Chapter 4
As we approach Ellie and Patrick, I start to psych myself out. What will I say? This isn’t how it happened last time. Last time, we bumped into each other. Last time, I was alone, Madison already off with Jake. Last time, Ellie spoke to me first.
Am I about to ruin everything?
Only a few more feet. Too late to turn back now.
I adopt my flirtiest expression, one that took years to perfect. Just as we’re about to step up to them, Madison yanks me away. Maybe she psyched herself out? She must have been bluffing about not finding Patrick cute.
Okay. This is fine. The situation can be remedied.
I allow her to pull me out to the backyard of the frat house. Despite my confusion, I’m grateful for the change; the stuffy heat is replaced by a cool Los Angeles breeze, the smell of sweat and weed exchanged for fresh air—and, okay, still weed and also cigarette smoke.
I’ll take what I can get.
“What’s up? We were so close,” I say.
“We can’t just go up and talk to them,” she replies as if it’s obvious.
My bafflement morphs into amusement. Teenagers. “We definitely can just go up and talk to guys, actually.”
“No, I read about this in a magazine once. I’ve been perfecting it in my mind ever since. You act like you’re going to walk up to some guys, then you take a quick turn and walk past them. It catches their attention. Intrigues them. It’s called the approach-and-swerve.”
She’s so earnest, her eyes wide, like she’s imparting great wisdom.
“No offense to magazines, but that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Walking up and talking to them is more effective.”
“No, that never works.”
“Works more often than you think.”
“How would you know?” She raises an eyebrow.
Good point. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never just walked up to a man, started a conversation, and taken him home an hour later—not yet.
“My sister mentioned it,” I say with a shrug.
“I thought you don’t speak to your sister. Do you have two?”
“I already stopped talking to Sierra?” I frown. Am I misremembering my life right now? That’s not supposed to happen for years.
“That’s what you said. Something about graduation?”
“Right.” I laugh half-heartedly. “I forgot about that.”
My older sister, Sierra, and I have always had a contentious relationship.
Growing up, we were constantly in some sort of tiff.
I’d say it was her fault; she’d say it was mine.
I’m old enough now to realize it was almost always a little bit of both.
Our personalities just… clash. Nothing to be done about it.
Now that Madison mentions it, I remember.
At dinner to celebrate my high-school graduation, Sierra and I got into a fight after she managed to turn the evening around and make it all about her—specifically, her fears about med school, which made my parents shift all their attention to her, reassuring her by listing all her accomplishments.
It had felt so deliberate, like she hated that the focus was on me.
And I know that makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but, well, you really had to be there.
“You said two days ago that you’ll never speak to her again. How could you forget?”
Easy. Because I do speak to her again. Not even that long from now. We made up so fast that I barely remember this gap in communication.
The real breakdown of our relationship won’t come for years.
I blanch as I realize I might have to forgive her or I’ll look like the petty one.
“Yeah, but—you know. Sisters.” I wave her off, then switch the subject. “What’s the game plan with Ellie and Patrick?”
“Who?”
Oh. Shit. “Uh—the guys inside? Blue Shirt and Curly Hair?”
“You know their names?”
“I overheard them talking when we walked by,” I say with a shrug. This explanation makes no sense, but what is Madison going to do about it? Call me out and theorize that I already lived a whole life with those guys as my friends and then time traveled to before we met?
Not likely.
“You could hear them over the music?” Madison asks.
We’re outside, and I can barely hear her over the music.
“Yep. Your guy’s Patrick, by the way. Maybe pretend not to know that when you meet him. How exactly—”
Madison’s eyes widen, and she turns so her back is to the door.
“Oh my God, don’t look now, but here they come. I told you. We are hot girls. Yes,” she exclaims with a tiny fist pump.
No way.
I lean to the side so I can look past her shoulder. Sure enough…
“Holy shit, it worked.” I hate that it worked, but I’m also in awe of Madison and the genius, apparently, of teen magazines.
“I told you. Approach-and-swerve.” In a louder voice, she says, “Anyway, that’s why I’m thinking I might switch over to engineering. Or maybe computer science?”
“But you hate math—” I start, but Patrick’s eager voice cuts in.
“Did you say engineering? I’m an engineering major!”
Madison turns to look at him, her eyes wide with innocence. I finally register what she’s doing. Oh, she’s good. Was she always this good? Her genius was wasted on Jake.
“No way,” she exclaims, hopping up and down on her heels with excitement that I’d swear was genuine if she hadn’t already made it clear that she has no interest in him—yet. “What a coincidence. I have so many questions. Maybe we can talk about it over there—”
She grabs his hand and pulls him across the yard.
Patrick stares but goes with her, slightly open-mouthed, and I’m taken back to their wedding and the incredibly moving speech he gave about how he’d fallen in love with her at first sight.
So strange, to clock it happening in real time.
He glances at Ellie, and that look says it all—he’s already a goner.
And then there are two.
I turn to Ellie and reach out to shake his hand. In another life, this motion belonged to him—he initiated our handshake. He initiated the whole conversation. Later, he joked about how awkward he was, shaking hands like it was an interview, not a party. This time, I take charge.
“Hi, I’m Josephina—but everyone calls me Joey,” I say as his hand grips mine.
The first time I spoke these words to him, I wasn’t aware of what a major moment it was. Sure, he was cute, but I had no clue what we’d become.
He was just another cute guy at a party, until he wasn’t.
Ellie’s eyes widen in surprise. He chuckles.
“Is that funny?” I press.
But I already know.
“No, it’s just—I’m Elijah, but everyone calls me Ellie.”
Only now does he let go of my hand. I mourn the loss of contact.
“I bet you get a lot of shit for that,” I joke.
Truthfully, if I weren’t so in love with him, I would roll my eyes at having to repeat this conversation. I’d found it so funny at eighteen: I went by a nickname that traditionally belongs to boys, and he went by one that traditionally belongs to girls. It was funny in 2012, okay?
“Yeah, you’d probably know,” he jokes back.
“Kids can be such dicks.” That, at least, will always be true. I lean in conspiratorially, a moment I’ve replayed countless times in my head, and say, “You wanna switch names?”
He lights up like a little kid.
“Yes! Okay, take two.”
He walks away from me just a bit, maybe six feet, does a U-turn, and strolls back to where I’m standing. Waiting. He holds his hand out, and I take it in mine.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Joey,” he says.
“Hi, Joey, I’m Ellie.”
“What’s your major, Ellie?”
“I’m majoring in…” I trail off, wait for him to provide an answer I already know.
“English, technically, but sort of undeclared,” he whispers.
“Right. I’m an English major. For now, anyway.”
He never did switch his major. He kept toying with the idea, but in the end, he decided to go into publishing.
He became a literary agent, one of the few based in LA, from what I can tell.
It suited him—I’d never met someone who loved books as much as Ellie.
I was never a big reader, but I sometimes felt like I had read the classics because he loved to give me play-by-plays of his favorite books.
Reading them on my own could never live up to his passionate retellings.
“What about you?” I ask. Weird, since I’m basically asking to talk about myself.
“Oh! Yes, I’m…”
“Business. Pre-law, with a minor in political science,” I whisper to him. We’re so close, it’s like we’re sharing secrets and not basic biographical information.
“Wow. Really? Damn, go me,” he says, genuinely impressed. “I mean, you know. Business, pre-law, poli-sci. No big deal, I just have my life together. Gonna save the world one day. Really know what I want. What can I say?”
I was very much not changing the world as a corporate lawyer—actually, I was working to keep the status quo exactly the same, and it’s not like law ever felt like a calling. But now’s not the time to get into all that.
“That’s great. I love a guy who knows what he wants,” I say, my flirt turned up to a ten. He notices. I don’t miss how nervous it makes him.
“Yeah?” Ellie murmurs.
“Yeah.”
We stare into each other’s eyes. He leans in.
I follow suit. Or maybe I start it; impossible to say.
I see the exact moment he begins to doubt himself.
Six years from now, he’ll drunkenly laugh about how he can’t believe he almost kissed me the night we first met.
He’ll make an offhand comment about how he wanted to, but he was scared.
Scared he was misreading things. Scared I was just joking.
Scared I was out of his league. But he’ll say that he’s glad he didn’t, because he can’t imagine his life without me as his best friend.
That comment will haunt me, quite literally, until the day I die.
I was scared too. Too nervous to make the first move. Hoping beyond hope that he would just kiss me already.
And he almost did.
But then he didn’t.
I spent years mourning a kiss that never was. A kiss that never could be. He starts to back away now, and I think, Fuck it. I’m not letting him go that easy. Not this time.
I guess I’ll just have to be brave enough for the both of us.
I stand on my toes, grab the back of his head, and gently bring him down for a kiss. Slowly, making my intentions clear. If he wants to stop this, he can.
He doesn’t.
The kiss is perfect and sweet, everything I always thought it would be. We’re smiling as we pull apart, his eyes a little glazed over.
“Love a girl who knows what she wants,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
So I get bolder. Why the hell not?
“I want to go upstairs with you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, surprised and, if I’m not mistaken, enthusiastic.
“Yes. Do you want that?”
“Yeah. Yes. Definitely yes.”
I reach up and pull him down for another kiss, then I take his hand in mine and lead him away. I make it only a couple steps before I smell that familiar smell…
Watermelon-scented vapor.
I stumble, a hoard of memories hitting me straight in the chest.
“What’s wrong?” Ellie asks, stopping behind me.
“Do you smell watermelon?”
He furrows his brow and looks around, makes a show of smelling the air. “No. What? No.”
“No?”
He’s confused but takes a moment to breathe in yet again.
“Maybe I do. Sort of? I’m not sure. Why does it matter?”
That takes me aback. Why would it matter?
“It doesn’t. Sorry—let’s go.”
I shake my head and try to get back into the moment. I reach down, grab his hand, and lead him through the crowded party. Halfway up the stairs, I make the mistake of glancing out at the sea of partiers, and my gaze locks on a cherubic, baby-faced Catherine Aarons staring directly at me.
No, I remind myself, ignoring the pang of guilt. Not Catherine Aarons. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Her name’s Catherine Davis. She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her.
I’m not doing anything wrong.
Pushing past the moment, I continue up the stairs. Every time I glance back at Ellie, his eyes are more and more glazed with lust.
I pull him into the first open door I find. Some frat guy’s room. Sorry, dude.
I lock the door behind us and don’t hesitate to pull him down onto the bed so he’s on top. We make out—he’s a little clumsy, uncoordinated, but still perfect.
He pulls back when I take his shirt off.
“I’ve never—” He breaks off awkwardly.
“Me neither,” I assure him.
It’s not a lie… is it? I mean, sure, it’s kind of a lie, but… time travel. Virginity is a social construct, and I can’t even begin to work out how my specific situation fits into that construct. So—virgin. Sure. Let’s go with that.
Encouraged by my words, he kisses me again. Soon, we’re both down to our underwear. I pause for a moment. He’s just… he’s so young.
Now that we’re in close quarters, I’m discomfited to realize he smells nothing like the warm, spicy scent I’ve come to associate with Ellie over the years.
Instead, he smells like cheap cologne, woody rubbing alcohol.
Like the inside of one of those preppy outlet stores that keep the lights too low, the music too loud, and the scent strong and overpowering.
He smells, in summary, like an eighteen-year-old boy.
This isn’t weird, what I’m doing, is it? Sleeping with Ellie when he’s eighteen, I mean.
Sure, as far as he knows, I’m eighteen too. But I’m not eighteen, I’m thirty-two.
“Everything okay?” he asks, so genuinely concerned that I can’t help but find him more endearing—something I truly hadn’t thought possible. “We can stop if you want.”
I shake off my uneasiness.
Plenty of women in their thirties sleep with barely legal guys.
Women older than that, even—and sure, I’ve always found that to be a bit icky, but what are my options here?
Find someone my own age? Then they’re the creep.
Besides, I’m not thirty-two anymore; I’m eighteen.
Eighteen with the confidence of a woman in her thirties. I should be unstoppable.
Most men in this position wouldn’t think twice.
This is Ellie, I remind myself. He’s not just some random guy.
He’s the man who spent weeks making LSAT flashcards with me in my room and months helping me study.
The man who held me while I cried over a mean comment Sierra had made, hyping me up and reminding me that I was a “pretty big deal, actually” (his words, not mine).
The man who successfully pulled off not one but two surprise birthday parties for me over the years.
My best friend.
Sure, it’s a little weird right now, but it’ll all be worth it if it means I get to live the life I always wanted, with Ellie by my side.
Okay, I’ve convinced myself. This is fine. Totally fine. More than fine. It’s downright kinky—even if I’m the only one who knows it.
I roll Ellie onto his back and straddle him. I’m about to make his fucking life. “It’s better than okay.”
“I don’t have a condom,” he says.
“I’m on the pill,” I assure him. It’s reckless, but I know I don’t have anything. Just like I know from years of drunken chats that he didn’t lose his virginity until next semester, to some random girl at a house party. Still, it’s important to check in, so I ask, “Is that okay?”
Ellie lets out a breathy laugh. “It’s better than okay.”
It isn’t until much later that I remember one very important detail:
I didn’t go on the pill until my junior year of college. Two years from now.