I lower my chin. Had I known Renner needed it on his résumé for college too, would I have taken the loss so badly? It’s hard to say. But it does lessen my grudge, if only slightly. “Well, for the record, you were right. You were a shoo-in. Everyone loves you and you don’t even have to try. You could walk up to someone and punch them in the gut and they’d still adore you. Do you know how annoying that is?”
“So you’ve told me.” We have a weird moment of silence before he interrupts with a loud yawn and stretch. “All right. Let’s make a list.”
Brainstorming is one of my talents. It’s where I excel in group projects. And yet, as I stare at the blank page, I can’t help but watch Renner. He’s slouched over, writing furiously in his chicken scratch, crossing things out, strumming his bearded chin. Meanwhile, I’m seemingly incapable of thinking about anything other than how his lips felt against mine yesterday.
I remember the way my breath caught against his mouth. The strum of his heartbeat against my chest. The way his low hum sizzled through me like a jolt of electricity.
Focus, Charlotte.
I can’t let my mind go there. Of all the moving parts in my life with my parents, Mom’s general chaos, the stress of senior year, having Renner as my rival has been my one constant. But this truth has suddenly flipped everything on its head.
Fifteen agonizing minutes tick by, and I have a total of three crappy bullet points to show for it. Renner, seeming to notice my lack of ideas, slides his two completely filled pages across the table for my viewing pleasure.
I pull the papers toward me. “Renner, you just listed a bunch of time-travel movies,” I say, tone cut with disappointment. Tomorrow War. Avengers: Endgame. The Adam Project. That movie with the ginger guy.
He remains unruffled. “Hear me out. Maybe we should watch these movies for inspiration. Like, look at this one.” He points to Outlander. “This is a TV show about a woman who accidentally goes back in time after touching some ancient magical stone in Scotland. My mom is obsessed with it. Even went on an Outlander tour in Scotland with my aunt a couple years ago. And guess what? Those stones exist. She took pictures with them.”
“Magical stones? Really, Renner?” I flop myself back into the chair, aggrieved. “What are we supposed to do? Fly to Scotland in search of this magic stone?”
“Hey, this is called brainstorming. I brainstormed. More than you from the looks of it.” He lifts his chin in the direction of my paper.
“Point taken. But the time travel in most of these movies is possible because of futuristic technology. We don’t have a time machine. Or a magical stone.”
He runs his finger along the arm of the couch. “Well, let’s think about it. We got here by falling off a ladder. Obviously, falling off the ladder isn’t working. But maybe it’s something super simple like that.”
“I don’t know. Yesterday I tried falling off my bike, slapping myself. Everything short of hurling myself into oncoming traffic. Nothing worked.”
He squints, resting his chin on his fist. “There has to be something. I listed some other ideas on the back.” When he reaches to flip the page, our fingers brush ever so slightly, eliciting that tingling sensation again.
Am I really that desperate for affection? I stomp down the fireflies in my belly and continue looking at Renner’s list.
“Bermuda Triangle?” I read aloud, barely holding back a whimper.
“Well, what are your ideas, then?” He reaches for my list. “Time machine, magical wardrobe, and police,” he rattles off. “Really, Char?” When he says them out loud, they do seem pretty bad. Though the prospect of curling into a ball and remaining motionless in a dark wardrobe would be preferable to our strange reality.
I hang my head in my hands. “We need help. Outside help from an actual adult.”
“We are adults.”
“An adultier adult.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “We just ran from the cops last night, in case you forgot. You really want to walk into the police station and tell them we’ve come from the past?”
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“That’s because it is. To the average person. Especially the police. We don’t want to wind up committed in a hospital or something. We can’t tell anyone, Char.”
“There has to be someone out there who believes in time travel. A psychic maybe?”
His eyes light up. “Wait. I might know someone. My uncle Larry.”