The Time Traveler's Boyfriend (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

He knew. He knew all along.

The realization echoes in my head as I lean my head against Adam’s shoulder, so much stronger and more muscular than it was when he was fourteen years younger. I shut my eyes briefly—this experience has completely wiped me out. I still feel that nausea, but since I hadn’t eaten anything yet today, I don’t feel like I have to throw up. Important time travel tip: don’t eat on the morning of a trip.

Adam looks down at me, stroking my hair gently. My Adam. I missed him so much these last two weeks. I put my hand on his cheek, my fingertips touching the lines around his eyes. “Are you okay?” he whispers, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

I nod breathlessly.

He buries his face in my neck and I feel his stubble tickling me as he murmurs over and over again, “Thank God, Claudia, thank God …”

He doesn’t let go of me for several minutes, and when he finally does, his eyes are wet. “I was so worried,” he says. “I thought about trying to stop you from going back, but I was scared that it would mean I’d somehow lose you. And that it might cause a paradox that would destroy the universe or something.”

I shake my head. I think I’ve almost destroyed the universe like ten times in the last couple of weeks. “None of this makes any sense to me. I thought you didn’t even believe me when I told you I was from the future.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “Not at first.”

“What changed your mind?”

He tells me the story in a quiet voice, the kind he uses when I’m having one of my migraine headaches. “I was angry at you that day in the café,” he says. “I thought for sure you were messing with me, trying to come up with a guilt-free way to dump me. But then over the next few months, thinking about what happened with
you, it started to make more and more sense. Then I ran into Claudia—well,
you
—in the grocery store and I realized how much she looked like you. That she essentially
was
you. Of course, back then you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

Despite everything, he laughs. “Yeah, you were a total bitch back then, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t that bad,” I mumble. But he gives me a look and I know he’s right.

“So anyway,” he says, “I realized at that point that there was only one way to get you back. I had to build a time machine.”

I grin weakly. “No problem for a guy like you.”

“Not exactly,” he says. “I’d never built so much as a table before at that point. I had a lot to learn. So I bought a bunch of books and raw materials and … well, I started tinkering.”

A realization hits me. “You became an inventor for me!”

“Well, yeah,” he says, his ears growing slightly red. “But I ended up actually liking it. It was a great hobby. So, um, thanks for that.”

I was always so touched when Adam made an invention just for me, like the musical rose or the foot bath. I had no idea that the biggest invention of his entire life was created solely for the purpose of bringing me to him.

“The thing is, I did the calculations a thousand different times,” he says, his eyebrows scrunched together. “I was certain the machine was bound by the universal law of causality and couldn’t change the events of the past. I was … well, ninety-nine percent sure. I built the machine so that you could go back to the past and do the things I knew you’d already done then come back to an identical present.” He looks troubled. “Except when you went back that first time, I realized that you
did
manage to change something.”

“Right,” I say. “You were supposed to get hit on your bike and I changed that.”

“No, you didn’t,” he says, smiling a little sheepishly. “It always happened that way.”

“But you said—”

“I said what I had to say to get you to go back to 1997.”

I stare at him in surprise. He never meant for me to keep him from getting hit by that taxi. He knew that was inevitable and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. But then what was the thing that had changed?

Suddenly, it hits me. I reach out and touch his chin. “Your jaw … that scar …”

He nods. “Right. When I discovered you really did change something, that’s when I got nervous. That’s why I was so moody last night. I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were just mad about your jaw getting broken,” I say.

“Well, I wasn’t
thrilled
about that,” he acknowledges. “But what really got me scared was that it occurred to me that certain untested hypotheses arising from the relative-state formulation of quantum mechanics
do
predict stochastic fluctuations in the time traveler’s state vector upon return to the present. I realized it would be possible that some of the subatomic particles in the universe might be in slightly different configurations than they were right before you left.”

I stare at him.

“Meaning under some circumstances, you
could
change the past,” he clarifies.

“Oh.” Sheesh. Time travel is complicated.

“So I got really worried about what would happen when you went back in time again,” Adam says. “Especially for two whole weeks. I thought you might somehow change things for the worse in some unexpected way. I kept going back and forth in my head, wondering if I should try to stop you. I was going nuts over it. But I knew if you didn’t go back, I wouldn’t build the time machine and that would result in a major paradox. And then I might lose you.”

“And the universe might get destroyed,” I add.

“Yeah, that too,” he says. He hugs me tighter to his warm body. “But mostly, I was just afraid of losing you.”

He kisses me then, one of those long passionate kisses where our bodies seem to melt together. I’m sure he means what he’s saying, although in all honesty, I think the universe coming to an end might be
slightly
worse than losing me.

In any case, it all makes sense, I guess, but there are still pieces that don’t quite fit. I pull away from Adam, and look him in the eyes. “Why don’t I remember any of this?” I ask him. “Like, from when I was twenty-two?”

He squints at me. “Don’t you?”

Do I? I search the recesses of my memory and grab at vague recollections. Yes, there was an attractive older woman who was staying at my parents’ house for a little while—I remember that part, although just barely. And there was that failed date with the retarded guy from my twenties. But no, it wasn’t a retarded guy—it was just a guy in a wheelchair. Oh, God, that was
Adam
.

“None of it had the same meaning to you,” Adam says. “It was just a few random events that happened fourteen years ago. But for me, it was meeting the love of my life.”

When he says it, he takes my hand. The callouses are much thicker and deeper on his hands than on his twenty-four-year-old counterpart. I missed these hands. “So I’m the love of your life?”

“You always have been,” he says.

He grips my hand in his and I see the adoration in his eyes, so much stronger than it was in 2000. He loves me. He loves me more than I could have thought possible. Except there’s one last thing that doesn’t make sense to me:

“If I’m the love of your life,” I say, “then how come you don’t want to marry me? You don’t even want to live with me. At our first anniversary dinner, you gave me
earrings
.”

“Claudia,” he says. “Think about it. The only reason you went back was because you wanted to save me from the evil girl who broke my heart. Would you have gone back if you thought we were going to get married and live happily ever after?”

“Well, why would I have?”

“Exactly,” he says. “I’m sorry I lied to you about that. But you see why I did it, right? I
had
to.”

“But you told me …” I think back to that anniversary dinner. “You said you
weren’t ready
. You sounded like you meant it.”

“It’s true, I wasn’t ready,” he says. “I hadn’t finished the time machine yet. But I have now. Obviously. And I’m ready.”

So … is he saying … what exactly is he saying?

Adam reaches for something on the seat of his chair. He pulls out a blue velvet box. I stare at it, my heart pounding. “What the hell is that?” I gasp.

“Well, it’s not earrings,” he says quietly.

I blink my eyes, which are filling up with tears.

Adam looks up at me, and I see through his glasses that his eyes are in a similar state. “I wasn’t exactly sure when we’d meet and when this would all happen, so I bought it a few weeks after we started dating last year.”

“Oh, my God,” I whisper.

“Claudia,” he begins. “I love you so much. I have loved you since the moment I met you sixteen years ago. I would do anything for you, move heaven and earth, build a time machine,
anything
, just to spend my life with you.” He opens up the box and the most beautiful diamond ring I’ve ever seen sits within. “Will you marry me, Claudia?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes!”

It’s almost impossible for him to get the ring on my finger because we’re both shaking so much. Amazingly, it’s a perfect fit. I used to be the one with all the information about him, but now he’s the one who knows me like the back of his hand.

EPILOGUE

I walk along the outside of Central Park. It’s a nice, warm day in September, kind of like the day I first met Adam. I could walk here for hours, just enjoying the breeze and the feel of my sandals against the pavement. But I only have another half hour left. Not much time to mess around.

It takes me another five blocks, but I finally see them and feel a rush of relief. It’s a sweet old couple, the kind where you look at them and go “aw.” She’s got short old-lady hair, dyed honey blond, and arthritic fingers that hold her husband’s hand, but she isn’t in such bad shape for her age. He’s got tufts of thinning white hair and glasses that are far too big for his face, and the lines on his face make him look at least ninety, even though his eyes seem much younger. Also, he’s in a wheelchair.

I see them before they see me. I think about sneaking away unnoticed, but the old man’s eyes are like a hawk. He nudges his wife and says to her, “There she is!”

I approach them, nervous but admittedly excited. They’re both watching me with identical, mildly amused expressions on their faces. They do say after a number of years together, couples start to look alike.

“I told you so,” the old man says to me.

I duck my head and smile to myself. Then the old woman gestures to me and I come closer to her so that she can whisper in my ear with her slightly scratchy voice: “You’ll throw up when you get back. But it won’t be from the time travel.”

I grip my abdomen, staring at her. She smiles at me and nods.

That’s when I start to hear the now familiar whooshing noise. I quickly scale the gate to get into the park and duck behind a bush so that nobody can see me when I disappear.

When I return to 2014, landing unsteadily on my step with that familiar sense of vertigo, I look up and see Adam sitting there, watching me. He’s got little Albert on his lap, who has turned out to be the clingiest rabbit there ever was. Albert has gotten to like me too, but he really adores Adam—at least as much as a rabbit is capable of adoration. “Well?” Adam says to me.

I smile at him. “We live happily ever after.”

“Told you so,” he says triumphantly as he leans in to kiss me.

I’m not going to tell him quite yet about the other secret, the one my older self decided to share with me. For now, I just want to enjoy knowing that Adam and I will have our happy ending. I think we earned it.

Also From Annabelle Costa…

The Boy Next Door

I wasn’t too happy when my parents told me that I had to try to make friends with the crippled kid who just moved in next door.

I was eight years old. For my entire life thus far, living in a suburb of Pittsburgh, our next-door neighbor was an ornery old woman named Agnes. Why are all old people named Agnes, for some reason? Not that I’m prejudiced against old people or anything. My
grandmother, Nana, lived with us and was never an ornery old woman, and probably still the best cook I’ve ever known. Anyway, Agnes failed to wake up one morning, and the house got sold off to a young family with two kids.

I was initially really psyched to find out that the family had two kids, one of whom was allegedly my age. I pictured a girl with blond pigtails who would be my best friend, and we’d make each other friendship bracelets, have sleepovers, and all that fun stuff.

But then my fantasy was crushed when I found out that my new eight-year-old neighbor was a boy. And not just a boy. A boy in a wheelchair.

His name was Jason and I saw him a few times from afar. He went to a different school than I did, and there was a special school bus that picked him up. I saw him waiting with his parents at the curb for the special bus, which was about half the length of the bus that picked me up. My parents told me it was a bus for disabled kids. When it arrived, a ramp would be lowered mechanically and Jason would wheel into it, and the driver would help him get arranged in the bus. My mother yelled at me not to stare, but how could I not stare?

When the Foxes had been living next door for a few weeks, we came over for a visit and to bring them a welcome basket.

My little sister Lydia and I were dressed up in uncomfortable pink clothes, and I was firmly instructed to play with Jason. Lydia, who was only four, was totally off the hook since the older Fox child was a 13-year-old boy.

“I don’t want to play with Jason,” I whined, as my mother did up the buttons on my dress. “He’s weird.”

“Oh, stop it,” my mother said. “He’s not weird.”

“He’s in a wheelchair,” I pointed out.

“Don’t you dare mention that,” my mother snapped.

“Why not?” spoke up my Nana, who was listening in. “I’m sure the boy knows he’s in a wheelchair. It’s not a secret, is it?”

Despite everything, I giggled. I wished my mother would let Nana come along, but they were too worried about her making a comment like that. Apparently, she lost her self-censor somewhat as she got older, although Daddy said she’d always kind of been like that.

Fifteen minutes later, my mother was shoving Lydia and me in the direction of the house next door. We rang the bell and Mrs. Fox answered, greeting us warmly. “Jill!” she cried. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“This is for you,” my mother said, handing over the basket of fruit and muffins. “You met my husband, Gerald. And these are my daughters, Lydia and Tasha.”

“Nice to meet you, girls,” Mrs. Fox said. “My older son Randy isn’t here now, but Jason is very excited to meet you.”

My eyes met those of the boy sitting in a small, simple wheelchair several yards behind his mother. I could tell by his khaki slacks and lame sweater-vest that he too had been forced to dress up for the occasion. He looked just as miserable as I did.

“He’s eight, isn’t he?” Mom asked. “Tasha is eight as well.”

“Yes, that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Fox said. “They could play together.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper that people a mile away could hear loud and clear: “Jason hasn’t been having an easy time making new friends.”

Yeah. What a shock.

With that sentiment, Jason and I were herded off in the direction of his bedroom, presumably for me to be his new best friend. We both went, sort of like lambs being led to the slaughter.

Once we were alone in Jason’s room, we both just sat there awkwardly, not saying anything to each other. We were too young to even know how to make polite conversation.

I tried not to stare at Jason, but it was hard not to. I mean, really hard. Why did he need a wheelchair anyway? Maybe he had some awful disease where he was dying. Maybe it was contagious! Maybe he had some contagious fatal disease and my mother had locked me alone in a room with him. She’d be so sorry when I died.

Although to be honest, Jason didn’t really look like he was dying. He looked pretty much like a normal kid, but he was sitting in a wheelchair. He had short brown hair that it looked like his mother had attempted to comb, yet he’d managed to get it messy again before our arrival. He had green eyes that were bright, even in spite of how clearly miserable he was at the moment. And then there were the freckles that were sprinkled down either side of his nose, although those disappeared years later.

I was perched gingerly on Jason’s bed. He had Star Wars blankets. Actually, I had to admit, he had some pretty cool toys.

My mother always bought me dolls, but the thing is, dolls didn’t do much. Maybe these days, dolls cry and piss their diapers or whatever, but back then, in the eighties, dolls were much less interesting. But Jason had toys that did cool stuff. He had toy cars and trucks, he had a rocket, and a huge box of Legos. But what really piqued my interest was that he had what looked like a huge box of TRANSFORMERS.

Confession time: I loved Transformers. I watched the TV show religiously every Saturday, rooting for the
Autobots to defeat the evil Decepticons. But nobody would buy me any Transformers because I was a girl and obviously it’s not an appropriate toy for girls. So I had about half a dozen My Little Ponies and at least a dozen Barbie dolls, but no cars that turned into robots. It was a source of frustration for me. Every time I asked my mother, she’d say, “What do you want one of those awful toys for? You’re a girl!”

But Jason, he owned the mother lode.

“Um,” I said, working up my nerve. “Are those, um, Transformers?”

Jason brightened. “Yeah. You like Transformers?”

I nodded shyly.

To my delight, Jason grabbed the whole big box and dumped them out on his bed. He seriously had every Transformer in existence. He had Optimus Prime, of course, most of the
Autobots, Megatron, the Decepticons including the cassette spies, plus a bunch of the newer ones like the Dinobots, the Insecticons, and even Devastator. I was majorly impressed. If I were a little older, I would have creamed myself or something.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “You’re the luckiest person alive.”

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