Chapter 8

We excuse ourselves after I get Ezekiel to promise a few more times that he really will stay at Ziro Labs tonight. I hold back my questions for Jasper until we're driving away from the lab.

"Your boss has a time machine and you didn't think to bring that up before?"

Jasper's back to looking sheepish. "I didn't know it was a time machine. I was in his office and saw some plans. It wasn't like they were labelled as ‘Plans for Top Secret Time Machine, Don't Tell Morgan' or anything. Why would I think that was what it was?" He glares at me, and his expression is so hurt that I snort on a laugh that becomes a cough before it becomes laughter again. The sound is big and I lean into it. Jasper watches me with amusement in his eyes and for a minute I don't resent it.

"Ugh." I sigh as my laughter subsides. "Why can't everything have big labels like that? ‘Top Secret Plot to Trap Jasper and Morgan on the Blind Date from Hell.' So much simpler."

He sticks his lower lip out. His eyes sparkle. My laughter starts all over again. Is this what having fun feels like? It's been a while since I've done anything besides work, which I would argue is its own kind of fun. But it's not the same as joking around with someone.

"It's not so bad, is it?" he asks.

"The company could be worse," I say, but I arch an eyebrow. "But that's like saying a funeral is a good time because you get to see long-lost relatives for the first time in years. It's fun for all but the guy who dies, and in this case the guy is me. You don't know what that's like."

"No." He folds his arms over his chest. "But I did have to do the first sixty days alone. I thought I was losing my mind. Nothing I did made a difference. I kept getting brought back to the beginning over and over and..." He glances out the window and the rest of his sentence is muffled.

"And what?" I prompt.

He glances at me before he drops his arms and says, "It was scary, okay? It was so fucking lonely. I tried everything I could think of to get you to remember me, but you never did."

Until I did remember him. There has to be a clue in the fact that we started remembering at different times. And yes, I could needle him. Solitude is still better than dying. But remembering three of those deaths is enough. Remembering all sixty-some dates and not having any control over when they end or how to get out of them would be a whole other thing. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome, then what's defined as being forced to repeat something over and over with no control over the outcome at all?

So, because Clarissa reminds me frequently that some people respond better to empathy than they do to my usual "what are you going to do about it?" forthrightness, I say, "It must have been really hard."

Jasper gives me a sad smile that makes me want to say more kind things. "It's better now. I know you don't like me much, but I'm glad you're here."

Ouch. I bite back a bunch of protests because if I talk too fast, I'll almost certainly say the wrong thing. It's not that I dislike him. In fact, I'm starting to like him more than I should given his career choices. I'm not completely oblivious of my own superfamily and stepfatherly privileges. I know finding work can be tough, but he's clearly got real marketable skills. Ezekiel would probably give him a position at Ziro Labs if I asked, especially after Jasper wowed him with his IT wizardry tonight. Yet somehow Jasper chose Walter Wolfe. There have to be better ways to get a job after you flunk out of med school besides hitching your wagon to organized crime.

Speaking of which... "You know we're going to have to go check out that machine, right?"

He blanches so much it's visible, even in the dark car. "Maybe we don't?"

"No, we really do," I say. "If he's got a time machine so powerful you don't even need to be near it to move back hours, think about the scientific advancement he's achieved."

"That's what you want to see it for?" he asks, incredulous. I try not to feel hurt. There goes Morgan the nerd, all excited about science again.

"We need to know who built it," I explain patiently. "Whoever they are, they're the only one who can get us out of this."

"But what if they aren't?" Jasper says. "What if there's another way?"

"Like what?"

"Let's ... let's lie low." He glances at me nervously. "Give me a few days to figure out how to do it safely. We've never really stayed together before. What if we see if we can keep you alive? If we hide out, we might—" The longer he talks, the faster the words come out until he's practically pleading, but the flaw in his thinking is evident.

"Jasper, we already covered this with Ezekiel. You think I wouldn't have accidentally stumbled onto a way to stay alive after sixty tries? It's statistically impossible to die randomly every single time. Someone is coming for me."

"But you don't..." He winces. "Look, if spending sixty days trapped in the same day was scary, Walter Wolfe is scarier. We can't just walk into his office and ask about his time machine."

"But you work for him, don't you?" I ask.

"Yeah, but we're not exactly buddies. Wolfe Tech isn't some family organization like what you and Ezekiel have going. I'm a henchman." His voice rises with frustration, seeming even louder in the confined space of my car. When I glance at him, he's torn off his toque and is clenching it so tightly in his lap that his knuckles are white. "Don't you get it? I look tough when he has business associates stop by and pick up bags of stuff I'm not supposed to know about but are almost definitely drugs or money. If I were in a comic book, I'd be a guy in a nondescript red shirt and a mask who was only on page to be cannon fodder."

"A red shirt would be better than your hat," I mutter.

That stops him halfway through his rant. "What's wrong with my hat?"

I stare at him. "Please. Do you think it's fashionable?"

"It keeps my head warm." He stretches the tattered wool between his hands.

"It's spring. It hasn't been below freezing in over a month." On a whim, I reach across the console and snatch the hat from him. His hair is sticking up in a million different directions, so I pat it down for a minute before he swats me away.

"Don't think you can cute your way out of this," he says.

"I'm not trying to be cute." The car jerks as I whip my head toward him again. "Wait. Do you actually think I'm cute? You weren't kidding before?"

He laughs. It's a big, open sound, and the tension in the vehicle dissipates. Before Jasper can answer my question, though, his stomach lets out a rumble that nearly shakes the car's windows.

"Jesus, I'm starving." He rubs a hand over his belly. "Look, whatever we do next, can we please go get something to eat first? If we're going to storm the castle at Wolfe Tech, at least don't make me do it on an empty stomach."

"Sure. Why not?" I say. "With my luck, I'll choke on a French fry."

"Don't say that." He shoots me a soft smile, and once again I'm annoyed by how much I don't dislike him. Yes, I need him, but he's not an awful person. At least in noncriminal settings. I don't know what to do with this information.

"I'm not going back to Kicks," I say.

His smile widens, which does fluttery things to my insides.

"No, probably not a good idea," he says.

"And we aren't going to Wench."

"Something about that place makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?"

My soft feelings disappear because I don't like how much he sees. "It's fine," I say.

"No, it isn't."

I keep my eyes on the road. We aren't having that conversation. There are still some secrets I can't share.

Jasper must take the hint, because he says, "There are lots of great places to eat in town. Where do you want to go?"

"Wherever you want."

"You must have somewhere you like," Jasper says.

"I'm allergic to a lot of things," I say. "I usually eat at home. It's safer." At least it was before shadow-shaped enemies lurked in darkened corners.

"That's no fun." Jasper's practically pouting.

"Neither is anaphylaxis." But he's still waiting for an answer, and we're past me playing the fussy nerd, so I say, "What's your favourite?"

He sighs dreamily. "I like the deep-fried pickles at the Lazy Moose."

When I wrinkle my nose, he laughs.

"What?" I say.

"Not a fan of deep-fried pickles?"

"I honestly don't think I've ever had one."

His shout is so sharp, I almost jerk over the centre line a second time.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Morgan! You never had deep-fried pickles?"

If my hands were free, I'd put them over my ears. "Why are you yelling?"

He shouts again, then bumps his fist against the dash. "Take a left at the light."

And that's how we wind up sitting across from each other at yet another greasy spoon diner as Jasper gleefully orders a plate of fried dill pickles and an order of nachos. Why is it always nachos with him? The waitress pales as I give her my list of allergies. Onions, mustard, nuts—except almonds for no reason anyone's ever been able to explain to me—blue cheese, cilantro, raw eggs, raw peaches—but cooked ones are okay—and all cherries. She reassures me they use vegetable oil in the deep fryer and none of those other things are in the pickles, so I guess I'll have to take my chances.

And look, maybe the "prissy" act wasn't all pretend. It's not only the allergies. I'm professional. And careful. But I can honestly say the plastic chairs, the peeling forest animal wallpaper, and the way my shirt cuffs stick to the edge of the table every time I lift a hand do not recommend this place any more than the atmosphere at Kicks did.

"Are henchman only allowed to eat at places with less than three stars on Yelp?" I ask, making sure to smile enough that he knows I'm only half serious.

"No one gets into henching for the money. This place is cheap and tasty." He shrugs unapologetically. "I gave you a chance to pick. If you wanted linen tablecloths, you should have said something."

I so desperately want to ask him why he got into henching if it wasn't for the money, but I'm also afraid to hear the answer. Instead, I squeeze the limes into my ice water as I say, "Jasper, you seem to be under the misapprehension that I'm some kind of snob."

"Aren't you?"

"No. I... Maybe my mother was a bit of a snob?" Saying it feels wrong. Disloyal. But my mother's identity as Farah Field required her to mix and mingle with an elite tier of society. Those were the kinds of people who would hire a personal security firm. I travelled with her and her clients for a long time, since it took years before we finally gave up on me ever following in her footsteps. Field Security clients don't eat at places like the Lazy Moose, and so I never really got a chance to do it either.

"How long ago did she die?"

My gaze shoots up at his question. "What?"

But Jasper's looking down at the table and he shrugs. "My dad died when I was twelve. I know what it's like."

But he doesn't. He can't. Because he gets to reminisce with people about the good old days. I can never tell anyone the whole story.

"Two years ago," I say.

"That's hard. Was she sick?"

See? Here's where I have to lie, because how do I tell him that she was killed fighting Indigo? That when the light box failed, it set fire to the building they were in and the collateral damage meant my mother was branded a public menace after her own death? That the people who had been only too happy to bask in the safety the Legendary Flame offered while she was alive had refused to remember the good she had done in favour of the harm the final fight with Indigo had caused?

"Plane crash," I say, because that's the lie Ezekiel and I concocted. It took a lot of work to fake the traces of her private plane failing and forging everything needed to make it clear that Farah Field was dead.

Jasper whistles. "That's rough."

He doesn't even know the half of it.

"I think it was harder on Ezekiel. He and my mother weren't even married for ten years. That's not nearly long enough."

"What about your dad?"

That part is easier. "No clue. He died when I was a baby and Mother never talked about him much. All I got from him was a last name."

"So it was only you and your mom while you were growing up?"

I laugh because it sounds so cozy the way he says it when my childhood was more like a decades-long superhero tryout that ultimately came up empty. Mother always said her own powers had been notoriously unpredictable until she was well into her late teens. So public school was out of the question. We couldn't have me getting angry at the teacher and electrocuting her or blowing up all the computers in the building because I was thinking too hard about long division. So I was homeschooled, and I could speak four different languages by the time I was ten, thanks to our schedule of constant travel. In the end it amounted to nothing, though, since by the time I was eighteen, my powers had never advanced beyond making sure the flashlight always worked in case of a power outage.

"Something like that," I say.

"You must miss her," he says.

"It's complicated." I can't quite look at him. The longer he talks, the more I feel like I'm lying when I'm just not telling him everything.

"My dad was my hero. When I was a kid?—"

I don't hear the rest of it. He doesn't know it, but the word sets me off. Jasper can't understand anything about having a parent who is a hero. It's not great. They don't take you to baseball games or teach you how to tie your shoes. They put the good of humankind ahead of everything else and email you gift cards on your birthday because they're halfway around the world chasing assassins most people have never even heard of.

"Can we not?" My skin tingles in irritation.

Jasper's sentimental smile freezes, as does his reminiscing. "What?"

"We're not going to bond over our dead parents," I say. "I can't right now. Every brain cell I have is swirled up in the time loop. I want to figure out how we get out of this damn thing, and then I'm getting on with my life. And you can go back to..." I wave a hand absently. "Scamming little old ladies out of their life savings, and holding up banks, or whatever it is you do."

He stops smiling and his gaze drops to the table. "It's not like that."

"I'm sure it isn't," I say. So much for empathy. I did my best, but there's a Walter Wolfe–shaped hurdle between us—and possibly a Legendary Flame–shaped one too—and I'm never going to get over it.

He exhales a long sigh and mutters something, but he pulls off his hat at the same time, so the words are muffled behind wool and I don't catch them.

"What?"

"Nothing." He runs his hands through his hair, but the gesture is rough and agitated.

"No, go on," I push, sensing the fight before it happens. "What did you say?"

"I asked why that was the date you decided to remember. You're such a pain in the ass sometimes."

I recoil at the unexpected declaration. I may be ruder than I should be, but Jasper's been nothing but consideration. I thought he'd call me weird. Awkward. Impolite. "Excuse me?"

He glares at me, lips thin, jaw tense. I should feel bad for upsetting him. We were almost getting along there for a second. But we're not friends. This isn't a teambuilding exercise. We're not forming a Dead Parents Club.

The server comes and deposits Jasper's nachos and a basket of what I can only assume is the magical deep-fried pickles. I grab one, consider swiping it through the little cup of brown sauce the server didn't bother identifying when she dropped it off, decide it's safer not to, and stuff it into my mouth. They must be fresh from the deep fryer, because the mound of food between my lips is an inferno. It's all I can do not to spit it back out, but I won't give Jasper the satisfaction. Instead, I suck a small stream of air, focusing on dropping the temperature at the point of entry as low as I can manage, until the tangy mush finally chills. My lips tingle, as do my fingers, so I take a long drink of water and force myself to swallow.

"How are they?" Jasper asks, giving me an uncertain look. "They're usually pretty hot."

"Delicious," I say with a grin before I grab a second one. I wince as the crispy breading hits my burned tongue, but what do I care? No doubt Indigo is lurking outside the door, waiting to jump me the second we go back outside. I'll have a whole new set of taste buds in no time.

"Look," Jasper says. He reaches for a pickle, but I snag the basket. If he wanted me to taste them, I'm going to eat the whole damn order. Let him ask for more. "Clearly I've upset you."

"No, I'm fine," I say as I swallow again. "I'm just really hungry."

"Morgan."

I eat another pickle. "Like you said. They're delicious."

"I'm really sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." If anything, I should be apologizing for not telling him the whole truth. But let him think I'm a jerk. It's easier.

Also, the tingling in my lips is getting worse, even as the pickles cool. I suck down the rest of my water, hoping to rinse it away. I'm amazed I can feel anything at all, but for good measure I grab the last pickle and jam it into my mouth, chewing so fast I bite my tongue, but hey, what's a little blood on top of the dead epithelial cells?

Except the tingling grows. Actually, it's more like an itch. It's spreading over my scalded nerve endings and slowly making its way to the back of my throat and?—

Oh no.

I glance up at Jasper, who's still watching me unhappily.

"What's in these pickles?"

His worried expression relaxes, his smile grows. "Do you really like them? I know it's not fancy, but?—"

"Jasper, what's in the goddamn pickles?"

His fingers drum merrily on the table as the itching gets worse and adrenaline floods my nervous system, getting ready to do everything it can to keep me alive.

His smile fades. "It's pickles and?—"

"Hey," the server appears, hurrying toward us from the direction of the kitchen. The worry on her face is unmistakable. "Did you say you were allergic to mustard or mayonnaise? Because I might have asked the cook if there was mayonnaise in the pickles and I think I got it wrong. It would definitely explain the look he gave me when?—"

I don't hear the rest. What I thought was a symptom of burning all my taste buds off is actually the sensation of my tongue swelling as my autoimmune system goes into overdrive. I fumble, looking for my laptop bag, but of course it's not here because who brings a laptop on what must essentially be the worst second date they've ever been on? No, my laptop bag—along with the EpiPen inside—is in my car.

"Morgan?" Jasper says as I lean back, trying to find more room to breathe. "Morgan!"

Goddammit.

I haven't had an allergic reaction in close to ten years. I have been deathly careful my entire life, and all it took was one henchman with a greasy food craving to bring it all down.

As my lungs realize there's a problem and my chest aches, I glare at Jasper, whose face has gone white with terror.

"We'll talk about this tomorrow," I gasp.

Will we ever.