He gestured to her clutch. “Are your keys in there?”
She nodded.
“You stuff your purses with Kleenex to make them hold their shape, you always carry some kind of lime-green-coloured lip balm, and your keychain has a Powerpuff Girl on it – Buttercup, I believe – which, for a reason I have never understood, seems to represent both empowerment and revolution to you.”
He picked up her purse. “May I?”
She was too shocked to do anything but nod. He gently shook out the contents of her bag: about a dozen crumpled tissues, Buttercup on the ring that held her keys, Bonne Bell Kiwi Lip Smacker lip balm, a twenty, a Triple A card and her cell phone. He picked up the keys with his free hand. “More?”
“You had access to my purse,” she pointed out. “I left it on the table.”
“Fair enough. You went to Sarah Lawrence and majored in politics,” he said, “though you should’ve probably majored in literature, since you’re a voracious reader, mostly historical fiction and mysteries, though when no one’s looking you pull out one of the romances you keep hidden under your bed. There’s some tiresome character named Jamie in one of them you wish all men would emulate. You drive a shiny new Subaru; you made the down payment on it with your first pay cheque, which is one of the things that first made us friends, because I drive one, too. You love to rollerblade, and you always wear a helmet, but a knee injury from ninth-grade tennis tends to make you look like a penguin on wheels, and you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life.”
Kate exhaled, her mind racing in every conceivable direction. Was this a trick? These things weren’t impossible to know, and yet, why would anyone bother? “I … I … don’t believe you.”
“About the mistake?”
“About any of it.”
“Kate, your mother had a lump removed from her breast. You feel guilty because it happened while you were doing your finals senior year and you think you should have been there, and your worry for her is something that’s always in the back of your head.”
“What do you want?” He’d gone too far. Her shock had boiled into anger. “This is rude.”
“But she’s going to be OK,” he said quickly. “All right? She’s going to be OK. I promise.”
She froze, the thin layer of defence that keeps our emotions at bay torn away, and against her will a tear striped her cheek.
“It doesn’t come back, Kate. She’s cancer free at five years and, at ten, the cancer is something you hardly think about any more – either of you. She’s there for you, Kate. She’s always there. And I know this because I lived through it with you. Not the college stuff – I didn’t meet you until later – but all the rest.”
Her heart ached, so badly did she yearn to believe what he said. “I haven’t told this stuff to my best friend.”
“But you told it to me. I’m not your best friend, but I’m close.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Her words were hot. She hated feeling exposed.
“I … I …” He stole a glance at her, evidently considering the limits to which he might go. “I come from the future and –”
“Bullshit.” She nearly yanked her hand away, but the temptation to hear more was too strong.
“I understand why you’d not believe, Kate. I do. What I’m doing is something almost no one ever gets to do.”
“So you’re special.”
“Lucky,” he corrected. “I guess.” He gazed at his shoes.
“Lucky” was not the emotion he was radiating.
“So what is this mistake?”
“Are you sure? I mean, do you believe me?” He worked the key ring in his palm like Queeg inThe Caine Mutiny.
“‘Believe’ is a strong word. Let’s say I’m willing to prolong the, well, whatever this is. Go on. You have my attention.”
He chewed his lip. At last he leaned forwards. “The man you were just speaking to—”
“Mark?”
He flushed deeply. “After him.”
