I think Alex follows me, or tries to, but I lose him, passing through a busy crowd of people forming in front of the Saloon. My surroundings are a blur of streetlights and buildings and traffic and pedestrians. I focus on my steps, one at a time, something to focus on while I work to calm my galloping heart.
I keep going, on and on, until I can breathe again and the panic subsides. I’ve walked half the damn peninsula, chugging up and down hills, before my body settles down.
What is wrong with me? Why did I run from Alex? He tells me he likes me and we nearly kiss and I bolt? This is something I want, isn’t it?
I like Alex. I like him more than he could possibly like me. And instead of reveling in a win for once, I push it away.
Why does my body fight me at every turn?
I say I want to be happy. I think I want to be happy, but when potential happiness is standing right in front of me, I flee like it’s going to chew me up, spit me out, piss on me, and then set me on fire.
I stop next to a Buddha statue and glance around. I’m in a park. The Japanese Tea Garden. Lanterns are set every few feet, glowing soft circles of light over the bushes, greenery, and rocks. But most of the park is a blob of black in the darkness. I’ve been here before, with Eloise. It’s pretty at night. But dark. I shiver and tug my jacket closer.
This place usually closes at five. And it costs to get in during the day. How did I get in here?
I frown at Buddha. Who knows? Magic tea garden, I guess.
My legs are tired. I plop down on the walkway and stare up at Buddha. He’s sitting in the lotus position, the ornate circle of metal around his head etched with a flowery pattern. One of his hands is lifted, palm facing me, fingers curved. The other is near his lap, palm facing the night sky. He looks so peaceful. So sure of himself.
The universe is shoving happiness in my face and I’m the one blocking it out. The psychic teen was right.
Why do I do that?
I don’t deserve happiness, so even as I want it and crave it and desire it, I run away from it. I’m not good enough. Never good enough.
You’re not trying hard enough.
You can’t make a living with costumes.
You need to set realistic goals, like Eloise did.
I’ll never live up to my parents’ expectations.
So then why do I keep trying? I should just do whatever I want, right? But they aren’t wrong about everything. I need a job to live.
I blow out a breath. I can’t think about my future career until I can get to tomorrow.
And I won’t be able to make time move forward unless I get “through it with love” or whatever. I’m already a slave to this time loop. I can’t continue to be a slave to my anxiety on top of that.
Maybe if I do this, pursue this thing with Alex, time will go on. If I open myself up to it all, good and bad. Love and rejection. Is that why I run from good things? Because if I get them, I’ll find a way to screw them up?
Fear. It’s my own fear, my own fake tunnel holding me back from everything.
The brain telling me I’m in danger when I’m not.
I’m taking control back, and it starts now.
“I have to tell you something, and I really hope you won’t hate me.”
Even knowing in advance about this entire conversation, and where it leads, what’s going to happen, I’m jittery and ready to bolt.
My responses are different though, now that I know everything he’s going to say and have had the luxury of thinking through the whole thing. Each time now, our conversation veers in slightly different directions.
And I keep getting stuck in my head and trying to calm myself down, which leads to silence, which leads to Alex speaking before I can get a word out.
“I’m not doing this right. I really just wanted to ask you to dinner, or coffee sometime or something?”
My tongue is thick, stuck to the roof of my mouth. I’ve already gone through this. Just say yes, Jane.
“Here’s where you tell me you like me too, and you want to hang out sometime. Or you tell me to get lost. One of those.”
“I do.” Wait, that sounds like we’re getting married. “I mean, I like you too, Alex. I’m definitely not telling you to get lost.” I’m flushed. Overheating. With nerves or exhilaration, it’s a combination of all the things.
My voice is high and squeaky. I can’t believe I’m saying this to his face. Doubt pinches at me with crab claws. What if he goes “ha, sucker!” once I get these words out? I shake my head, like that will shake away the doubt. “I guess I’m having a hard time understanding why you would want to . . . drink coffee or eat in my general vicinity.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, because I’m a neurotic mess who can barely hold it together and you’re . . . you.”
His head tips to one side. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“I don’t think that’s my problem.”
His brows lift and he huffs out a laugh. He watches me for a second, considering. “Do you remember when we first met?”
“Of course. When you hired Blue Wave to help you market Bubble Crush and you came in to talk to the staff and pick your team.”
“Right, but do you remember before the meeting started?”
“I remember.” He’d been alone, in the hall where the bathrooms are, slumped against the wall, pale, sheened with sweat. I recognized the signs of a panic attack and talked him through some breathing exercises until he was calm enough to join the meeting. I’ve had some of those moments myself.
“You had no idea who I was.”
I shrug. “I thought maybe you worked for Alex Chambers, not that you were the Alex Chambers. I expected some slick guy in a suit and you were wearing, well, something a lot like this actually.” I use my free hand to motion at his faded Led Zeppelin tee.
He puts a hand to his chest, his mouth dropping open in mock surprise. “This isn’t slick?”
“I mean, it’s something.”
He laughs, then hesitantly reaches for me.
I glance down.
His fingers engulf mine, long and graceful, artist’s fingers, even though he’s an app developer who plays mediocre guitar.
“I never explained to you what happened that morning.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“I know I don’t. But I want to.”
He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. Maybe he’s married. Maybe he’s an alien. Maybe I need to stop talking to myself in my head and pay attention.
“When I was a kid, I had cancer.”
This is not what I was expecting. “Oh. Alex.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I mean, I’m fine now. It was acute lymphoid leukemia. It has a high survival rate, one of the less aggressive forms of the disease. But I still have to get tested every year, to make sure it hasn’t come back.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Are you okay? Did it come back?” Is that why he was panicking? That was six months ago.
Holy shit, is he dying?
“I’m okay. I’m fine. But it’s always there, you know, in the back of my mind. Will it come back?”
“How did I not know about this?”
“It’s not something I share with anyone except my closest friends. And I was a minor, so it’s not like it’s public knowledge.”
I’m still absorbing the fact he shared something so personal with me, something he hardly tells anyone, when he keeps talking.
“No one is digging up my dirt much to care at this point. Besides, I didn’t want to use my cancer story to succeed. I wanted to do that on my own merits, you know? But every time I go and get tested—like I did that morning—I freak out a bit. And my point is, I guess, I understand what it’s like to feel out of control of your body, and it’s nothing that makes you any less worthy than anyone else. If anything, it makes you stronger.”
I shake my head. “Freaking out over cancer is normal, expected. I never had cancer. I have no reason to be afraid all the time. You do so many things without fear. You came into Blue Wave that first day, and even after the hallway incident, you walked in there and told all of us all about your failures. Total strangers, you just admitted all your mistakes like it was nothing. And in there,” I tilt my head in the direction of the Saloon, “on stage. I could never do that.”
“Sure you could.”
I give a short laugh. “You act like you’ve never seen me present in meetings.”
“Everyone gets nervous in front of a crowd. Including me. You hate talking in front of people, and you don’t like being the center of attention, but the important part is that you do it anyway. We have that in common. You think it makes you weak, but I think it makes you strong.”
If only he knew how long it took me to even brave this conversation. “I can’t believe you get nervous in front of a crowd. You do it with a lot more finesse and a lot less sweating.” I grimace.
He laughs and steps closer. “How’s the sweating right now? Is it okay?”
I shake my head. “It’s dubious at best. Subject to change at a moment’s notice.”
“I think I’ll risk it.” He takes another step in my direction. “And if I were to, say, ask you to dinner sometime or something, you would say . . .”
I laugh. “That’s very subtle. I would say yes. Definitely yes.”
He squeezes my hand. I stare down at our linked fingers. Am I floating? I must be floating. I can’t feel my head. Or my legs. My whole body is made of air. This is so surreal.
I take a breath and then one of his hands lifts to my cheek, tilting my head back. His lips brush against mine, a soft slide of pressure. He pulls back to look into my eyes.
His hand releases mine to cradle the other side of my face. He smiles once, a quick movement, his whole face alight for a blink of time, and then he’s kissing me again and holy crap he is good at this. His lips are warm and soft, but unrelenting. He kisses like he does everything else, with confident abandon, forcing my complete surrender. When his tongue brushes against mine, my insides turn into goo and my knees get weak. His arm moves around my waist, pulling me closer.
I don’t have any time to worry about my lips being chapped or my breath smelling like booze or any of the things I normally fret over because my mind is full of Alex. Only him. His smell, his fingers on my waist, the firm warmth of his body pressed against me. I push closer, craving more, needing all of it. His hand is a tender pressure on my face, fingers tracing my cheek. My arms are trapped between us and I pull them out, with every intention of wrapping them around his neck, but instead I accidently knock him in the chin with the backs of my hands.
He jerks back.
“Oh gosh, I’m so, so sorry.” Heat floods my face. I’m sure I’m bright red. I’ve ruined this magical moment.
He’s stunned for a second and then he laughs, exposing the strong column of his throat.
“Jane.” He leans his forehead against mine, still chuckling. “Don’t worry, it’s perfect.” Hot breath puffs against my lips, his mouth only inches from mine, a tempting torment, but then he pulls back. “So, dinner? Tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
It’s not perfect. Our first kiss and I punched him in the face.
But the bright side is I get a redo.
This time, I’m ready. I keep my hands at my side so when he leans in, I immediately raise them to his shoulders, sliding up to his neck as his mouth hits mine.
It’s just as magical as before. More magical, since the threat of punching him in the face has been eliminated—for now.
I can’t believe I’m actually kissing Alex. Alex! Even in my deepest, most secret fantasies, wishing for him to be mine was like wishing to become a superhero, or that I could eat nothing but carbs for the rest of my life and not gain a pound, or for the existence of an incorruptible society.
This has to be what will get me through this day and on to the next. Granted, a kiss isn’t love. But his kiss is . . . everything. His mouth incites a riot of need. His hands generate waves of desire that coil around me in a tight vise of want. His body pressed against mine triggers a rush of uncontainable heat. Nothing in my limited experience compares to this kiss.
I drop my hands and wrap them around his waist, wanting to be impossibly closer. We share air, breathing together, his hands curved around my neck, tilting my head to the side so he can linger and nip at my bottom lip. I groan into his mouth, desperate for more.
A wolf whistle breaks through the lust haze, and Alex pulls back as people step around us, laughing.
Breaking apart, we stare at each other, breathing heavily.
Oh. Right. We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk on Grant Avenue.
He leans in again, hands gripping my waist. Then he rests his forehead against mine.
“So. Dinner? Tomorrow?”
Chills weave up my spine, driving away the desire burning me up only moments ago.
“Dinner. Tomorrow,” I agree. Because what else can I do? There will be no dinner tomorrow. But the knot in my chest lightens a little. There might not be dinner, but there will be another first kiss, and that is something to look forward to.
Maybe this isn’t such a terrible day to relive after all.