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 can’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.
When the food arrives, I pay the delivery guy and step on a piece of paper that’s been shoved under the door.
Eloise.
It’s the same note as before, except I was home all day and didn’t hear her knocking. Maybe I missed it over all the excessive cleansing.
I take the food and my laptop into the living room. I want to google stuff about mental health and dreaming things that then come true. But after pushing on the power button multiple times, followed by every other button on the keyboard, it doesn’t turn on. Dead. Why are all my electronics on the fritz?
I put the ripped blouse in the closet on top of my old sewing supplies, pausing for just a second to touch a bit of satin and chiffon I bought years ago at a craft store in the city. A purchase from back when I first moved here and had design dreams dancing in my head. Dreams that were crushed inch by inch with every day spent at Blue Wave, every time I put on a black or gray sensible outfit, every phone call from Mother exhorting me to work harder, to be better, until there was nothing left.
With purposeful movements, I place my cell phone inside a paper bag and then put in in my briefcase, closing up the whole thing and setting it in the bathroom, under the sink, then closing the bathroom door to keep everything inside. I triple and quadruple check my ducky PJs are in the hamper. Then I put on an old oversize Les Mis T-shirt.
I get in bed and stare at the ceiling.
I can’t sleep, the thoughts spinning and lurching through my mind like a busted merry-go-round.
When Mark first started flirting with me, I ignored him. Avoided him. I thought he was messing with me, and I’m good at avoidance, it’s practically an art. But he was persistent.
After the first month of constant attention, compliments, and flirting, I started to believe he actually liked me.
He told me he appreciated my shyness and nerves. It made me different. Unique. He thought it was cute.
Then we were at the office late one night working on a project alone. He kissed me, and then we . . . well, it went further. And then it turned into a thing. But only around the office. Over the course of a month or two, the thoughtfulness and conversation became less and less until it was purely physical.
I should have stopped it before. I was weak. I am weak, and I regret it. All of it.
This whole day is an exposure of every fault I’ve tried to hide, every time I’ve tried to pretend I’m happy when I’m not.
I lie in the dark forever, judging myself and coming up lacking over and over.
I can’t sleep.
Then the broken sobs whisper through the walls.
This happened last night too. Or this night. Whatever. I thought it was me drunk weeping, but it’s not.
It’s coming from Hugo’s. The music man. Why is he sad? His cries are the perfect soundtrack to the past two days. One day. Ugh.
I take deep breaths and try to calm my mind. I just need some sleep.
Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be Tuesday. This was just a weird blip. It has to be.
Otherwise . . . what if I’m dead? Or something is wrong with me? Anxious thoughts crowd my head. I can’t let myself spiral.
I focus on my breathing.
Everything will work out. It always does . . . doesn’t it?