Chapter 2: The Photo and the Puppy

For a split second, I saw something vulnerable in his eyes. But then his expression slid back into that unreadable mask. He was always good at hiding.

Before he could say anything, I shoved the note into his hand. “Here. This is for you.”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked. I practically thrust it at him. My palm grazed his fingers for a split second.

“For me?” He held the note, repeating softly. Something flashed in his dark eyes. Maybe it was just the sunlight.

He turned the note over, thumb tracing the edge. His gaze lingered on me a second too long, and I felt my cheeks heat up.

But then, he handed the note back to me, unopened. I froze.

He didn’t even look at it. Just pushed it back, his expression unreadable. I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me.

He tilted his head. “What, anything else?”

He was all business now, voice flat. I shook my head quickly, feeling like I’d just failed a pop quiz in front of the whole school.

I shook my head quickly. Just now, Carter’s fingertip brushed my palm, almost on purpose. Or maybe I imagined it.

My skin tingled where he touched me, and for a split second, I wondered if he felt it too. I backed away, clutching the note like a lifeline.

Heart pounding, I saw Marisol giving the middle finger to the air. Classy, Marisol.

She was practically stomping her foot, her backpack sliding off one shoulder. I watched her, trying to process what just happened. This whole time traveler thing was starting to feel a little too real.

Me: ...

I had no words. The universe must be laughing at me.

So she was a hot-tempered time traveler.

I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Only in my life would I end up running errands for a dimension-hopping drama queen.

Seeing me, Marisol took a deep breath and calmed down. “Did you hear everything?”

She straightened up, smoothing her hair, trying to regain her composure. It was almost cute.

I nodded and told her the note wasn’t delivered.

I handed the note back, bracing for a meltdown, but Marisol just shrugged, talking to herself.

She just shrugged, talking to herself: “He’s the main guy—of course he’s not easy to win over. But I’ve already negotiated with the app. As long as he accepts the note, it counts, however it happens.”

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through something with a determined look. The way she talked about the app, you’d think it was some cosmic referee keeping score.

But her face fell again. “I just want to go home. The app says I have to finish three tasks before I can leave… Sav, help me, okay?”

And of course, she hit me with those big, pleading eyes. Classic. Her voice trembled just enough to tug at my heartstrings.

Looking at Marisol’s puppy-dog eyes, I couldn’t say no. Plus, I was still dying to know about that broken ending.

Curiosity always got me. I nodded, sealing my fate. Whatever Marisol was mixed up in, I was in it now too.

Before she left, Marisol grabbed my hand. “Sav, you’re the most understanding mean girl sidekick I’ve ever met!”

She squeezed my hand so tight, I thought my fingers would go numb. Her gratitude was so earnest, I almost felt guilty for thinking she was crazy.

Me: ...Thanks, I guess.

I forced a smile, unsure if I should be flattered or insulted. In my head, I made a note: never let Marisol near caffeine.

After school, I snuck into the room at the end of the first floor—Carter’s room. I told myself it was fine; he’d be working at the coffee shop until late. Perfect. Still, my nerves were on edge. What if he came back early?

Carter was the son of our family caretaker, Mr. McAllister. I remember him as a little kid, always trailing after me, eager to help. Even though he was only six months younger, I made him call me “big sis,” and he’d do it with this goofy grin. Those days felt like a lifetime ago.

I could still picture him, chubby cheeks and all, clutching my hand at the Fourth of July parade, beaming like I hung the moon. He never seemed to mind being the tagalong.

But everything changed two years ago, after freshman year. His parents died in a car crash, and he moved in with us. He got so quiet, so distant. Every time I tried to talk to him, I could see him fighting with himself, wanting to avoid me.

The house felt emptier after that, like the air got heavier. Carter stopped laughing at my dumb jokes. He built walls, and no matter how many times I tried to climb over, he just raised them higher.

Carter was stubborn. He’d rather work part-time to pay for tuition than accept money from my family. Typical Carter. He probably hates the Whitakers—and me, too. After all, Mr. McAllister had his accident while driving to pick me up…

That guilt still sits heavy in my chest. Sometimes I wonder if Carter blames me, or if it’s just me who can’t let it go.

Unlike my room, Carter’s was cold and neat, with hardly any sign of someone living there. Seriously, did he even sleep here? I tiptoed in, grabbed a textbook from his shelf, and decided to slip the note inside. That should count as “accepting,” right?

His room was so tidy it almost felt sterile. I ran my fingers over his bookshelf, pausing at a worn copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird." I slipped the note inside, hoping Marisol’s logic would work on the all-powerful app.

But my hand slipped. The book fell, spine down, with a loud thud. I flinched, determined to finish the job. Then a photo slipped out.

The noise made me jump, and I scrambled to pick up the book. That’s when the photo slid out, fluttering to the floor like a guilty secret.

The girl in the photo had her head buried in her arms, sleeping peacefully. The soft orange lamp blurred the lines of her face, but you could see the care in the way the shot was framed. I felt a rush of embarrassment—who takes a picture like that?

There was something intimate about the way the light fell, softening every line. The photo looked almost dreamlike—tender, like a memory you want to keep safe.

My breath caught—because the girl was me!

My heart did a backflip. There was no mistaking the messy ponytail or the faded sweatshirt. Why would Carter have a picture of me like this?

Before I could recover, I heard footsteps at the door. For some reason, I panicked, hiding the photo behind my back.

I spun around, shoving the photo into my pocket, adrenaline spiking. The doorknob turned, and I braced myself for impact.

Then Carter walked in, surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?”

He’d just showered, wearing only a towel around his waist. Oh. Oh. I froze, caught somewhere between embarrassment and—well, something else.

He’d just showered, a towel around his waist. The usually slim guy actually had a pretty cut body. Maybe I stared too long, because his ears turned red. But he only paused a moment, then walked toward me, eyes unreadable.

I tried not to stare, but honestly, who could blame me? Carter was all lean muscle and sharp lines. He caught me looking, and his cheeks flushed, but he didn’t say a word. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Feeling like a thief, I grabbed a shirt from the rack and tossed it at him. “Clothes! Put on your clothes!”

I half-shouted, half-whispered, trying to sound annoyed instead of flustered. Carter caught the shirt one-handed, eyebrow raised, like he was used to my dramatics.

Carter put on the shirt. Only then did I recover. Thank God I was quick—I picked up the textbook, pointed at a random problem, and said, “I just wanted to ask something, but I came at the wrong time. Next time.” With that, I tried to leave.

I forced a laugh, waving the book as if I had any idea what problem I was pointing at. My voice was way too high, but Carter didn’t call me out. He just watched me, lips twitching.