Kale always kept his disappearances a secret from me—from his family, too, though I wasn’t sure.
A few seconds passed before he spoke again. “I’m sick of people asking about it. But when I’m around you, I feel like I don’t have to deal with it. It’s nice.”
“I’ll never ask where you go, Kale. I promise.” The river flowed by, the clouds skimmed the sky, but he never once took his eyes off mine. “But you have to promise me something in return.”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll always come back.”
And he did.
6.
Kale
I couldn’t stay.
The moment the first firework went off in the black sky, I knew I couldn’t do it.
To me, they are flares in the night.
Warnings of something worse to come.
It’s hard keeping both worlds separate when something like this happens. When one place reminds me of the other. So much that my skin goes cold, and I can’t think, and I could be seconds away from traveling. It’s been happening more and more often.
As I walk away from the river, my back toward the colors in the sky, I focus on the path in front of me.
I feel Harper behind me. Watching me leave.
Because it’s what I do best.
I reach the parking lot. My old, discolored Mustang sits waiting for me and I get in. The engine roars to life, drowning the sounds that make my hands shake. I turn the radio up loud to mute them completely and just focus on leaving the parking lot.
I shouldn’t have come tonight, but part of me is glad I did. I left before Dad got home—I couldn’t sit in that house another minute longer, waiting for him to walk through the door. Something that would only result in stiff questions from him and single word answers from me. Making that distance between us even clearer.
But seeing Harper again made me think of what I used to be like before everything went to shit. I hadn’t expected to see her tonight, even though Uncle Jasper told me she was coming back.
Sometimes time goes by faster than I think it does.
The days blur together in a never ending pattern.
But seeing her again … I don’t know, it just put me at ease. Just for a moment, it reminded me of the days when my life was easier. So much less complicated. Days when I never had the deaths of my friends on my mind.
I can still feel his blood on my skin.
Even after taking a shower until the water ran cold, I couldn’t seem to get it off. No matter what I did, there was still red.
The truth can’t be scrubbed away.
I grip the steering wheel harder and slam on the brakes. It sends a cloud of dust spiraling into the wind, my brake lights shining behind me until it’s gone and everything is still.
I breathe heavily.
My heart pounds against my chest.
Even though the summer is warm, my skin is cold—a constant reminder.
I found out a long time ago that it’s easier to keep my life here separate from where I go. When I’m here, in my time, I can’t allow myself to think about what happens when I leave. I can’t think about the things I see, or the people who die.
It’s the only way I can stay sane.
But it’s never been this hard.
These days it’s nearly impossible.
I can’t stop thinking about Adams. And I can’t stop thinking about the hundreds of other guys I’ve seen die right next to me. Hearing their voices one last time until they become forever silent.
I close my eyes and press my head to the steering wheel.
I miss the easy days when travel didn’t mean war. It was just me in different times—playing with kids in the street and watching debuts of movies I considered classic, but they considered brand new. My favorite decade is the seventies, just because I never know what I’m going to find or see.
I don’t want to go home.
But I have nowhere else to go.
The moment I walk in the door, I can feel it’s not a good night.
Dad shouts at someone on the phone in the kitchen, and Bryce is still out with his friends. The television is on, watched by no one.
Before I can disappear upstairs, Dad ends his call and breaks something against the counter. I flinch, taking a step back toward the door. He rarely gets angry—it’s a sign that my timing couldn’t be worse.
Dad catches sight of me and walks down the hallway. He’s trying to contain himself—he tries so hard to keep his work separate from home but it doesn’t always happen. Sometimes I think he sees me as an employee who needs to be fired for showing up late every day.
“Damn it, Kale,” he says. “Where have you been? I told you to stay home today. The delivery guy came and nobody was here to sign for it.” He takes a deep breath and looks past me, like a better version of me will walk through the door and replace me. It’s what he wants. “Where were you?” This time his voice is in check.
Staring hard at the carpet, I say, “I went to see Miles.”
“You’ve been gone three days,” he says. “And the first thing I ask of you is to be here. Is that so much to ask?”
I swallow, feeling my dry tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“I’m sorry.” And I am. I don’t want to tell him, but I totally forgot he told me a delivery was coming.
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time,” he says, then he holds out his hand. “Give me your keys. As of right now, you don’t deserve to have a car. I should have done this months ago, because nothing seems to get through to you.”
I pull my keys out and drop them in his hand, cursing myself then cursing him because we wouldn’t be like this if he only listened to me in the first place.
The first time I time-traveled, I was seven-years-old. I was playing in the woods and suddenly I was on the sidewalk somewhere totally different. I didn’t understand it at first. Everything looked a little strange and I didn’t recognize where I was. A shop owner took pity on me and let me eat a candy bar until the cops came to get me. They seemed a little surprised to find a lost kid in a town where everyone knows each other. I told them I was from Central City, Iowa, but they didn’t believe me. How could a seven-year-old get to Idaho by himself?
I had been there for only two days when I came back. I burst through the front door yelling about what had happened and where I’d been. Mom had called the police the day I disappeared, and she could only nod as I told her my story, probably thinking I watched too many movies and was just glad I was back. I don’t think she ever believed what I said. Dad told me to stop lying and tell the truth. I tried hard to convince him, but nothing I said made a difference.
After about a year, I stopped telling him altogether.
Now he begs for a truth I’ve already given him years ago.
When he turns away, I finally unfreeze and say, “And you think taking my car away will help that?” Then I whisper, “Fuck you.”
I know it’s a mistake the moment I say it. Everything from the last few days has built up, wanting to come out and scream. Giving me the courage to say reckless things. Stupid things.