A Tale of Two Centuries

chance a look over.

His eyes are focused on me.

“Here it comes,” he says. His words and the gentle squeeze of his hand make my stomach dip.

I don’t turn back to watch the end of our slow ascent. Instead, I lock my gaze onto the enigmatic boy responsible for bringing me here, for unleashing this other person that’s been trapped inside me for so long…

And we fall.

“Ahhh!”

The wind steals the rest of my scream, but I am quite sure it continues long after we plummet to the earth. And then again as the Lethal Xperience shoots us back up, only to send us on not one, not two, not three, but four consecutive twisting, turning, stomach-flipping loops.

My cheeks feel sliced in half from the width of my smile.

The coaster comes to a sudden and jolting stop with a resounding whoosh, and Austin asks, “Wild enough for you?”

I shake my head. “No. But this park has excellent potential.”

He laughs and helps me out of the web of belts and locks the attendant placed around me. People in modern times may be crazy, but they aren’t stupid. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

“What next?” I ask as we exit the ride and walk through a cluttered gift shop.

Austin stops in front of a counter and points at a wall of screens. “First, we get a memento of your daredevil experience. Then we snatch a funnel cake from the snack shop outside.”

“Food?” I ask incredulously.

Perhaps my stomach is a bit empty, and the sweet aroma wafting from the Snack Shoppe we passed did make my mouth water…but I’m way too twitchy to eat now.

I want to ride another roller coaster.

Or jump off that tall crane in the sky in the center of the park.

I tell Austin this, and he shakes his head with a smile. “All in good time. But honey, I’m a growing boy. You don’t mess with a man’s stomach.”

The disappointment of defeat lasts only until he procures a bag from the woman behind the counter and hands it to me. I’ve always had a soft spot for gifts. I take a peek inside and grin. “Hey, that’s us.” Then I glance back up, confused. “But I don’t recall a photographer sitting on the tracks. How did someone take this?”

“They mount the camera on the ride itself,” he explains, his expression a mixture of amusement and confusion. Judging from that expression it would appear that this should be common knowledge. Oops. “It snapped that during our first free fall.”

Impressed, I carefully slide the picture out of the bag and stare at the captured image: Austin and me, our gazes locked, sharing a secret grin.

Something inside my chest catches.

He clears his throat. Prying my fingers from the photograph, Austin slips it back inside the gift bag, then snaps his fingers. “So, food.”

With a determined nod, he takes two brusque steps in the direction of the exit. Unfortunately, as he does, the pocket of his jeans catches on a rack of California-inspired souvenirs, sending a shower of overpriced goodies to the floor. Shooting the woman manning the counter an apologetic glance, he stoops to replace a few on the stand. Then, popping back to his feet, he flees the shop without another look back. My gaze widens in delight.

Austin Michaels is flustered.

And he’s flustered because of me.

A peculiar feeling of empowerment whispers through my veins and across my skin. Matteo may not have ever loved me, and it’s very likely I will return home after this time travel adventure to become a cold man’s bride. But right now, in this moment, in this time, I made a boy as beautiful and aloof as Austin the Incorrigible Flirt actually nervous. Now that is an accomplishment.

Positively giddy with my success, and with a joyous skip to my step, I rush to catch up.

As it turns out, funnel cakes are a gift straight from heaven. It must be true, because there is no way a mere mortal could fry bread in such a lovely pattern, sprinkle it with the lightest, sweetest sugar, squeeze warm chocolate fudge across the top, and then finish it with a dollop of fluffy, cloud-like whipped cream. Oh, and a bright red cherry. It is just not possible.

I take another bite and moan in ecstasy.

“That good, huh?”

“I commend your stomach,” I tell him around a mouth stuffed with the treat. My manners have all but disappeared by now, but I am finding it very difficult to care. “There are no words for how good this is.”

Austin breaks off a sugar-dusted piece and pops it into his mouth. “My mom always brought us here after our first ride. Jamie and I would stuff ourselves with crap and then take off again. Half the time we took turns getting sick, but we never messed with the tradition.”

I give him a gentle smile. The softer look is back on his face. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make his walls come shuttering back up. But then he looks at me with eyes lost in memory, and I cannot help myself. “Tell me about her.”

Austin slouches in his seat. “She was great.” He plucks a napkin from the silver dispenser and starts shredding it, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. Just when I decide that I have and that he’s not going to elaborate, he says hoarsely, “She had this amazing singing voice. Mom, I mean. Jamie and I can’t sing to save our lives, but she…she sang every Sunday at church—even when she was sick. Until”—he swallows—“well, until she couldn’t anymore.”

My eyes prick with tears, hearing my own mother’s sweet singing voice in my memory. The loneliness I feel over missing her, missing all of them, is nothing compared to Austin’s pain—he has lost his mother forever. I jiggle my foot beneath the table, wanting, needing to do or say something to help shoulder his grief, but not knowing what. This is the real Austin, the one hidden beneath all the sardonic expressions, careless attitude, and outrageous flirtation. A boy who fiercely loved and misses his mother, and three years later remains locked in pain. I try despite my inadequacy. “And your father—”

“Is an ass.”

I inhale a sharp breath. Austin’s clipped, automatic, venomous reply steals any chance of me asking him to explain.

But I don’t have to.

He shakes his head and says, “Do you know that asshole was in Sacramento during Mom’s last week? It was just Jamie and me with her. The hospice people came and went, and Grandma was there, but we were the ones who took care of her. We gave her ice chips; we sang off-key and told her stories. We put the pillows under her head and jumped every time her breathing stopped. Dad came home for the very end, when she was practically in a coma, but not when it mattered. Not when she needed him.” He draws in a ragged breath and narrows his eyes. “It’s always about the job for him, the people. My dad cares about everyone in the state of California except his own family. And it took Mom dying in her bed without him for me to finally see it.”

The sudden silence after Austin’s rare verbal onslaught is deafening.

My heart pounds in my chest. As horrified as I am by the images his words put in my mind, I know I have to keep him talking, let him know that he can trust me. Admittedly, part of it is for selfish reasons—by confiding the truth about his past, I can at last solve the mystery. But mostly I want it for him. I doubt he ever speaks about this with anyone. The flush of his cheeks, the erratic rise of his chest, and the tick in his jaw are all proof of that.

So I wrap my hands around his clenched fist and say as gently as I can, “Cat told me you changed after your mom died.”

I don’t give voice to my suspicion; I want Austin to do that on his own.

At first, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at our joined hands. Then, after a long moment, a faint, rueful smile twitches on his lips. “I actually used to idolize the dickhead. Can you believe that?”

He laughs; a harsh, derisive sound that causes me to flinch.

“I thought the man could do no wrong, so of course I couldn’t, either. I had to be perfect—I was Taylor Michaels’s son. But once Mom was gone, I realized it doesn’t matter what I do. It won’t make him care. The perfect family facade he wants everyone to believe is bullshit…and I’m done being a part of