The Time Traveler's Boyfriend (5 page)

***

Due to my insomnia the night before, I oversleep a bit the next morning. When I wake up, Adam isn’t next to me in bed. As I sit up and yawn, he wheels into the room with a plate on his lap, which contains an omelet and crisp buttered toast. It smells incredible.

“I brought you breakfast in bed,” he says with a crooked smile. “To make up for being a jerk last night.”

“You weren’t a jerk,” I say as I take the plate from him and put it on my lap.

“I was,” he insists. “I just wanted to try to make it up to you. I love you, Claudia.”

I watch him as he transfers to get back into bed next to me. I can’t help but notice the way he winces and then grabs his left shoulder as he settles into bed. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Just my stupid shoulders.” He shrugs. “They’re acting up a little more than usual today.”

I swallow a small bite of toast. Adam’s mentioned his shoulders before. Aside from his sleeping pill, he takes a prescription painkiller for the aches associated with being in a wheelchair for sixteen years. I think of him being in pain this morning yet still going to the kitchen to make me breakfast.

I push the eggs around my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. “Adam …” I say.

“Did I overcook them?” he asks, concerned.

“No,” I say. “They’re perfect.”

I know I said before I don’t usually take risks. But sometimes, if you want something bad enough, it might be worth it.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

CHAPTER SIX

Adam just stares at me, a smile spreading across his face. “You will? Really?”

It
’s hard to swallow because of a big lump in my throat. “Yeah, I will. I’ll do it.”

“
Are you sure?”

Now it
’s my turn to stare at him. “Seriously? You just begged me to do it yesterday and now you’re asking if I’m sure?” I heave a sigh. “I’m sure. As long as you’re sure it’s safe.” Even though there’s really no way he can guarantee anything like that, and I know it as well as anyone.

“
It’s safe,” he says, with more assurance than I’d expect, considering we’ve had only one test subject so far. And that subject wasn’t even human. “Albert is doing great. I just checked on him. His insides aren’t scrambled or anything like that.”

His insides aren
’t scrambled. Fantastic. “You’re not exactly instilling me with confidence right now.”

“
Sorry.” He seems unable to keep the huge grin off his face though. “I’m just really happy you’re doing this, that’s all.” He adds: “I knew you would.”

He did?
Because I sure as hell didn’t see this coming.

Adam tugs the plate of eggs and toast off my lap and puts it on the night table.
And then he starts kissing me in a way that he hasn’t kissed me since that anniversary dinner that I completely screwed up. He whispers that he loves me into my hair and I whisper that I love him back. “I’m going to show you how much I love you, Claudia,” he breathes.

I feel his kisses going down my belly and I know what’s coming. He quickly moves back into his wheelchair because that’s the easiest position for him, and I feel him sliding my panties off.
I have dated many men in my life, and not all of them are willing to go down on a woman (all of them are quite willing to be on the receiving end, though), but Adam is by far the best. If it were the Olympics, he’d have won a gold for the US. If he were looking for a job, he ought to put it in his resume. He’s seriously that good. I’d always been kind of lukewarm on the idea of getting eaten out, mostly because a lot of guys don’t really enjoy doing it and make it seem like a total chore, but let me tell you, this boy knows what he’s doing. I had no clue it could be that good. We do have regular sex, but that takes a little more planning and he has less control due to his injury. Going down on me is definitely his go-to when he wants to pleasure me.

“
Where did you learn how to do that?” I asked him the first time he did it for me, as he climbed back into bed next to my trembling body. I was almost levitating for a minute there.

“Why? D
id you like it?” Adam asked, blinking innocently. He was totally full of shit, though. He knows he’s great at it. And even if he didn’t, I think my screams might have tipped him off.

“
It’s a little scary how good that was,” I said to him. “Really, how did you get that good?”

“
I took a few night courses,” he said thoughtfully. “I considered getting my master’s, but I would have had to take some Spanish if I did that.”

I smacked him in the arm, accepting that he wasn
’t going to tell me any more and it was probably better that I didn’t know. After all, what if he perfected his methods on The Bitch? That was definitely information I didn’t need to have.

I don’t know exactly why, but today is the best it’s ever been. Let me just say that it’s a damn good thing Mrs. Klein right above us is half deaf because I can’t keep my voice down. When he finishes, I’m covered in sweat, and Adam crawls back into bed with me, kissing me and telling me over and over again how much he loves me.

***

Since Adam’s eggs end up going cold, he suggests going out to brunch
at one of our favorite Greek diners. Admittedly, it’s nothing amazing, but somehow it just feels special. He’s so happy with me right now. Every time we stop to wait for a light to change on the street, he holds my hand and sometimes pulls me down for a kiss.

The entrance to Cosmo
’s has a single step, which is no problem for Adam to do a wheelie over in his chair. He hops it easily and as I watch him, I can’t help but comment, “By tonight, you won’t need to do that anymore.”

He looks up at me with this expression that seems very
… sad. Which is odd, because why would he be sad? He should be happy. By tonight, he could be walking again. He should be thrilled.

Cosmo’s is one of those Greek diners that are ubiquitous in the city. The owner Pete is a big boisterous man in his sixties who, Adam confided in me, has tried to set him up with some of his pretty Greek nieces. Pete insists on greeting all customers at the door and he reserves an extra-wide smile when he sees us enter. “Adam and Claudia!” he booms. “My favorite customers!” (I’m pretty sure he says that to everyone.)

“Hey, Pete,” Adam says, and his good mood seems to have returned. He grins at Pete and he almost looks ten years younger.

“I give you the best table,” Pete tells us, as he leads us to a table near the entrance. He knows we prefer to sit near the door so that
Adam doesn’t have to navigate between stray chairs, although he can generally do that fairly easily. He slides his wheelchair neatly underneath the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, and waves off Pete’s offer of the menus. We don’t need the menu at this point. I get my pancakes and Adam gets his French toast.

“
So how is this going to work?” I ask him, after we’ve placed our orders with our waiter, Pete’s nephew Nico.

Adam runs his hand through his graying hair.
“You’re sure you want to do this?”

“
Adam!” Is he hoping I’ll change my mind? Seriously.

“
Okay, fine.” He nods. “All right, this is what you’re going to do …” He pauses to chew on his lip. “My bicycle got hit by the taxi on September 23, 1997, at roughly eight forty-five a.m. Sixteen years ago. I left my apartment building at eight in the morning.”

“
So I guess you can send me back at like… seven thirty?”

Adam shakes his head.
“No. I used to live all the way over in Murray Hill. It’s going to take you an hour to get there from here. At least.”

I try to smile.
“You can’t zap me over to Murray Hill?”

“
It doesn’t work that way,” Adam says. “The wormhole seems to transport things to just outside my house, although I’m not sure why there’s that geographical displacement. Anyway, you’re going to have to get over there yourself. And I don’t think a taxi is a good idea because the money looked different then. I don’t have any money from sixteen years ago and I don’t want you to get busted for counterfeiting.”

“
Oh, great,” I say. “So I get to walk all the way downtown and cross town?” At least it will save me a trip to the gym. These pancakes aren’t doing anything to help my perpetual diet.

“
You can probably take the bus,” Adam says. “The difference in the coins won’t be picked up. That was before everyone had Metrocards too, so you won’t look like a freak with a handful of change.”

“
Right,” I say, remembering how annoying it used to be to have to gather two dollars’ worth of change to ride the bus. “And when I see you, how will I recognize you?”

Adam frowns.
“It’s me. Why wouldn’t you recognize me?”

“
Well, you were only twenty-two then …”

“
Oh, I get it,” he says with a wry smile. “Because I look fucking fifty now. Is that it?”

I look down at the table.
Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant.

“
You’ll recognize me,” he says. “Just look out for a dorky guy coming out of my old building, trying to ride a bike in his work clothes.”

“Fine,” I say. “
And how am I supposed to convince you not to ride your bike? Should I tell you that I’m from the future?”

“No, don’t do that!” Adam says, looking horrified, even though I was partially kidding.

“Why not?”

“Someone from the past learning about the presence of a time machine could create a rip in the wormhole,” he explains.

Say what? I have no idea what he’s talking about, and he can tell from my face.

“It could destroy the universe,” he clarifies.

Okay, don’t tell past Adam about time machine because it might destroy the universe. Important safety tip. Thanks, Adam. “Great,” I say.

“It might not be the whole universe,” he says quickly. “Maybe only our own galaxy would be destroyed.”

“What a relief.” I play with a salt shaker on the table, thinking about the possibility of the universe being destroyed. Or maybe just our own galaxy. I’m starting to lose my nerve, so I push the thought out of my mind and take a deep breath. “So,” I say, “if I can’t tell you about the time machine, how am I supposed to convince you not to get on the bike?”

He shrugs.
“I don’t know. Just say to me that I shouldn’t ride my bike that day.”

I love how Adam has planned this all out to the extent of building a freaking time machine, yet when he has absolutely no clue how to proceed with getting his younger self not to ride a bike.
“And you think you’ll just listen to that?”

“
Yeah, I will.”

“
And why?”

Adam
’s cheeks color slightly. “Because I’ll think you’re pretty.”

I wonder if he
’s right. Almost-forty Adam is certainly smitten with me, but I can’t necessarily say the same for twenty-two-year-old Adam. I’m not exactly a young girl. I may look good for my age, but my extra pounds and gravity have definitely taken a toll. And let’s face it—twenty-two-year-old Adam is not disabled and probably doesn’t have that much difficulty getting attractive women his own age. I don’t know if he’s going to bend over backwards to do whatever I want.

Then again, I have to trust Adam on this one.
After all, who knows him better than himself?

CHAPTER SEVEN

When we get back to Adam
’s house, there’s nothing left to do but time travel.

Up until this moment, I
’ve somehow managed not to think about it too much and exactly what it will entail, but now that it’s going to happen more imminently, I’m getting scared. Yes, Albert the rabbit seems fine, but newsflash: I’m not a rabbit. I can think of any number of things that could go wrong, ranging from being trapped in the year 1997 forever to my own death. It’s not all sunshine and rose petals dating an inventor, as it turns out.

“
You’re sure you want to do this?” Adam asks me for what seems like the millionth time.

“
Stop asking me that,” I say as I hug my arms to my chest. I’m wearing a hooded sweatshirt because of how cold it was when Albert made his journey, but I still have goose bumps up and down my arms. I can feel all the little hairs standing up on my legs, making my snug blue jeans feel uncomfortable. I just want to get this over with.

“
Sorry,” he says, and he turns back to the computer screen. “Okay, so I’m setting the time you’re going back to as September 23, 1997 at six a.m. That should leave you lots of time to get to Murray Hill. And I’ll set it so that you’ll stay there for three hours.”

Adam wrote down his old address for me, and even his old phone number, just in case.
I won’t be able to call him from my cell phone, since I don’t think smart phones worked back then. But maybe I can find a payphone. Were there still payphones in 1997? I haven’t seen any in ages.

“
Okay,” Adam says again. “Now all you need to do is hop up on the step.” Hop on the step? Does he think he’s still working with rabbits?

After
hesitating a beat longer than necessary, I get onto the step, positioning my feet about eight inches apart.

“
Now don’t move,” he warns me.

I stare at him.
“What happens if I move?”

He shrugs.
“I don’t know. Something bad, maybe.”

Something bad, maybe?
Are you freaking kidding me?

It
’s not too late to change my mind. I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to be the first human subject for my boyfriend’s crazy invention. But when I look at his face, I know that I kind of do. He needs me to do this for him.

“
How will I know when I’m going to transport back to 2013?” I ask. “Like, will I sense it?”

Adam shrugs again, this time a little sheepishly.
“I figure you can tell me when you get back.”

Half-baked.
This is so half-baked. I almost want to cry. “Let’s just do this,” I say. Before I change my mind.

I expect Adam to ask me one more time if I really want to do this, and if he did, I
’d probably hop right off the step and go scurrying away. But he doesn’t. He reaches out and clicks on
enter wormhole.

I hear that toilet whooshing noise, now so loud that my ears start to ache and pop.
The room starts spinning, my feet feel like they’re leaving the ground, and I’m vaguely reminded of the one and only time I tried acid when I was in college. The combination of sensations doesn’t make me feel great. In fact, I feel a violent urge to throw up. What happens if you throw up in a wormhole? I can’t even imagine, but as Adam said, “something bad, maybe.” So I try to push down the urge.

Gradually, the whooshing gets softer and the world stops spinning.
I’m on solid pavement again. And the first thing I do is lean over and vomit on the sidewalk.

I feel remarkably better after that,
although now that I’m not a college student, it’s a little embarrassing to leave behind a little puddle of vomit on the sidewalk. Oh, well, it’s not like anyone saw it.

T
he brisk September air helps my nausea and vertigo as well. When I left 2013, it was June and getting muggy. Now it’s breezy and pleasant. I’m so glad Adam got injured in such nice weather. I pat down my body from my head to my toes and discover everything is still intact. Thank God. I zip up my hoodie sweatshirt, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I wish Adam had given me a mint to take with me.

1997.
I’ve traveled to 1997.

Or have I?
Honestly, 1997 looks an awful lot like 2013.

I spot a newsstand on the corner and trot towards it.
The newsie sees me and gives me a little wave, which I return shakily. The stand smells like ink and cigarettes, which makes my stomach turn slightly. I nearly back away, but before I do, I look down at a fresh newspaper lying in a pile, still bound with twine. I see President Bill Clinton’s face smiling up at me in black and white ink. The date on the paper is September 23, 1997.

Holy shit.
He did it. The smart bastard actually sent me back to 1997.

I look at my watch, which Adam set for me to correspond to the time in 1997.
It’s now just after six a.m., so I have plenty of time, but I don’t want to mess this up. I’ve got to find the nearest bus and get my butt to Murray Hill. But before that, I use some of the change Adam gave me to buy a package of breath mints. Because no matter how “pretty” I am, twenty-two-year-old Adam isn’t going to like me if my breath smells like puke.

He was right about the bus accepting my change, no problem. As I head downtown, I can’t help but think how similar yet different 1997 looks compared to 2013. It’s the little differences, you know?

Like for example, nobody is wearing skinny jeans. If this were 2013, all the young girls would be wearing those skintight tapered jeans, even though I’m convinced those jeans don’t look good on anyone. I hate skinny jeans. If you have even an ounce of body fat, you look like a cow in those things—and I’ve got a little bit more than an ounce on my legs. Plus I’m way too old to even attempt to pull it off. But now, everyone’s got boot-cut jeans like me. Definitely an improvement.

Also, in 2013, everyone on the bus would be on their phones. Everyone would be texting, playing games, sending emails, surfing the web. Now nobody is doing that. Everyone is just … looking at each other. Or reading books. On paper. Or the newspaper, also on paper. It’s so weird.

When I get to 34
th
Street, I get on the crosstown bus using a transfer. Like I have to hand the driver a piece of paper saying I was on the other bus and I’m transferring to this bus. It’s so retro! Really, I don’t miss 1997. Well, aside from the fact that I was twenty years old in 1997. I kind of miss that part.

I spot Adam’s old building from the bus and I hit the button for it to stop. Naturally, it misses my stop, and I have to hoof it one avenue block back to where I was. On the way, I pass a Borders Bookstore, which I stare at in amazement. A real bookstore, geez. I used to love browsing bookstores, pulling titles off the shelves and plopping down on a beanbag chair to skim the first few pages. I’m a little tempted to go inside, but I can’t very well tell Adam that I missed him because I was eating biscotti at Borders.

I park myself on the steps of a brownstone next to Adam’s building. There’s a huge green awning sticking out with the building number inscribed on it in white script. There are half a dozen steps to the front door, and a ramp beside the steps. My eyes automatically focus in on the ramp until I remember that twenty-two-year-old Adam didn’t need ramps. Although he’s got his bike, so maybe he does.

It’s still well before eight, and I’m beginning to really miss my phone. Honestly, you don’t realize how much smart phones have revolutionized our lives. Back in the nineties, if you were waiting for someone, all you could do was … wait.

So I start fantasizing a little bit. I imagine coming back to the future after successfully achieving my mission. I’m having trouble imagining Adam being out of the wheelchair, but I can clearly see how happy his face will be. How grateful he’ll be to me. I imagine him taking my hand and pulling a little velvet box out of his pocket. And this time the box won’t just have earrings in it.

I’ve been sitting there for at least forty-five minutes, scrutinizing everybody who came in or out of the building, when I finally see a guy come out lugging a bike, bouncing it down the stairs rather than bothering with the ramp. I squint at him a little and my heart starts pounding in my chest. It’s him. It’s Adam.

And he’s
young
. Oh my God, is he young. He’s got his helmet hanging from the handle of his bike and I can see there isn’t a thread of gray in his slightly shaggy dark brown hair. He’s a little too dorky to be handsome, but he’s definitely really, really cute. As promised, he’s wearing a white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and khaki slacks for work, and he’s got his pants tucked into his white tube socks. I love how he doesn’t give a shit if he looks like a complete doofus.

And he’s walking. There’s that too. His hips, knees, and ankles bend and move like he’s not even thinking about it, which I guess he isn’t. It’s never even occurred to Adam that walking is something special, something he might not always be able to do. He has no idea what’s about to happen to him.

Except it isn’t going to happen. I’m going to stop it.

I’ve had the last forty-five minutes to think about what to say to him, but all my ideas sound terribly stupid as I take big strides in his direction. He’s bent over his bike, adjusting the seat, as I stand in front of him. I clear my throat. “Um, hi.”

Adam lifts his eyes to look at me, lowers them again, then does a double-take. A slow smile spreads across his face as he straightens up. I can’t help think about the first time Adam and I met, a year ago at that dinner party. He did the same thing—the double-take followed by the slow smile. I guess even though I’m old and fat, he still thinks I’m pretty.

“Hello,” he says back.

I swallow. Up close, Adam seems even younger. He has no lines on his face. None! Well, maybe one or two at the corner of his eyes (still behind wire-rimmed glasses) when he smiles, but that’s it. And he’s so tall! How did I never realize how tall he is? I look down and see that he’s missed two buttons on his shirt. I guess some things don’t change.

“Listen,” I say, wringing my hands together, “this is going to sound really weird, but …”

Adam raises his eyebrows at me.

“I’m psychic,” I blurt out.

“Psychic,” Adam repeats. I’m certain he doesn’t believe in such things, but he’s still got that amused smile on his lips. I’m getting the feeling that I could say pretty much anything and he’d still keep on smiling like that.

“Just an amateur psychic,” I babble on. God, this is awful. I’m not going to convince him of anything. My boyfriend is going to get hit by a taxi today because I’m the worst liar on the face of the planet. “I don’t have, like, an office or do professional readings or anything.”

“Right …” Adam says. He cocks his head to one side.

“So the thing is,” I go on, “I had this premonition. About you.”

“About me?” Adam stares at me in amazement.

“Yes,” I say, trying to look confident. “The thing is
, you can’t ride your bike today. Because if you do, something terrible will happen. To you.” I take a deep breath and conclude: “So you can’t ride your bike today.”

Adam looks at me, looks down at his bike, then back at me. “Okay,” he finally says.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Sure. I mean, if you had a
premonition
and all, better be safe than sorry, right?”

I don’t think he believes me in the slightest. But as the older Adam had suspected, he’s doing it for me because he thinks I’m pretty. Even though I am way, way (way) too old for him.

“I’ll leave the bike in the lobby, okay?” he says to me. “I’ll take the subway to work.”

“Great,” I say.

“Just one condition,” he says, and that smile returns to his face. He’s too adorable for his own good. “You have to let me treat you to a cup of coffee.”

I guess I should have seen this coming, but I didn’t. I just stare at him, unsure what to say.

“It’s the least I can do,” he points out to me. “I mean, you saved my life.”

He’s so full of shit. But if I couldn’t say no to older Adam asking me to risk my life, I’m probably not going to be able to refuse young Adam asking me out to coffee. Anyway, it’s not possible to cheat on your boyfriend with himself. I think that’s a general rule of time travel.