Chapter 2
2
I know from the moment my eyes pop open that something must be seriously, terribly, god-awfully wrong.
First, I’m tucked in a bed while streams of sunlight pour in through a window. My alarm is supposed to ring long before the sun rises—I squeeze in my prework workout when it’s still dark outside. Even on the rare day I allow myself to sleep past six, my blackout curtains keep out all hints of light. But I’m in a bed dressed with a butter yellow comforter, and that blasted sunlight is streaming through curtains made of a delicate white lace. I’m tucked in bed and everything feels warm and…cozy.
It’s gross.
“Where the fuck am I?” I mutter as I toss aside the offensively cheery blanket. “What the fuck?”
Ridding myself of the confines of the not so unpleasant warmth has exposed something even worse. I’m wearing pajamas. Pink polka-dotted pajamas. The old-fashioned kind, with buttons down the front and an adorable little collar. Well, it would be adorable if I were five. Or lived in the ’50s. Where is my black silk slip nightgown? Today is the biggest meeting of my already stellar career—I don’t have time for whatever the hell this is.
The hair on the back of my neck begins to rise.
As I swing my feet to the floor, more details of the room—the jail cell? the torture chamber?—crystalize.
The painting above the bed, a girl riding a mint green bicycle, a bouquet of brightly colored flowers sitting in the basket.
The furniture, all coordinated and—gag—made of white wicker.
The plush armchair wrapped in a floral fabric any grandmother other than mine would covet.
“Maybe I died,” I muse out loud, still talking only to myself. “This must be my own personal version of hell.” Can’t say I’m too surprised that’s where I ended up.
I open the closet, which is lacking my standard lineup of designer suits and structured separates. They seem to have been replaced by dresses. Lots and lots of dresses, in soft pastels with masses of ruffles, nothing like the LBDs I don on the rare occasion I actually go out for something other than a business meeting. I pull out what looks like the least offensive one, a sky blue concoction. At least, it’s the least offensive until I catch a glimpse of the strawberries embroidered all along the front of the bodice.
I drop the offending garment on the plush white carpet.
I spin in a slow circle, trying to absorb all of the pastel-colored nightmares surrounding me. Except it all blurs together like I’m on a carousel from hell.
And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging over the dresser.
And I scream.
My platinum, ice blond, took multiple bleachings and even more conditioning hair treatments to achieve, perfectly sharp bob is gone. Instead, I have honey blond hair that hangs past my boobs, highlighted and barrel curled like I’m some fucking cheerleader.
And my face. My face is perfectly made up, my skin airbrushed and blemish free. Which means I slept in my makeup, which as Grandmother taught me at the ripe old age of ten, is one of life’s greatest sins. I press said face closer to the mirror, trying to spot any hint of a breakout, but all I see are rosy cheeks in a shade brighter than I would ever dare to wear and lashes that look fake but somehow seem to be real.
I think I’m going to hurl.
Sprinting toward the bedroom door, I throw it open, not knowing what I expect to see, or even want to see, on the other side. I’m sort of hoping the door will open into the fiery pits of the inferno and I can just leap in and put myself out of my misery.
But no flames swirl on the other side.
It’s just your standard living room, complete with a cushy sofa that looks to be covered in blue and white gingham and a million throw pillows, many of which appear to be crocheted.
I force my feet to move, crossing through the living area into a kitchen that I can’t even digest. Suffice to say the KitchenAid mixer is color-coordinated with the cushions on the chairs surrounding the farm-style dining room table.
It’s the little ties that do me in. The cute little bows keeping those motherfucking cushions in place.
I sink down onto the couch—it practically swallows me whole, it’s so plush and overstuffed. I know enough to know I need to drop my head between my knees and try to steady my breathing, but both are easier said than done. Bending in half is hard when I’m fighting against the quicksand of this sofa and breathing is even harder when I realize I must have lost my damned mind.
Either that or I died in my sleep and am currently in the underworld. And honestly, I’m not sure which is preferable at this point.
The last thing I remember is sitting at my desk in my home office, trying to get some work done. Not exactly a singular memory.
I force my lungs to fill with air.
I was irritated, annoyed. Someone had done something to piss me off.
Again, not exactly an unusual set of circumstances.
I’d been on a date right before. Another one of Grandmother’s setups. This one was cute, but not cute enough to distract me from the work I should have been doing instead.
We said our goodbyes and headed home. I went through my normal nightly routine, slipped in between my five-thousand-thread-count sheets, and fell asleep.
And after that, everything goes blank.
I cautiously raise my head, pretty sure I’m not going to pass out.
Examining the facts always helps, so I review them in my mind once again. I was annoyed by my date, went home, tried to work, went to bed. And then?
And then I woke up in the bedroom of some ’90s teen sitcom.
“Phone. I need my phone.”
I rush back into the bedroom, surprised it’s taken me this long. Most days I wake up already reaching for my cell.
Nothing sits on either of the nightstands. I frantically search the floor surrounding the bed, under the pillows, in the crack between the mattress and the headboard.
Nothing.
There isn’t even a charger plugged into the wall, waiting patiently for its companion.
I dash back into the kitchen. Surely a place like this has a landline. This kitchen screams for a yellow phone attached to the wall, the kind with the long curly cord and the spinner thing instead of buttons.
But there’s no phone there either.
No brick-sized cordless phone rests in a station in the living room. Another cursory search reveals no home computer. No laptop. The only piece of technology seems to be the large flat-screen TV, evidence I haven’t gone back in time to the dark ages. I quickly find the remote and turn it on, desperate for some kind of connection with the outside world. But no Netflix or Hulu icon appears. There’s no guide directing me to more than a thousand different channel options. There’s one channel, playing a movie with a dog and a preacher and a woman in a knee-length swirl of a skirt.
I shove my feet into a pair of fluffy bunny slippers and race to the front door. The outside of my prison is just as prettily pristine as the inside, a green lawn that must take buckets of water to keep alive and flower beds filled with blooms that are actually blooming—something I would never be able to manage in real life.
I turn my head first to the right, then to the left, only to find rows of matching houses on either side, as far as the eye can see.
Pushing open the white picket gate—of course there’s a white picket fence—I cross the street, heading toward what looks like signs of civilization. A block away is a street lined with shops best described as “intentionally charming.” Striped awnings and hand-lettered signs and café patios with tiny tables and matching chairs and umbrellas.
I stop the first person I see, a woman in her midthirties with the same cheerleader curls I now have hanging down my back—someone should tell her she is too old to pull off that hair, but then again, so am I. “Hi, yes, excuse me. Who is in charge here, please?” I don’t normally go full “Karen let me speak to the manager” the moment I encounter a problem, but desperate times and all that jazz.
“Well, hi there!” The woman beams, her voice lilting with the barest hint of a Southern accent. “You must be new in town! Welcome to Heart Springs!”
My mind quickly scans a mental Google map, but I know well enough to know I’ve never heard of any place with such a ridiculous name. “Heart Springs? Is that upstate?”
“Upstate?” Her laugh tinkles pleasantly. “That’s too funny!”
“Is it?” Although this whole thing certainly does feel like a sick joke. “I’m sorry, it is very nice to meet you or whatever, but I really do need to speak with whoever is in charge.”
“You mean the mayor?”
“Sure. Yes. The mayor. Where can I find them?”
“She works in the coffee shop, right over there.” The woman points to the nearest building.
Without stopping to question why the mayor works in the coffee shop, I about-face and rush to the door.
“So nice to meet you!” the woman calls from behind me. “Hope you enjoy your stay!”
Not likely , I think, but don’t bother to say. I wave over my shoulder as I push open the door of the shop, a tinkling bell accompanying my entrance. A flyer for an annual Apricot Faire is posted in the window. Just the thought makes my stomach turn, but I push on, needing answers more than I need a dirty martini after a sixteen-hour workday.
The smell inside the cozy café instantly reminds me that I haven’t yet inhaled my standard double espresso. Maybe the lack of caffeine is responsible for the complete collapse of my brain?
An older white woman zips back and forth behind the counter, humming merrily while she preps for the day.
I wait a whole five seconds for her to notice me. When she doesn’t, I march right up to the counter. “Excuse me?” I keep my voice as measured and polite as possible given the circumstances. So, you know, not very.
The woman startles, her gray cloud of hair bobbing as she jumps. “Oh my! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
I manage to lift one corner of my lips in a tight smile. “No problem. I need a double shot of espresso and some information.”
She putters around behind the counter, bringing a pair of reading glasses from the top of her head to her eyes. “A double shot of espresso? Wouldn’t you rather have a vanilla latte or a caramel macchiato? Our special drink of the month is a lavender honey latte and we have pumpkin spice all year round!”
“God no.” My eyes narrow on her as she starts fiddling with the espresso machine, my faith in her abilities to pull me the burst of caffeine I need dwindling. “How about that information while you’re working on that?”
She laughs and it tinkles just like the door chime. I find both sounds equally irritating. “I’m not sure what kind of information I can provide, but fire away.”
“First question is an easy one. Where the hell am I?” I lean both hands on the counter, tempted to vault over the stupidly pink thing and make my own damn espresso.
The woman pulls a tiny mug down from a shelf. “Well, I don’t think there’s any need for that kind of language.”
I wait for her to answer my question, but apparently my use of the word hell has rendered her speechless. I sigh, my thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of my nose. “So sorry. Could you tell me where I am? Please.”
“Heart Springs, of course!” She packs the ground espresso into its pod, and we finally might be getting somewhere.
“Right. That much I’ve already established. But where exactly am I?”
“Where are any of us, really?”
“That is, in fact, what I’m trying to figure out.”
Her laugh titters once again. “You’re too funny, Miss…”
“Andrews. Campbell Andrews. And it’s Ms.” And I’m really not all that funny. I don’t have time for jokes.
The espresso machine roars to life and for a second, all I do is listen to the glorious sound of the rich brew dripping into its cup.
Then the woman turns around, handing me the mug, and for the first time I get a good look at her face. And her nametag.
I almost drop my cup. “Mimi! You were our waitress last night! You left us that passive-aggressive bullshit note on our check!” I look frantically to the corners of the coffee shop, looking for hidden cameras because clearly Punk’d is being revived and I somehow ended up as the first victim. “Seriously, what the fuck is going on here?”
“I have never seen you before in my life, Ms. Andrews.” Mimi’s hands land on her hips. “And I told you there’s no need for that kind of language, young lady.”
I snort. “I’m neither young nor a lady. And excuse the profanity but I’m freaking the fuck out here. I woke up this morning…” I hear the words as they come out of my mouth.
And there’s the answer, staring me right in the face.
Duh.
I haven’t actually woken up yet. Clearly this is all some kind of elaborate dream, the meaning of which I will not be examining further once I do actually stir myself from this nightmare.
“Of course, this is all just a dream. It’s all in my head.” I chug the espresso because I’m not one to leave good coffee behind, even if this is all just my subconscious being a royal prick. “Sorry to disturb you, Mimi, won’t happen again. Though I still think your little note from last night was shitty!”
“See you again tomorrow, Ms. Andrews!”
“You definitely won’t!” I push out the front door of the café, this time enjoying a casual stroll back to the kind of house I would live in only in some obscure alternate reality where I believed in love and marriage and happily ever after and “settling down.”
Since I won’t be in this fairy land for much longer, I take in the sights. The wide expanse of green lawn, the picturesque white gazebo, the sunshine that legitimately warms my shoulders. This dream is in high def and I, for one, appreciate my imagination for putting in the work. I can’t remember the last time I had a dream this vivid. Normally the only thing running through my mind whether asleep or awake is obscure case law.
The row of houses I escaped from are all painted in pastel colors with coordinating trim. Mine is pink with a yellow front door, because of course it is.
I’m approaching that beacon of sunshine I left wide open, ready to tuck my apparently beyond exhausted ass back into bed so this dream can come to an end, when the front door of the house to the left of mine bursts open.
A man, white, tall, brown hair, dressed in a matching plaid pajama set I’ve never seen on a real-life human before, runs down the front steps to his white picket fence, his head turning frantically back and forth, much as mine did just a few minutes before.
And that’s when I stop in my tracks because despite the messy hair and stubbled jaw, he’s immediately recognizable.
“Ben?”
His eyes narrow as he takes me in, approaching me slowly like I’m some kind of monster from under the bed and he needs to proceed with caution. I don’t think I was that much of a bitch last night, but whatever.
I am surprised to see him in my dream, though. I didn’t realize he’d left that big of an impression on me.
“Cam?” His voice is hoarse, still thick with sleep. “Where are we? What’s going on? What’s happening?”
I cross the few final steps separating us, patting his arm like it might bestow some comfort. Hmm. Not a bad bulge of biceps he’s got going on there. “Don’t worry. This is all just a dream.”
“A dream?” He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god.”
“I know, right? I’m going straight back to bed in the hopes of waking up immediately. Props to you though, not many men make it past date one, and you made it all the way into my subconscious!” I start to head back toward the little pink dollhouse.
“Wait, but if this is your dream, then how am I seeing it too?”
I wave at him over my shoulder. “That’s totally something Dream Ben would say.”
Not that I know him well enough to know what Dream Ben would say, but who cares? This is my dream and I’m putting an end to it right now.
I march up the stairs leading to my front door and right back into the bedroom. I tuck myself into those cozy ass sheets, pulling the comforter up to my chin.
I’ve been “awake” for only about an hour, but sleep pulls me under quickly, my brain confident I’ll be for real waking up in my own bed, my own apartment, and my own life soon.