TWENTY
M aybe my mom was right. Maybe adulthood is nothing but winging it and hoping for the best,” I wonder aloud.
Case in point: we’ve spent the last hour googling how to make the perfect fluffy pancakes but not actually making any due to lack of ingredients. I know. We’re supposed to do More Important Things with our Saturday afternoon—like time traveling. But we were starved by the time we returned from Uncle Larry’s.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Renner says, sliding a plate of sliced apple and peanut butter in front of me. When I peer at it a little too long, he adds, “We need at least one nutrient today.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” I say, plopping onto the stool, admiring how perfectly he sliced the apple. Even the skin is removed. “You don’t eat skin?”
“Nope. Do you know how many hands touch it at the grocery store? This is how my mom does it,” he says proudly, slathering his slice with a generous helping of peanut butter. He hands it to me.
“But this is exactly my point. Adulthood is boring so far. Who voluntarily eats apples without being forced by a parent?”
He shrugs. “Well, what do you suggest, Queen of Lists? Anything on your adult bucket list before we go back?” He nods at the pen and a crisp pad of paper. I note that the pad is personalized with The Renners in calligraphy across the top. Adult me is serious about stationery.
I flex my fingers, then pick up the pen, my list-making compulsions begging for release. “How big are we talking here? Because I have some dreams.”
He smirks. “Anything.”
I tighten my fingers around the pen, mind brimming with possibilities. “I want to go on a hot-air balloon ride over the Sahara.”
He tilts his head in consideration. “Okay. Not sure we can afford that. But let’s put it down as a maybe.”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to Borneo, Indonesia, to see the orangutans before they go extinct. We could take one of those riverboats! Or visit one of those baby-elephant sanctuaries in Thailand. Or drive a Formula One car.”
“You like Formula One?” he asks through a bite of apple.
“Maybe. Why is that such a surprise?”
“It’s just ... I didn’t know you were so adventurous.”
I shrug, inwardly pleased. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
A tiny smile plays at the corners of his lips. “Anyway, Formula One is dangerous,” he warns. “Let’s put that in the maybe section too.”
I swat his forearm. “Why are you pooh-poohing all my ideas? Aren’t you the ‘big-picture’ guy?”
“I wasn’t thinking literal bucket list or grandiose ideas. Just ... realistic things we can do locally. Or at least in this country.”
I shift on the stool, shocked and frankly a little turned on by Renner being the voice of reason. “What’s realistic? Like skinny-dipping at the beach?”
He points at me, excitement renewed. “Exactly. Add that to the list.”
Flames heat my cheeks as I write it down. I’m being bombarded with images of naked Renner.
“What realistic things do you want to do with our newfound freedom?” I ask.
He ponders for a minute, stroking his chin. “I’ve always wanted to be in a food fight. My mom would slay me if I ever got food on her furniture.”
“Oh yeah?” I toss the last slice of apple at him and it bounces off his chest.
His jaw drops. “You just assaulted me with fruit.”
“I did.”
His gaze heats. “All right. I see how it is. You’ll be sorry,” he says, and turns to our nearly empty fridge. Before I can duck, he’s squirted a stream of mustard in my face.
Through my shock, I manage to let out a bloodcurdling battle cry and dive over the island like a grenade has just gone off behind me. I retrieve the ketchup bottle from the refrigerator door and promptly squeeze it over his head.
Within minutes, we’re collapsed on the floor, covered in every condiment in our fridge, including a can of expired whipped cream.
“That was epic,” he says, chest heaving with laughter.
I relish the vibration of his voice; then something sticky drips into my eyeball. As I wipe it away with my fist, I spot the fridge door slathered in ketchup. It looks like oozing blood.
Our kitchen is a complete disaster. Like my life right now. And as exhilarating as food fights and elaborate vacation plans are, fun never got me anywhere.
“Now I get why adults are so against food fights. The cleanup.” I let out a pained sigh. “Renner?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking about something you said this morning. About movies with time travel.”
“Right.”
“In the movies, people are always going back in time to change things. But if Larry is right and we can’t change things, what if we’re just ... meant to learn a lesson or something?”
“Interesting. What kind of lesson?”
I shrug. This is one of those abstract thoughts that sounded better in my head. “I don’t know. Everything in our lives is different now, right? Your parents are divorced. Kassie and I aren’t friends anymore. We have no memories between then and now. What if we need to fill in all these gaps before we try to go back?” When I say it out loud, I’m not overly convinced of that path. But it feels better to do something, anything, than lie here and admit defeat.
He sits up. “That’s not such a bad idea. I mean, worst case, if our future is set in stone, it’d be nice to know what happened the past thirteen years. Especially if we’re stuck here.”
“We won’t be stuck here,” I tell him, more to convince myself.
After spending the entire morning cleaning up condiments from the crevices in our kitchen, and our bodies, I hole up in my home office and set to work. Operation Fill in the Gaps.
Admittedly, I get a little distracted by the “wedding stuff” folder on my desktop. Adult me is seriously organized, with at least twenty separate files for things like “catering” and “dress inspo.” There’s even a folder with a seating plan. I double-click and do a quick scan, fascinated. It seems most of the guests are Renner’s extended family. They take up two long tables at the front. My family table is relatively small, with Mom and my grandparents next to Alexandra and my two sisters. I expect Dad to be seated next to them, but he isn’t.
My eyes strain as I scan the remainder of the tables for his name. Leave it to Dad to ditch out on his daughter’s wedding. We must really be on bad terms if his new wife and kids are invited and not him. Then again, I’m not sure why I’m shocked. Dad’s absence is expected. But not Kassie’s. Remembering that sends me reeling again. I do another once-over of the chart. There’s definitely no seat for Kassie.
It’s time to find out why.
Social media stalking used to be our thing. Kassie and I would lie in my bed for hours on our phones, creeping our crushes’ social media accounts four years deep. Admittedly, poring through Kassie’s social media profiles like an FBI agent is a solid distraction from thinking about Dad and the fact that we’re stuck here in 2037. We’re still friends on most platforms, though a quick perusal confirms that we haven’t interacted in years.
Kassie’s lived an interesting life, compared to me. Not that I expected anything less. Right after high school, her feeds are filled with party photos. Glamorously posing behind a bar, modeling, and doing TikTok routines with gorgeous friends I don’t recognize.
She lives in the city now, though she’s done a lot of traveling too. Backpacking in South America and Europe. Her content has changed a bit since her travels. She’s wearing less makeup, and her hair is naturally wavy—she never wore it that way before. It was always purposefully styled with a wand or flat iron. It seems she’s now interested in a holistic lifestyle. She owns a yoga studio, something I never knew she was even vaguely interested in.
It feels like I’m creeping the profile of a complete stranger, not my best friend in the entire world. And it gets me no closer to my biggest question: Why aren’t we friends anymore?
Finding the address for her yoga studio is easy enough. According to her online schedule, she’s teaching a class today at four thirty. My fingers buzz, pleased with discovery. Maybe I should have been a spy instead of a school counselor. I’d be a good one. Maybe that’s one plus side of being average. No one would ever suspect me.
As I research trains to the city, Renner tentatively pokes his head into my office. “Miss, I’d like to request an appointment.”
I straighten my posture and feign professionalism. “You’ve come to the right place. I’m highly qualified.”
I hear a soft chuckle as he settles into the chair across from my desk and stretches his long legs.
“What can I help you with today, Joshua?”
He coughs violently. “Did you really just call me by my proper birth name?”
When I nod, he proceeds to slide off the chair, hand over heart like the drama queen he is. “I’m floored. And a little touched.”
I level him with an eyeroll. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Come on. Say it again,” he pleads.
“No.”
“Just once and I’ll never ask again.”
I shake my head. “Why?”
“I dunno. It’s hot,” he says with a shrug.
That catches me off guard. “Are you trying to flirt with me right now, Joshua?” I ask with a scrutinizing eye. Is it just me, or is this room suddenly ten degrees hotter?
“If I were flirting with you, you’d know it.” He maintains strong eye contact, and I feel like the walls are contracting. Something pulses between us, like an elastic band being pulled tighter and tighter from either end.
“I’m immune to your charms, remember?” I twitch when those words slip out. Why did that feel like a lie?
Renner waves me off and reaches for the yellow stress ball near the base of my monitor, seemingly unbothered. “Yeah, yeah. So you keep telling me.”
“I think I’m skipping prom-chaperone duty tonight,” I tell him, desperate to rid the room of this weird tension. It might require some ceremonial sage burning.
He covers his mouth, scandalized. “You’re skipping prom? What for?”
“I’m gonna go see Kassie. Right now.”
Renner’s flirty disposition quickly turns serious. “Really? Right now?”
“Yeah. She has a yoga studio in the city. If I catch the train in half an hour, I can make it to her class at four thirty.”
He looks concerned. “Do you ... need me to go with you?”
I contemplate the offer. Truthfully, having someone with me for moral support might be nice. But what if Kassie turns me away? Yells at me? I don’t need anyone there to witness that. And if I’m being truthful, I want to talk to her about Renner, which I can’t do if he’s tagging along. “No, it’s okay. Besides, one of us has to chaperone.”
He dips his head back and groans. “Ugh.” I’d forgotten too until I received a calendar reminder (from myself) a couple minutes ago. My adult self is really on the ball. “But it’s only noon. You’d be back on time, right?”
“Oh, come on. Mr.Former President surely has it covered,” I tease, just to get a rise out of him.
He shakes his head, eyes wide with fear. “Nope. I absolutely do not. I need you.”
That admission shouldn’t make me smile so hard. But it does. And I don’t like it one bit. “Okay, fine. I’ll make sure I’m back on time.”