That summer was so hot that the sweat would dry and stick to my skin and I was constantly resisting the urge to scratch it.  Gross, I know, but I just want to tell it like it is.  Or like it was.  Or maybe like it became.

On the morning of July 8, 2010 I woke up in the grass.  My eyes were pointed straight up at the sky and as a cloud passed overhead all I could think was that the last time I'd really given any mind-space to the clouds was on the evening of July, 8, 2013 when Chuck and I had laid in Zilker Park and he had lain his arm around me and I'd said "That one looks like a giant squid.  Or a space ship."

Fifteen minutes later he'd asked, "How amazing it is that the sky is moving so fast when it doesn't look like it's moving at all?"

"Yeah," I'd said, but I hadn't really been listening.  I should have been.  Every word can be so important.  But the heat makes my brain mushy.

"The squid is gone now," he'd said.  "Sad."

Funny how, laying here in my grandparents' back yard, I missed Chuck.  And technically I hadn't met him yet.

It was too hot to move and the grass was dry from another summer drought.  And I knew for a fact that summers in Central Texas were only going to get worse.  Ever since I found this watch, buried in a pile of Grandma's things, well, let's just say predicting the weather wasn't the only thing I could do.

The cousins and aunts and uncles had picked through everything and it was only a week after her funeral.  I was disgusted.  And I hadn't taken anything -- because what object could replace Grandma?  What could possibly mean anything to me with her gone?  Then I saw the watch.

That was two months ago.  One morning, just a few days later, I'd woke up in Austin, miles from home (or so I'd assumed) holding Grandma's watch, and scared out of my mind.  I was wearing underwear and a tank top and only halfway under a crisp white sheet and the AC was on blast but I'd started sweating almost immediately, my heart racing fast enough to burst from my ribcage.  It is very startling to wake up in a place you haven't met yet.  (I'm still getting used to it.)  That day I held the watch and prayed to go back to where I'd come from, and eventually I came back to the lawn in the back of my grandparent's house.  Well, my grandfather's house now, with Grandma gone.  In the beginning, that was where I always returned.  Maybe because my heart still wasn't ready to let go of her.

On July 8, 2010 I willed myself to move.  I thought If I can just move this one arm I'll make it inside and the AC will be on and I can have a glass of tea and know for sure where and when I am.  But I couldn't ignore the butterflies in my stomach working their way up into my throat.  As nerve-wracking  as it was to not know when you are, it can be scary to remember the future, too.  Even if it was a good nervous.

I thought about the day that I finally admitted to Chuck that I was running loose in time.  It had been four weeks from my grandmother's funeral and I'd been crying hysterically and he couldn't tell why.  Of course -- he had no way of knowing.

"I miss her," I'd said.

And he said "Your mother?"

And I'd assumed that meant that Mom had died too but he'd quickly added "She'll be visiting next weekend."

So I'd told him.  Flat out.  I couldn't keep the secret anymore.  And he'd just said, "Okay."

"Really?  Just okay?" I'd asked.

And he'd started talking about Slaughterhouse Five and I admitted to never having read about Billy Pilgrim and he told me that I would in the fall of 2012 for an English class we'd taken together.  (He'd also reported that I'd mostly used Cliff's Notes.)

But I knew, laying in the grass behind my grandparents' house, that today would make or break all that.  According to the iCalendar on my future laptop today was the day that we'd meet.  A day that I had celebrated with him once already, though I'd mostly seen him three years from now.  We would meet today.  Him, meeting me for the first time. Me, meeting him for the umpteenth time.  His car would break down outside my grandfather's house and he'd ask to use the phone.  And the rest would be history.  Or, you know.

I finally lifted myself out of the grass and run my hands over my arms.  I smelled like dirt and sweat. I needed to shower.  I needed to wash my hair, shave my legs.  But when I heard a car coming up the road, I knew it was him.  Not because I'd been to this day before, but because this feeling in my gut said so.  It was nice -- I hadn't had that feeling in a while.

So I darted inside so I could be the one to answer the door.  When I saw Chuck's face through the peephole I knew what I had to do when he reached the threshold.  Some things are just meant to be, right?  Like Once Upon A Time?

I opened the door and I kissed him.  And he pulled a piece of grass from my hair and said, "Do I know you?"

"You will," I said.  "My name is Julie."

And I held Grandma's watch against my heart. I just knew it was meant for me.

"Chuck," he said.  "And I think I'd like that."