Time of My Life Page 3

  Alex comes jogging back, holding up a safety pin. “Here.”

  I take it, our fingers brushing, eyes locking for a heated split second.

  Alex wouldn’t be greedy in bed, like Mark. He would never use anyone for an escape. Oh no. I bet when Alex takes a woman to bed, he takes his time and makes sure everyone is satisfied.

  Not that I’ll ever know.

  The acidic taste of regret rises in my throat.

  Setting my briefcase on the ground, I twist to work on my shirt.

  “So, how did the meeting go?” he asks.

  I pinch the fabric together with one hand and slip the safety pin in. “Not great.”

  “Oh no. I was going to tease you about the hard-on comment, but now I’d feel like a dick.”

  He smiles, waiting for me to respond to the joke, but it’s not in me.

  “Are you all right? Are you not feeling well, is that why you’re leaving? You seem a little . . . distracted.” He glances back at the building behind us. “You never take a day off.”

  “I’m fine. I—”

  I want to tell him. The words are poised at the tip of my tongue, ready to dive into the open. I want comfort. I want reassurance it will all be okay.

  But I can’t tell him. I’m itchy with embarrassment. Everything is all wrong.

  I want to run away and run into his arms all at the same time. I need to get out of here.

  Finished with the safety pin, I pick up my briefcase. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks though. Bye, Alex.”

  Goodbye forever, an overly dramatic voice in my head intones.

  Wild laughter threatens to erupt out of my mouth, but I choke it down and keep walking. Maybe I should be crying. I mean, everything I’ve been working for is over in a blink, but it’s like it’s too overwhelming to process.

  I don’t know where to go. Back to my empty apartment? I don’t think so. I pass by the Embarcadero train station and keep walking.

  I barely remember crossing Broadway, but I end up in North Beach down by the piers, a wide stretch of sidewalk punctuated every hundred feet or so by wooden docks and a variety of stores and restaurants.

  I don’t know what to do with myself. I have no one to talk to.

  Even if I did, my phone is broken.

  My phone.

  I breathe in the sea- and fish-laced air and sit down on a bench facing the fog-drenched bay. Pulling my phone from my briefcase, I squint at the dead screen. I take it apart, messing with the battery, putting it back together. Nothing works.

  I give up. What does it matter? Who am I going to call? My parents? Ha!

  They are the last people I want to explain my most recent failure to. I slump down in the bench, rubbing my head.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, surrounded by thick mist, tourists, and locals running along the piers. I sit there until the chilly wind from the bay seeps in, my hands go numb, and my feet are freezing in my sensible low heels.

  Eventually I pick myself up and trudge back to the train that will take me across the bay into Emeryville.

  Walking home, I stop in the shopping center near my apartment for Thai takeout and a bottle of wine. Might as well spend money I don’t have on comfort food and booze.

  It’s dark by the time I get home. Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone in my building. And there’s no rap thumping through the walls, so that’s something.

  I open my door and step on a small square of paper that someone must have shoved under the door.

  I set my briefcase and the bag of food on the counter.

  * * *

  You must be at work. I tried to call but your phone keeps going to voicemail. Call me?

  -Eloise

  * * *

  My sister. My sister the actress, who’s already had a successful series on Netflix even though she’s two years younger than me, and she has some fancy director boyfriend she met on set and they’re both in love and beautiful. Oh, and she’s taking a break from acting because she got accepted to Stanford.

  So glad I didn’t come home early and run into her on accident.

  I crumple up her note and throw it in the trash.

  Grabbing a fork, I open the takeout container and shovel in a forkful of yellow curry, but my stomach revolts.

  I can’t eat yet. I put the food in the fridge and then stare at the wine bottle for a second. The top is a screw off.

  Going into the living room, I sit on the edge of the couch. Twisting the cap off the wine, I take a swig directly from the bottle. Then another. And another.

  Deep breath. I screw the lid back on and hold it against my chest before flopping backward onto the couch.

  I gaze up at my ceiling.

  The couch is old and used and a spring digs into my butt. But it’s all I could afford.

  I sit up to drink more before plopping back again.

  Wallowing in despair is inevitable. But my last therapist always told me when it seems like everything is falling apart, focus on the things you can be grateful for. Because there’s always something, no matter how small it might seem.

  I drink more and glance around my apartment. I love it here. It’s small and basic. One bedroom, one bathroom, tiny kitchen and living space, but it’s mine. It’s not like I need anything fancy. I’m not a scientist like my parents—I take another drink on that thought—and I’m not a brilliant hottie like Eloise—I take two drinks on that one. I just need a job good enough to pay for this apartment. This lovely apartment I love. The best part is the tub, one of those old-fashioned claw-foot things.

  More wine goes down my throat. I feel so much better now.

  I love this wine.

  I love my tub. I love my apartment.

  Love is a weird word. Love love love.

  I love Alex. Nope.

  Where did that thought come from? I don’t love Alex, he’s too good for me.

  Someone is crying. Is it me? I pat my cheeks. No. Not me. Another swig of wine down the gullet. I’m not having a meltdown and it’s all thanks to this lovely wine.

  My body is warm. Too warm. I go from warm and fuzzy to hot and uncomfortable in quick succession. Time to go enjoy my tub while I can still afford soap.

  I stumble into the bathroom, setting my wine on the counter, and then tug off my clothes. I hate these clothes. I shove them in the tiny bathroom trash and then get into the empty tub in my bra and undies.

  A quiet sob fills the space.

  Is that me? No, I pat my chest, no sobbing coming from in here. I’m not crying but someone is.

  My eyes drift shut. I’m dizzy. Tired. So tired. Who is crying?

  Ugh. I’m not the only one who had a terrible Monday. I’m so glad this day is over.

  Chapter Four

  Buuuuuurp.

  Groaning I roll over, tugging my pillow over my head.

  What the heck?

  It’s the same song. Spackle me? Is that what he’s saying?

  Sleep recedes, reality intrudes. Brain fires up, trying to make sense of the noise.

  Does the neighbor play this every morning? I guess I wouldn’t know, since I’m usually gone by now. But today . . . I have nowhere to be today, because I am un-gainfully unemployed. I guess I should get up and look for a job at least. But I don’t want to do anything except hide forever.

  I’m probably hungover.

  I take a second to assess my physical well-being, bracing myself for pain, but . . . I’m fine. My brain is clear, if still slightly groggy from sleep. No aches or pains. My head should be killing me with the racket thumping through the walls. But there’s nothing. No dry mouth, no nausea, no anything.

  I’m not hungover at all, which shouldn’t be the case since I don’t drink much and the amount I ingested yesterday was enough to inebriate at least three of me.

  Wait, didn’t I fall asleep in the bathtub last night? I must have been really out of it because I don’t even remember climbing into bed.

  Knock knock knock.

  Someone’s at the door. What time is it?

  Stumbling out of bed, I glance down. I’m in my ducky PJs. Didn’t I throw these in the hamper yesterday?

  More knocking. Maybe it’s Eloise stalking me since my phone is still dead.

  My phone. Which is on my bedside table. I pick it up and stare at the blank screen. Didn’t I mess with it yesterday and throw it in my briefcase?

  I didn’t touch my briefcase once I started drinking, so it should still be in the . . . nope. I come to an abrupt halt next to my desk. The briefcase is here. On the floor, perpendicular to the wall. This is where I normally put it, but last night, I dumped it in the kitchen. I know it.

  Knocking again.

  “Coming! I’m coming.”

  I open the door.

  The neighbor in the red robe. He’s knocking on Hugo’s door again.

  “Hugo! Come on, man, it can’t be that bad.”

  I blink at him. Is this like, a daily routine they have?

  He pounds on the door again. “It’s Monday! I have a meeting in thirty minutes, Hugo. Help me out here, huh?”

  “Monday?” The word whispers out of my mouth, inaudible under the music.

  No. That’s not right. What is this, some kind of performance art or something?

  I stare at my neighbor until he turns away from Hugo’s door and catches me.

  “Hey.” He nods and shuffles over to his door, across the hall from mine.

  “I’m sorry, did you say Monday?” I yell over the din.

  “What?” A crease forms between his bushy salt-and-pepper brows.

  “Today is Tuesday,” I tell him.

  He frowns. “No. It’s Monday.”

  “It c
an’t be Monday. Yesterday was Monday.”

  He rolls his eyes and pulls his own phone out of a deep pocket in his robe. “Here.” He holds it up, facing me.

  “It’s the—” I blink at the impossible date. “It is the seventh.” I’m frozen, staring at the digital June 7th like it might morph itself to 8th right before my very eyes.

  When he pulls the phone away, I grab his arm to keep it in my sight. “It’s the seventh.” It’s really the seventh. “Oh my gosh I had the worst dream last night.” I release him to press a hand to my head.

  I can’t process this.

  “Oh crap, I’m late. Again!” I spin around and slam the door behind me.

  Dizzy with adrenaline and nerves and confusion, I get dressed and grab my makeup bag. Déjà vu rushes through me. This is so bizarre. The outfit I laid out is there, on the chair in my bedroom. There’s no tear in the side of my blouse, no gold safety pin from Alex. I smooth it out, staring hard at the side that was ripped. Yesterday. Or so I thought. Was it really a dream? I’ve never had such a vivid dream. Or nightmare, more like. But it didn’t really happen. It couldn’t have.

  Relief blows through me like a spring breeze. I won’t get fired. Things will be back to normal. I’ll do fine on my pitch. I won’t get fired. It will be great.

  But the fuzzy, warm feelings are short-lived.

  On the train, it’s just like my dream. Redhead with bright clothes. Business dude flailing his hands and talking.

  The train lurches and I reach for the pole again.

  I lift my hand into my field of vision. Again with the brown questionable substance.

  I stare at it, my mind going a mile a minute, my heart picking up in time with my racing thoughts. What if I’m psychic now? Is this what it’s like for psychic people? One day you know everything that’s going to happen?

  I should be rushing to work, but the sense of discombobulation won’t leave and it makes me feel like I’m walking through water.

  “Hannah, can you—?” The words stall out in my mouth.

  Her nose twitches like she’s smelling something rank. Exactly like in my dream.

  “Hey, Jane.” Presley appears behind her, a brow puckered. “You look like you need a sec. I’ll tell the team you’re here and will be with them in a minute.”

  I can’t even say thanks this time. I nod and turn in the direction of the bathrooms.

  But not before I catch Mark’s sly wink, making me flinch.

  I approach the hallway to the bathroom like a heroine in a horror flick approaching the basement with a broken light.

  I want to wash my dirty hand more than I want to breathe, but . . . if Alex . . .

  “Hey, Jane.” He emerges from the hallway leading to the restrooms and stops in front of me.

  I exhale a relieved breath. And then I stare. He’s wearing the same shirt. The Led Zeppelin tee I got dirty yesterday.

  I look down at my hand. Well, at least this is different. Not everything matches my nightmare Monday.

  “Your interview is today, right?” he asks.

  I lift my gaze to his. “Have you ever had déjà vu?”

  His brows lift. “Yeah, sure.” Head tilts. “Are you okay?”

  Am I okay? “I had a terrible nightmare and it’s like . . . it didn’t end.”

  A wrinkle forms between his brows. “Is there anything I can—”

  What am I doing, telling Alex about my problems? Like he needs a reminder about how pathetic I am. “It’s nothing. I gotta go. I’m late.”

  I step around him and make it to the bathroom, once again engaging in a futile attempt to fix my hair and makeup. I take a few deep breaths. I can do this. But can I? Can I handle being fired again? What if it doesn’t happen the same? Maybe it will be different. It has to be different. With Alex, it was different.

  Then it’s back down the pristine hallway of doom.

  I open the conference room door, holding my breath.

  Stacey, Blade, and Drew are all there. Dressed the same, sitting the same on those damn pillows.

  “Good morning. Sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s fine, Jane. Please, have a seat,” Stacey says.

  I don’t sit. There’s no way I’m repeating the fart noise from yesterday. I hand out the materials and loom over them like some kind of awkward overlord.

  This is the worst.

  Don’t panic, Jane. Breathe.

  But my newfound psychic ability doesn’t cease the inevitable conclusion.

  I give my pitch. The same, practiced pitch.

  And it’s the same exact shit show where everything they said in my dream is repeated nearly verbatim.

  I don’t fit in.

  Okay, universe, got the message during middle school but feel free to keep it coming.

  I leave the conference room just as I did yesterday, but the shock and dismay and depression—which are all still there but not as prevalent—are being shoved aside in favor of confusion and panic.

  I have to get out of here. I need space to think.

  Even my thoughts are the same.

  Then Mark is there, grabbing my hand. I follow him on autopilot. Again I’m tugged into the closet. Even knowing the conclusion of this particular story line, I don’t say no. I don’t put up a fight. I let it happen.

  I should tell him no. After all, he’s using me. I’ve known, probably the whole time, and just didn’t want to believe it. I shouldn’t do this. Logically, I know it, but the truth is I crave the contact, such as it is. I’m using him as much as he’s using me. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make sense.

  And I still do it.

  My shirt rips. I didn’t even feel the nail poking me this time.

  What is wrong with me? What is wrong with today?

  Mark is talking. I don’t have to listen to know what he’s saying.

  It’s the same one-sided conversation, made even more so because I don’t think I could speak up if I tried.

  “I know she’s only worked here for a few months, but she seems to like you, so I just thought you might have some inside intel.”

  Without a word in response, I straighten my clothes and leave him in the closet.

  And then, I’m back at my desk, staring at the gray stapler set precisely in the corner.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Presley.

  I meet her worried gaze. “I’m not sure.”

  “How did it go?”

  I stare at her for a few long seconds and then step to the side, toward the exit.

  “Wait, do you want to talk about it? We could take an early lunch.”

  My head shakes slowly. “Maybe tomorrow.” My gaze tips down to the hole in my nicest shirt. “I should have been prepared for this,” I mutter.

  “Prepared for what?”

  My head snaps up. “Nothing.”

  Outside, as I walk briskly away from the office, it happens again. Footsteps behind me.

  I turn around before he speaks.

  Alex stops a few feet away, concern scrawled across his face. “Hey, Jane. You okay?”

  “I . . . I’m fine.” I’m not fine. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the tear in my shirt. I need to get out of here. Run. Hide. My shock is wearing off and my brain is screaming danger, danger.

  “How did it go?”

  “Um. It was fine. Just fine.”

  “Are you all right? Are you not feeling well, is that why you’re leaving?” He glances back at the building behind us. “You never take time off.”

  “It’s nothing I . . . yes, I might be coming down with something.” I look away from his concerned gaze. It’s almost too much to take after what I just did with Mark in the closet. Again!

  I don’t deserve sympathy. I deserve everything this horrible day has thrown at me. Twice.

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “No. No thanks. Bye, Alex.”

  There’s no wandering the piers for me today. I take the next available train home.

  This time, I’m not drinking.

  Instead, I stress clean, scrubbing my frustrations out on my bathtub, the grout in the kitchen tiles, even the baseboards while my mind tries to make sense of everything that happened today. Yesterday. Whatever. When I’m done, I’m hot and sweaty and starving, and I still have no idea what the heck is going on with my life. I order delivery from the Elephant Bar down the street, too scared to leave my apartment again. It’s a jungle out there.