Leap of Faith

By Matt L. Holmes

While waiting for the bill for her lunch, Maggie Stillwell is asked for directions by a stranger who casually mentions that he's a time traveler. She naturally assumes he's either joking or crazy, and doesn't give it another thought. Later that day, however, she receives an email from someone calling himself 'TimeTraveler355' despite the fact that Maggie hadn't even given the stranger her name. The unexpected email predicts five upcoming events including a political scandal, a rigged election and the bombing of a busy American mall. At the end of the email is an invitation to meet again at the same diner five days later. Maggie laughs it off as a strange prank of some sort.

But then the predictions start coming true... and Maggie slowly begins to confront the possibility that the stranger may be exactly what he claims to be. If so, however, then what is he doing in 2014 and why is he so interested in her?

Leap of Faith, the fourth novel from Matt L. Holmes, takes the reader on an amazing journey of discovery as its female protagonist attempts to come to terms with the bizarre series of events suddenly unfolding in her life. Prepare to have your mind blown by each new development in this tale of lost love and leaps of faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt L. Holmes
• Release date: Jan 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780991947584

Matt L. Holmes

Hi. My name is Matt Holmes, and I'm a retired computer guy in his mid-50s who enjoys writing fiction and non-fiction. I've self-published nine books so far, with more on the way. Six of those books have been novels, almost all of which are available here on Smashwords. My latest book is called More Than Good Enough. It's by far my longest novel yet, weighing in at a little over 200,000 words. It chronicles the 20-year journey of its main character, Miles Galloway, as he matures from a naive 10-year-old boy into a hardened journalist trying to shed light on the issue of sexual predators.

Book preview

Leap

of

Faith

By Matt L. Holmes

Leap of Faith

Copyright © 2014 by Matthew Linton Holmes

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction, and as such, is the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or re-transmitted without the express written consent of the author.

Dana Chapman created the front cover image, based on a few suggestions provided by the author. It is used here with permission from Ms. Chapman, who retains all rights to the image.

The back cover sketch of the author was commissioned by the author from Gene Ha, artist on such comic books as Justice League of America and Top Ten. It is used here with permission from the artist. The author retains all rights to the image.

ISBN – 978-0-9919475-1-5 (softcover),

978-0-9919475-2-2 (electronic).

To order a printed copy of this book or other works by the author, go to www.lulu.com and search for agileman, or contact the author via e-mail. Kindle versions of this book or other works by the author are all available at the Amazon Kindle store. Other eBook formats can be purchased directly from the author.

Correspondences to the author can be directed, via e-mail, to:

[e-mail]

For Vicki, my past, present and future

"The only bridge I haven’t burned

Is the one I’m standing on."

- Magnolia Electric Company, Shiloh

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: First Impressions

Chapter 2: Old Souls

Chapter 3: An Appreciation for the Classics

Chapter 4: Best Intentions

Chapter 5: Perfect Strangers

Chapter 6: No Green Bananas

Chapter 7: The Conversation

Chapter 8: Trying to Make Sense of it All

Chapter 9: Q & A

Chapter 10: Science Nerds

Chapter 11: Maggie’s World

Chapter 12: Date Night

Chapter 13: Whole New Ballgame

Chapter 14: The Genius and the Genie

Chapter 15: Unified Field Theory

Chapter 16: House of Cards

Chapter 17: Almost Everything

Chapter 18: See You Later

Chapter 19: Tabula Rasa

Epilogue: Carpe Diem

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1: First Impressions

Hey, I totally forgot to tell you, I say to Keri-Anne as we take our dinner dishes to the kitchen following a long discussion of last night’s Mad Men. I met a guy today who claimed to be a time traveler.

He actually said he was a time traveler? Keri-Anne replies, her eyes wide and a skeptical look on her face.

That’s exactly what he said. ‘I’m actually a time traveler.’ Very matter-of-fact, like he’d just told me he wrestles alligators for a living. As I load up the dishwasher, I add, And then he smiled.

C’mon, Maggie, she responds, squinting at me. A time traveler?

I swear, I tell her. Those were his exact words.

So what did you do?

I laughed, like he was joking. And then I pretended to study Sunnyside’s dessert menu until he left the place.

And he had just come up to you, right out of the blue, to tell you this?

No, I reply with mock seriousness, we had a whole little conversation before that. He came over to my table while I was waiting for the bill for my lunch, and asked if I could help him find the ROM. He had a folded up map of Toronto in his hands.

An actual paper map? Keri-Anne asks, surprised. Holy! Maybe he really was a time traveler. From the 1950s, by the sounds of it. Did you ask him if he’d heard of Google Maps? Or cell phones, computers, or that newfangled Internet thing?

No, I laugh, I just showed him where we were on the map, and where the museum is, and then we talked about the best route for him to take to get there. He said he was planning to walk, and I told him it wasn’t all that far so he shouldn’t have any problem.

And…?

And then he thanked me, and was about to leave when he dropped the time traveling bomb on my head, I tell her, as I start the machine going and motion Keri-Anne toward the living room. Sure you don’t want a beer for a change? Or a glass of wine?

No thanks, I’m good with water, same as always.

I grab a Blue out of the fridge, refill her glass with tap water and follow her to the other room. She’s taken her usual spot, stretched out on the sofa that she and Gramps used to watch the TV from. I set her water on the coffee table within easy reach, and then plunk myself down across from her in the recliner and take a long pull on my beer.

After a moment she asks, Did you at least find out his name? Before he turned out to be crazy, I mean.

Oh, of course I did. I found out all about him, don’t you know? His full name is William Christopher McBrewster the third. He’s a Capricorn who enjoys moonlit walks on the beach, reciting poetry in the nude and rescuing animals from scientific experimentation. He learned how to time travel from a Tibetan monk who tragically died just seconds after passing his secret on.

Keri-Anne giggles all the way through my little speech, and then asks, And did he happen to have a tin foil hat on, by any chance?

Not that I noticed. Seriously, he seemed like a normal enough guy up to that point. Well-spoken. Polite. Pretty good conversationalist, actually. Mid-30s looking with a slight paunch. Collared shirt, expensive slacks, nice shoes. Not exactly what you’d expect from some nut-job off his meds, wandering along Bloor Street.

I push the recliner back about a quarter of the way and settle myself in. I might as well get comfortable, as I imagine we’re both going to be here a while.

Anyway, I continue, you know what I always say: the men I meet inevitably end up being married, gay or total psychos. At least this guy self-classified in the first few minutes, which was pretty considerate of him, when you stop and think about it.

OK, Keri-Anne says, as she sits up to take a sip of water, but what if he hadn’t? Self-classified with the time traveler comment, I mean. Would you have been interested?

You mean, would I have said, ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I’m headed to the Royal Ontario Museum myself today. What say we make an outing of it and stroll there together?’ Is that what you’re asking?

Smiling, she replies, I just wondered what you thought of him, that’s all. You said he looked like he was in his mid-30s. That’s OK, right? I mean, that’s within your acceptable age range, isn’t it?

I laugh. ‘Acceptable age range.’ As if. I keep telling you: I don’t have a big long list of qualifications, when it comes to guys.

I wonder if Mr. Time Traveler’s married? she asks, in a whimsical voice. Do you think there’s a Mrs. Time Traveler out there, somewhere?

Ha. I definitely don’t have a clue. We only talked for a few minutes, like I told you.

Hmmm. Was he wearing a wedding ring? Not that guys don’t sometimes take theirs off when they’re out of the house.

Geez, Keri-Anne, who notices whether somebody’s wearing a wedding ring when you only spend, like, two minutes giving them directions?

I only asked because… Well, if he’s in his 30s and not married, what could that tell us about him?

He might be desperate, which could only have worked to my advantage. Is that what you’re implying?

She laughs and shakes her head.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to leave all this behind, I inform her, sweeping my right arm up to take in the surroundings I grew up in, to go traipsing around through time, like some Doctor Who companion. Besides, I add, leaning forward to pick up the paperback that’s resting beside the recliner, I’ve got a really good book right now, so why do I need a man? He’d just screw up my life, especially if he was going to show up tonight to apologize for a fight we’re going to have next week.

That idea draws another smile out of Keri-Anne. Then, stretching back out and closing her eyes, she asks, Book club book?

Yup, I reply.

Who picked this one? The sex scene lady?

Nope, she’s up next month. This one comes courtesy of Suzy.

Which one is she again?

She doesn’t like to read –

– so naturally she joined a book club. Oh, I love her!

Yeah, she’s actually pretty good at choosing books. I think she does more research for her book selection than I’d do if I were buying a car.

So what’s this one about? Keri-Anne asks, her eyes still closed. Fiction or non-fiction?

I lightly toss the paperback book toward her, and it lands with a slight thud on her stomach.

Hey! she exclaims, her eyes now open and shooting daggers at me. She spins the book around in her hands and takes a long look at the front cover. OK, I like it so far. It’s a nice, abstract cover, not giving too much away. That’s the yin/yang symbol, isn’t it?

I nod. It’s a biography, I guess. So non-fiction, to answer your question.

She makes a face. The title’s a bit of a mouthful. Rising and Advancing: The Story of Nate. I don’t know if I like that. So what’s Nate’s story?

It’s written by his brother Michael, I tell her, warming up to the topic. By the time he was 16 or 17, Nate was quite the exceptional kid. He became a vegetarian, got into meditation and kung fu, all that eastern philosophy kind of stuff. He was mentoring other kids, organizing food drives at his high school and volunteering at a homeless shelter every weekend. He even signed up for Habitat for Humanity as soon as he turned 18.

Wow. That is pretty impressive.

I know, right? How many kids did we hear about when we were that age who were even half as… I don’t know, what’s the opposite of ‘self-centred?’ Generous? Virtuous? Anyway, I don’t remember anyone like that.

He really sounds like a good person, Keri-Anne observes. Has he gone into politics so he can change the world?

I feel a tiny pang of sadness hit me, so I take a swig of my beer. Then I tell her, No, he was killed back in ’92, before he’d even graduated from high school. Stabbed to death in the washroom of that shelter he helped out at, if you can believe it.

Oh! That’s awful. Was this someplace in the States?

I shake my head. Right here in Ontario. In St. Luke’s, about an hour and a half away. It’s quite the story. I’m re-reading parts of it right now, but when I’m done you should borrow it.

It’s tempting, she replies, hefting the book as if she were weighing her options. Then she lightly tosses the book back my way. You know me, though: I don’t like to read.

And yet you haven’t joined a book club, I observe, sarcastically. Very strange, indeed.

_________________

Keri-Anne and I met during the second week of high school, back in 2001. We didn’t have any classes in common and we’d come from two different Toronto primary schools. In other words, the odds were stacked pretty heavily against the two of us ever saying a word to each other, let alone becoming best friends.

I had some classmates left over from Grade 8 who, at least on paper, were my ‘posse’ during the first several days in high school. But I was already starting to notice the cracks in that particular marriage of convenience. None of them had ever been close friends of mine in elementary school, for one thing. And to be honest, the more I saw of them in Grade 9, the less inclined I was to spend my free time with them.

Besides, there was just something different about the place, an indescribable vibe in that bigger building, with its tall, echoing staircases and cafeteria that seated hundreds. I guess I wanted high school to be more than just an extension of everything I’d already experienced, and hanging out with the same old kids just didn’t seem to line up with that goal very well. I probably wasn’t a very typical 14-year-old girl in that regard, or in a lot of other ways, I suppose.

It was obvious to me, right from the start, that Keri-Anne wasn’t a member of what was euphemistically called ‘the in crowd.’ She was wearing clothes from the mid-90s, which all by itself would’ve gotten her kicked out of any self-respecting cool club. She wore glasses instead of contacts, and not even one of those retro styles that had come back into fashion at the time. Add a mousy patch of short, brown hair pulled back from her forehead by a pair of pink barrettes, and all that was missing was a ‘Kick Me’ sign on her back.

That first time I noticed her, she was sitting by herself at one end of a table in the caf, eating a brown bag lunch with her nose buried in a book. In those days, she was an avid reader who’d sometimes burn through two books in a week. This was before a potential love interest at university told her she was too much of a bookworm and soured her on the whole literary angle.

Anyway, on that Monday afternoon that I glanced over and saw Keri-Anne sitting by herself, I didn’t approach her or even make eye contact. I just thought she looked kind of sad, sitting all alone like that, while I was busy faking it with four girls I’d already begun feeling bored around. Conversations within that particular group, all of whom I’d known in elementary school, never veered far from boys, fashion and how dumb everything was. In my brief glimpse of Keri-Anne several tables away, I couldn’t help envying the way she was at least being spared all of that.

The next day, we all got sent home early. It was the 11th of September, 2001, and all Hell had broken loose in the U.S. Planes were being flown into buildings, news anchors were losing their minds on TV, and the world was changing in a way I could never have imagined before that day.

I spent that afternoon watching the coverage with my grandfather. We saw the towers fall, over and over again, and every time he reacted like it was happening for the first time. I’d never seen him get that emotional before, and I think his reaction had as much of an impact on me as what was playing out on TV.

By Wednesday, though, we were back in school. All anyone was talking about, including the teachers, was what had happened the day before. We were being comforted, and counselled, and assured that nothing like that could ever happen in Canada. In other words, we were being treated like little kids. Which I guess was understandable, given the circumstances.

Between first and second period that day, I headed to the washroom and stumbled into my first real encounter with Keri-Anne Webster. I walked in to find her surrounded by three girls I’d never seen before, her glasses resting on the edge of one of the pedestal sinks behind her. She was wiping at her eyes and generally cowering, although it didn’t look like she’d been hit or anything like that. I found out later, from her, that the girls had come into the room and found her crying at the sink, and had started teasing her about being such a wuss. They did what teenage girls have done to each other since we all lived in caves, I guess.

Jesus Christ, grow the fuck up, I said to no one in particular, as I pushed my way through the middle of the impromptu group. Gramps had taught me the power of profanity early on, especially when it’s unexpected. It was the sort of weapon you saved for special occasions, he’d said. In this case, I’d been careful not to make eye contact as I spoke, leaving it open to debate as to who, exactly, had been the target of my f-bomb.

The stunned silence that followed my exclamation was exactly what I’d hoped for, and so I continued directly toward the sink where I’d spotted Keri-Anne’s abandoned eyewear. I picked them up distastefully, dangling them between forefinger and thumb, and asked their owner, Are these yours?

She roused herself from the shock of my entrance and nodded weakly, probably expecting me to drop them on the floor and grind them beneath the heel of my brown Aldo boot.

Kind of in my way, I told her cruelly, holding the glasses out for her to take.

Sorry, she said as she retrieved them, prompting her tormentors to laugh.

Thankfully, though, the fun seemed to have gone out of the situation for them, as they moved away from her and off to waiting stalls and mirrors. Keri-Anne hurried out without looking back.

Over lunch that day, I scanned the cafeteria for Keri-Anne, and spotted her once again on her own.

Hey, you feeling any better? I asked in a neutral tone, as I put my lunch tray down across the table from her and pulled out a chair.

She looked up, surprised, and at first I thought she might not recognize me. But then she replied, Uh huh, thanks. And thanks for… you know, doing what you did.

Man, those bitches are maybe three years away from having their first abortions, I told her, smiling, as I sat down. And fifteen years away from being dumped by their husbands for something younger. They’re just too stupid to know it.

She smiled, too, and then said, My name’s Keri-Anne.

Like Trinity, from The Matrix? I asked.

Different spelling, but… She nodded.

I’m Margaret-Jane, so I guess that means we could start a Hyphenated Name club, or something, huh? Nobody calls me that, though. I’m just Maggie.

Nice to meet you, just Maggie, she replied, glancing over at me quickly, to see how I’d take her little joke.

I smiled again. So why were they even bothering you, anyway? Not that they needed much of a reason, I’m sure.

Oh, I was just… I was crying, and I guess they thought that was stupid. I just feel so sad, today.

It’s pretty crazy, isn’t it? All those people dead.

And some of them jumped out of the windows, from a hundred stories up! she whispered. I can’t get that out of my head.

I know, me neither.

Do you… she started to ask, and then stopped.

Do I what? I prompted her.

Do you think any of the people who jumped thought they’d make it? That they’d survive the fall?

From that height? I kind of doubt it.

Then why’d they do it? I mean, I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for them, but still… why would they jump like that?

I shook my head. All that fire from when the planes exploded. They said on the news all that fuel they were carrying would’ve burned so hot, like insanely hot. Probably the people in the towers just didn’t want to burn alive, that’s all. That’d be a horrible way to die, right?

I guess, she replied, quietly. My mom said that maybe they knew God would send angels to catch them if they placed their trust in Him.

I thought about that for a moment. Then I said, I didn’t see any angels on the channel we were watching.

Me neither, she agreed solemnly after a moment, looking down at her food.

They really shouldn’t show stuff like that on TV. Not when it’s real, anyway.

Keri-Anne nodded her agreement while she devoured her tuna fish sandwich, and a friendship was born.

_________________

Why do you think we’re both so bad at relationships? Keri-Anne asks, as our lazy Monday evening starts to wind down. With guys, I mean.

Gee, don’t sugar coat it, girl. Just come right out and say what’s on your mind.

You know what I mean, Maggie. Neither one of us has a great track record so far, do we?

Well, what do you expect, when the most interesting guy I’ve met in the past year tells me he’s a time traveler? Not exactly a rich field to choose from, now is it?

So you think he’s interesting? she asks, nonchalantly.

Well, he is a time traveler, after all, I point out, laughing.

I just mean, you’ve been in four relationships over the past twelve years that lasted more than a week, and none of them went even a year.

But who’s counting? I ask, with my eyes closed. Other than my personal biographer, that is.

Maggie, you’re 26 years old, blonde, five foot nine, and let’s face it: you could have practically any guy you wanted.

Bradley was close to a year, I remind her, as I begin peeling the label off my beer bottle. In fact, if I remember correctly, I broke up with him so I wouldn’t have to go through the whole ‘first anniversary’ bullshit. Remember how he did that surprise party at six months? Just imagine what the one-year ordeal would’ve been like.

Keri-Anne shakes her head. Most girls would probably like that sort of thing in a boyfriend, you know.

So really, I think that should count as a year, technically, I suggest, ignoring her attempt to push my buttons. At least I don’t keep going back to the same guy, over and over again, like some people I could mention.

Don’t be mean, she replies, furrowing her eyebrows.

I’m not being mean. I’m just calling ‘em like I see ‘em. As I believe I’ve mentioned once or twice before, you’ve got a serious Doug problem, and you really need to kick it. For good, I mean.

It’s complicated, that’s all. And besides, I’m pretty sure we’re here to talk about you, not me, she counters.

I just shrug in response, without looking up from my beer.

Why do you write guys off before you even get to know them? she persists, when I don’t say anything. I’ve seen you do it so many times. You always start worrying about how you’re going to break up with him right after the first date. Sometimes before.

What are you talking about? I do not!

No, you do. You start obsessing over how to get out of a relationship before you’re even in it. Every time.

And you keep getting back into the same relationship, over and over again, as if you didn’t already know it’s no good for you. Meaning we’re a couple of screw-ups. So what else is new?

Bethany at work keeps telling me I should try online dating, Keri-Anne says. She met her husband that way, and she swears it’s the only way to find Mr. Right.

I tried that once, I inform her casually.

You tried online dating? And you didn’t tell me? she exclaims, sounding every bit as hurt as I knew she would.

It was while you were away at university. I just paid for a three-month trial so I could see what it was like.

And how was it? she asks, interested.

Well, that’s how I met my husband, don’t you remember? Tall, good-looking guy, goes by the name Mr. Right.

Very funny. So what really happened?

Not much. Nothing came of it, obviously. I didn’t even go out on a date or anything. But I had a lot of fun screening the guys who wanted to hook up with me, that’s for sure.

You can screen them? Keri-Anne enquires, surprised. Is that how it works?

Well, it’s all based on who you show interest in and who shows interest in you, that sort of thing. The service I tried lets the women see more of the guys’ profiles than vice versa, which was good since I didn’t want any of them finding out too much about me.

So what kind of guys were showing interest in you? There must’ve been some good ones in there.

It was mostly fish, I tell her, grinning.

Is that some new slur for gay men? she asks, wrinkling her nose.

No, I mean fish, literally. Guys holding fish, guys holding fishing rods, guys in boats holding fish, you name it. Lots and lots of fish!

Why fish? Keri-Anne asks, laughing.

I have no idea, I admit. Is it supposed to be a sign of virility? Are they trying to impress us with their hunter-gatherer skills?

Bethany certainly never mentioned anything about fish.

She probably just didn’t notice them. Because, trust me: once you do, you’ll see them everywhere on those dating sites. That and guys posting pictures of themselves with their girlfriends.

Their girlfriends? Keri-Anne exclaims. They already have girlfriends and they’re still using a dating service?

I guess that could be true for some of them. I just assumed it was ex-girlfriends in the pictures, but who knows? Either way, the point seemed to be, ‘Hey, look at me, I have no problem finding women so you’d be lucky to have me.’ Or something like that. Sometimes they’d try to crop the girlfriend out of the photo but her arm or leg would still be there.

Keri-Anne laughs. Oh no!

Oh yes. It was quite comical. So there you have it: tons of fish, and tons of girlfriends. Not exactly what I expected to find there, you know?

Huh.

Yeah. Shows how little I know about dating, I guess.

Do you want to play tennis tomorrow? Keri-Anne asks me, after a few moments of silence. I really liked it last time, even though I’m still not very good.

Don’t you have to work tomorrow? I counter, as I start to get up out of the recliner.

I always have to work on weekdays, Maggie, just like most people. I meant after work. We could probably get a court for 5:30 or 6:00, if you wanted.

Let me check my calendar, I tell her, looking around for my phone. Spotting it over on the table near the window, I go to retrieve it. As soon as I tap the touch screen, though, I see I’ve gotten an email while we’ve been sitting here.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! I exclaim loudly, a moment later.

What’s wrong? Keri-Anne responds, getting up and coming over quickly to stand beside me.

The time traveler just emailed me!

She looks down at the phone’s display, where I’ve highlighted an unread message from [e-mail].

You gave that insane man your email? she asks, her voice thick with disapproval.

No! Do you think I’m nuts? I didn’t even tell him my name!

Maybe it’s not him, then, she says. Maybe it’s spam, and just a big coincidence.

There’s no subject, I point out. Do you think I should open it, or just delete it?

It doesn’t have an attachment, she observes. That means it couldn’t be a virus, right? I mean, as long as you don’t click on any links or anything.

I don’t know if that’s true, I admit. I’ve got anti-virus on my laptop, should I open it there?

Keri-Anne frowns without replying.

Oh, what the hell, I say finally, with a shrug. Let’s see if it’s really from him.

I hesitate for a second more, but then tap on the highlighted line. It opens up to show a short message:

‘1. Tomorrow: Hamilton Mayor Resigns In Disgrace

2. Wednesday: Toronto Stock Exchange Drops Almost 400 Points

3. Wednesday: Riots Disrupt Ugandan National Election

4. Thursday: Los Angeles Dodgers’ Carlos Ramirez Throws Perfect Game

5. Friday: Bomb Blast Rocks Mall Of The Americas

I hope you’ll meet me Saturday @ noon, back at the Sunnyside.’

Holy, Keri-Anne mutters, after I’ve scrolled all the way to the end of the message.

No shit, I respond, my head spinning.

_________________

What grade are you in? Keri-Anne asked me toward the end of that first of many lunches together, back in 2001.

Grade 9, same as you, I assume, I told her, surprised that she’d even have to ask.

You seem older, she replied. At least Grade 10. Maybe even 11.

Nah. I’m just tall for my age, that’s all. I get that from my mom.

But the way you talked to those girls. They’re Grade 10s, I think. Or maybe not, since you’re not. Maybe everybody just looks older to me in high school.

No, I think you’re right. They seemed like tenners.

I bet they thought you were, too.

Hey, it’s not my fault if they’re too dumb to recognize a Grade 9 when they see one. Or talk and chew gum at the same time, probably.

She smiled, and then asked, shyly, And you weren’t… intimidated?

I’d started to stand up, but then I sat back down.

Listen, you can’t let bitches like that get to you, Keri-Anne.

Easy for you to say, she responded, quietly. I could barely think straight when they all started in on me like that.

"Well, here’s the thing. My grandfather told me a ton of stuff about high school over the summer, to get me ready for it, I guess. And one of the things he said kind of fits what happened this morning. He said that for a lot of the kids in our school, these next few years are gonna be the peak of their existence. They’ll piss these four years away acting like they own the place, and then they’ll spend the rest of their miserable lives wondering why it was never that good again. And that sort of puts things in perspective, don’t you think?

Like I said before, those three retards in the washroom are going to end up with loser boyfriends who turn into loser husbands who leave them the first chance they get.

Keri-Anne’s mouth hung open for a few seconds after I finished my little speech, and then she said, in a whisper, There’s no way you’re only 14.

I am so! I responded, laughing. In fact, I only turned 14 a couple weeks ago.

She just raised an eyebrow at me, in response.

Fine, I’ll bring in my birth certificate tomorrow, and you can inspect it yourself, I told her, standing up again and gathering the remains of my lunch onto the tray.

She flashed me a huge smile at that comment, and I think it was at least partly because I’d just implied that our lunch together hadn’t been a one-time deal.

_________________

It’s got to be a joke, I say, as the initial shock of the email fades away.

What do you mean, a joke? Keri-Anne exclaims, staring at me a little angrily. How is this a joke?

Well, c’mon… first he tells me he’s a time traveler, and then of course he sends me a bunch of predictions about the future. Yeah, very funny, mister.

But how did he find your email address? Keri-Anne asks, still looking shaken by it all.

I don’t know, I admit. Maybe he’s one of those computer guys who can find out anything about anybody on the Internet. Like, a hacker or something.

She looks unconvinced.

OK, I continue slowly, then maybe I had my credit card out on the table while I was waiting for the bill to come. Yeah, now that I think about it, of course I did. So he would’ve seen my name, and then Googled me based on where we met. I mean, the diner’s only a couple blocks from here, right? It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out.

I guess… she says without any conviction, though at least she isn’t looking quite so upset.

Well, what’s the alternative? That he really travels through time and he knows what’s going to happen over the next four days, so for him to find out my name and email would be easy peasy?

You don’t have to be sarcastic, she tells me, frowning. I’m just worried he might be a stalker, that’s all.

Nah, I didn’t get that vibe off him, at all. He might be crazy, but I’m pretty sure he’s harmless.

I’m sounding more confident and nonchalant than I feel, but I don’t want to spook Keri-Anne. She worries way too much as it is.

Anyway, I say, as I look at my calendar on the phone, it looks like tennis is a no-go for tomorrow. How could I have forgotten I’ve got book club? So we’ll have to do it later in the week. I casually toss my phone onto the recliner.

OK, she says, nodding weakly.

I’ll call you when I get home tomorrow night and tell you all about it. I can’t wait to hear what everyone thinks of the Story of Nate. I’m guessing some of them won’t love it as much as I do. No sex scenes, for one thing.

Keri-Anne smiles a little at that, and I walk her to my front door and then out to the street. I give her a light little hug and then watch as she heads up toward