people dressed like they’re headed to a Greek orgy?” His eyes flicked over my shoulder and then back to mine. “Yeah, I see that.”
I heaved a sigh of relief that emerged sounding more like a hysterical gasp for air. “Good. Okay, good.”
“You okay?” Mitch asked, propping his forearms on my shoulders. “Did Isaac ditch us again?”
“No, he was here, but he—”
“Come with us, young lovers!”
I turned just in time to catch the rose a pink-faced woman in a red and yellow veil threw from the carriage as it passed by.
“Come, and celebrate our union!” She raised a red plastic cup that I strongly suspected held something alcoholic and pointed toward the Parthenon. “Everyone is welcome, everyone is—” Her sentence ended in squeal-giggles as an equally red-faced man in a red toga pulled her back into her seat and kissed her.
“I think we just got invited to a wedding reception,” Mitch said.
Duh. Ancient Greek–themed wedding, the Parthenon—it all made a cheesy kind of sense. Except the Clydesdales. And the country music. But who was I to say what was or wasn’t part of a traditional, ancient Greek wedding?
“Well, then.” Mitch nodded toward my bike. “Jump on, we’d better get going.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No way. It’s bad luck to turn down an invitation to a wedding reception. Especially a Greek wedding reception at the Parthenon.” He reached out and freed a newly short and blond strand of hair from what remained of my ultra-sticky lip gloss. “And my dad took me to the Indian place for dinner so I’m starving.”
“You still don’t do curry?”
“I don’t do anything that looks like bright yellow dog food.”
“It tastes really good,” I said. “You shouldn’t judge a food by its color.”
“I don’t, I judge it by the weird smell and the fact that it contains okra, the most disgusting southern food ever to slime its way onto a plate.”
“Don’t talk smack about okra. I’d kill for my mom’s fried okra.”
Mitch laughed. “Come on, I bet there’ll be snacks. And drunk people dancing badly. Those are two of my favorite things.”
“Food and drunk people?”
“Not just drunk people, Katie dear. Drunk people dancing badly.”
Then a minor miracle occurred in Centennial Park. I laughed. A real laugh. In spite of the doubt and the fear and the fact that a possibly evil piece of jewelry still hung around my neck, I laughed.
It was decided. “Okay. Let’s go, I’ll race you to the bike racks.” And then I was gone, smiling as the cool wind whipped my hair around my face, comforted by knowing Mitch was right behind me, doing his best to catch up.
Chapter Fourteen
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER
7, 9:15 P.M.
An hour later, Mitch and I were holding our glasses of champagne aloft for the tenth toast to the newlywed couple. Turned out the bride and groom were both from big Greek families, so there was a lot of toasting to be done. My head was buzzing a little, but it was a good buzz, a light, drifty feeling that helped hold the heaviness of the past week and a half at a distance.
“Uncle Alexander talks more than Bubbe Birnbaum,” Mitch whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“At least he speaks English,” I whispered back.
“True. But look at the old guy behind him. He’s going to toast in Greek for sure.” He nodded to the line of men and women waiting to take their place on the small stage next to the bride and groom’s table.
Or the bride and groom’s pillows, rather. The pair reclined on yellow and red pillows, laughing at the toasts even when they weren’t funny, feeding each other grapes and sips from the red plastic cup I’d first spotted in the carriage. The caterers had supplied glass champagne flutes, but the bride and groom seemed to prefer whatever hooch they’d brought with them.
It was pretty cute. They were so in love they didn’t need any of the fancy reception food or drink they’d obviously shelled out quite a bit of cash for—one entire side of the Parthenon’s “porch” was encased in a clear tent, decorated with explosions of red and yellow flowers and elaborate tables covered in exotic fruit, and the three fiddlers had been joined by a live band. Add in all the food and drink and a two-hundred-plus guest list and we were easily talking fifty thousand dollars or more just on their reception. But all they wanted was a red plastic cup and some pillows to lie on while their family talked about how happy they were that Sacha and Peter had finally gotten married.
Just thinking about it was enough to make me tear up for the third or fourth time.
“I won’t be able to drive if I drink any more champagne.” Mitch turned and set his flute on one of the bar tables behind us. There were about dozen of them, surrounded by families in jeans and sneakers, college girls in jogging clothes, men in biker spandex—all the people the bride had summoned to the Parthenon on her ride through the park.