Libby laughed out loud. It was more nerves than amusement, but she let it go.
Libby: Okay, Keith Sweat. Did you really just call me a Hottie??
Scratch that, does 1995 miss you and is time travel di cult?
Reagan: First of all, the number one rule of time travel is that we don’t talk about time travel.
Libby: Hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure that applies only to fight clubs. Are you in one of those too?? If so, why have you chosen the late 90s as your beacon of culture??
Reagan: Just because a girl held on to her butterfly clips and jelly shoes does not mean she’s stuck in the 90s okaaaay.
Libby’s laugh shattered the silence in her o ce.
Libby: You did NOT wear butterfly clips.
A moment later, a photo popped up on Libby’s screen of a little girl who couldn’t be older than five with a dozen colorful clips in her dirty blonde hair. The huge brown eyes were already so striking, she was instantly recognizable.
Libby: You were so cute!
Reagan: Now show me yours.
Libby hesitated. She didn’t have childhood photos on hand.
Libby: Unlike some people I don’t walk around with pictures of myself at all ages.
Reagan: And here I thought you were always better prepared than a Boy Scout. I guess a pic of you as an adult woman at this very moment will have to do. Can’t leave my o ering unreciprocated. It would be so rude, and you strike me as the kind of person who read Emily Post like bedtime stories.
Libby: I will not be derailed by your attack on Emily Post. She’s an American Treasure. Mocking Ms. Post and me doesn’t explain how my present-day selfie is the same as your late 90s baby picture . . .
Reagan: It’s not, but I’m generous enough to accept it as a substitution.
Libby: Oh really?? So now this is you doing me some kind of favor??
Reagan: Personally, I don’t need to put a label on things. You can call it a favor. Or having good manners. Or caring about my ability to time travel.
Libby: A selfie of me in this moment helps you move through time and space how exactly??
Reagan: I can’t explain the intricacies but believe me. It’s like a point of reference. If I ever want to return to this time, I can use a photo of this moment . . . of you frozen in time. Think of it like a waypoint.
Libby: And why would you want to return here? What’s so special about it?
Libby knew she was asking the question to elicit a particular response, but she sent it anyway.
Reagan: Because isn’t the beginning always the best part?
Reading the words over and over, Libby’s heart raced.
What did Reagan think they were starting? What precipice were they leaning over and daring each other to jump? For the first time that morning, she allowed herself to think of the moment in the grotto. Her lips twitched into a smile of
their own accord as she remembered the smell of Reagan’s perfume. The warmth of her breath against her skin. The curiosity that felt more like temptation as she looked up at her perfectly shaped lips.
“You took your friend to a gala, but you don’t have any time for your family?”
The sound of her grandmother’s voice made Libby jump in her chair. As she did, her phone flew out of her hand and landed on the tiled floor with a loud crash.
“What are you doing here?” Libby asked, hearing the accusation in her tone as if she’d been caught red-handed and was trying to turn it around on her.
“Are you texting her now? You were smiling like a schoolgirl before you turned white as a sheet,” she continued before sitting on the small sofa against the window overlooking the bay.