Page 93 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Until I don’t.

Fate decks me in the face. And the mind. And the heart. And every one of my senses careening in orbit around one exploding star of a realization.

Max is two hundred fifty-eight.

I believe it.

I believe him.

Which means…what?

It means nothing.

Not now.

It means I’m too damn late.

Lights flare brighter—as my soul dives into horrible, haunting darkness.

“Gooooood morning, fashionistas! Where’s your hemline today? It’s right here, you sweet little monsters, where we’re excited to bring you all the sizzling hot news from fashion fronts around the world.”

It means he’s not watching airplanes at Teterboro.

Or thinking of me at all.

“But today, the hot flash you want is originating from right here, at Hemline Central, in the heart of New York City—and it’s all about this badass babe sitting next to me, Miss Alessandra Fine!”

It means he’s dead.

And I killed him.

“Allie has just signed a fab contract to host one of our new fall shows, focusing on the best trends and killer looks for girls with boobs and booties. Personally, I’m excited as hell about this. Tell us what you have in store for us, missy!”

That’s it. I’m officially up. The moment is here. The chance has come.

And if I open my mouth, I’m certain only one sound will tumble out.

A sob. Then another. And another.

“W-W-Wow,” I stammer. “Oh, God. I’m…uhhh…so sorry. I’m just so happy that I’m overwhelmed. Just give me a minute, please?”

“Of course.” The woman’s lips and cheeks might be fake, but her compassion isn’t. I’m grateful for the true kindness of her handclasp. “Take all the time you need.”

All the time.

That I need.

But time has turned traitor on me, and I know it. And it’s going to take more than a few verklempt seconds to get over it. Judging by the helpless twist of her face, Connie knows it too. These are tears I’ve never cried before. Tears beyond the realm of ugly. They’re heavy and silent, full of emotions surpassing what they represent on the outside. Sorrow scooped from my darkest wells, where the rain of my fears has become the depths of my grief. It pours in a wordless, frozen torrent from eyes no longer blinded by the lights or even conscious of the cameras…

Now, I’m staring beyond the cameras…

Into the shadows.

The darkness that’s filled with people.

Stunned people. Gawking people. Disappointed people.

My manager. My friends. All the suited dudes who have ponied up a shitload of money for me. I’m letting them all down, but I can’t summon the will to care.