Chapter 3
3
I cautiously open one eye, though I don’t even need to do that much to know that somehow, even after what must be hours of extra sleep, I still have not awoken from my dream.
Sunlight once again shines through the lace curtains (what is even the point of lace curtains?). As I climb warily from the bed, I look down to see the same polka-dotted pajamas, and a quick glance in the mirror shows me I’m hair and makeup ready. At least, hair and makeup ready were I rushing a sorority.
I pinch my arm. It stings, and though my nails are short and painted a pale pink, they leave a mark on my skin.
My stomach spins.
Pinching is supposed to be the test, right? If every piece of media ever written abides by the “pinch me” rule, then Dream Me shouldn’t be able to leave a physical mark.
Something has gone seriously wrong.
“I need to get the fuck out of here.”
I rush toward the closet, rifling through until I find a pair of yoga pants and a matching top that I swear weren’t there before. They’re a disgusting Pepto-Bismol pink, but beggars can’t be choosers. Quickly discarding my stupidly adorable pajamas, I yank on my new clothes. There’s a pair of pristine white sneakers in the shoe bin by the front door; I shove my feet in them and am in the front yard less than ten minutes after “waking up.”
I check the yard to my right, but there’s no sign of Ben. I can’t let myself worry about him right now—it’s every woman for herself. I march down the street, prepared to walk however long it takes to get my mind to shake off this dream. I spend an hour every morning on my Peloton and I live in New York; whatever this tiny speck of a dream town has in store for me can’t compete with the step counts I rack up at home.
I don’t let myself think of the alternative—that this isn’t a dream at all. Surely there is no other explanation. There’s no possible way any of this is real. How could any of this be real?
But if it is, if by some slim margin of chance, I’ve somehow found myself transported through a rip in the multiverse, then I am going to find my way out right now. I’m going to walk myself right back to New York City if that’s what it takes.
I need to get back home. Not just to New York, but to my office. I haven’t missed a day of work in years and I’m not about to start.
My stomach sinks as I realize I already missed a day of work, and not just any day—the day with the biggest meeting of my career.
Grandmother is going to kill me. And then fire me. Not sure which is worse.
But there is no way I’m taking this lying down. I will make my way back home and fix this. I’m resolute and determined. Heart Springs or whatever the fuck it’s called didn’t realize what they were signing up for when they took on Campbell Andrews, but they’re about to find out. I have a goal, and I will achieve it. I don’t know how to do anything else.
And yeah, the walk starts to get exhausting. And yes, it seems like despite the straight path, I’m really traveling in a circle. I suppose that’s to be expected when all the houses here look exactly the same. Surely I’m making progress because the slight ache in my thighs means I’ve been walking for a while.
But the road in front of me looks exactly the same as the road behind.
I wish I knew how much time had passed, but in reality, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t reached my destination, and therefore, I have to keep going.
Finally, who knows how many hours later, I spot a sign of life in the form of the mailman. He’s walking down the sidewalk toward me, and it’s like he appeared out of thin air, whistling a jaunty tune as he tucks envelopes into each mailbox.
But I’m so desperate, I don’t even care where he came from or how he got there. I rush to his side. “Hi, excuse me, could you point me in the direction of New York City? I need to get there as soon as possible, it’s kind of an emergency.”
“New York City?” the man exclaims, a wide grin on his face. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had the fortune of traveling to the big city, ma’am.”
“Yes, yes, I can’t imagine you would. But surely you know the general direction? Am I at least going the right way?”
“Well now, young lady, I don’t think it would be safe for you to venture out to a place like New York City all by yourself. You should probably turn around and head right back home.” He pats me on the shoulder and moves along the sidewalk, heading in the direction I came from.
“Yeah, see, the whole thing is, I’m trying to get back home. New York City is my home!” I call to his back. He doesn’t turn around, his whistling tune fading the farther he gets from me.
I spin back around and may or may not stomp my foot in frustration before I continue on my way.
Eventually, the sun starts to sink, so if nothing else, time does still seem to function here, wherever here might be. I don’t want to admit it, but the more I walk, the less likely it seems that this might be all in my head. Why haven’t I woken up by now?
I pause for a moment, which is a big mistake. Once my muscles are no longer in motion, they seize up.
“Shit,” I mutter, bending over to stretch.
I need to keep going.
But even I can see this has turned into a fruitless mission. I’ve been walking all day and I’m still in practically the same location I was this morning.
My hands fall to my knees, my head drooping. “Fuck.”
I pull myself up straight, pushing back my aching shoulders.
And I turn around, ready to make the long walk back to what I guess is my new home, down but definitely not out.
Only to see said home is a mere ten feet ahead of me. It’s like I’ve been on a treadmill all day, racking up the step count but making zero actual progress.
I trudge the remaining distance and walk back through the gate I never bothered to close.
“I don’t think this is a dream,” a deep voice says.
I turn to face my neighbor’s house and find Ben sitting on the front porch of his matching home, though his is blue, and I’m really not digging the gendered color scheme here. He’s kicked back in a wooden rocking chair like some kind of little old man, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle like this is just another normal day.
“What brought you to that conclusion?” I’ve been thinking the same thing, but I want to hear his reasons too, in case they’re easy for me to refute.
“I saw Mimi.” He gives me a small smile that is possibly meant to be comforting but isn’t really, given the state of everything around us.
I cross to the fence separating our yards. “What did she say?”
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “That’s between me and Mimi. But you should go talk to her.”
“No thanks.” My legs are begging me to sit down, and I know I need to get inside before they can physically hold me no longer. “I’m still ninety-nine percent sure this is all just a terrible nightmare. Therefore, I’m going back to bed and fully planning on waking up in my own apartment.”
“Good luck with that, sweetheart.” He waves me off with a cocky grin, like he has all the answers and I have none. “See you tomorrow.”
Where was all this swagger on our date? If he’d shown even an ounce of this attitude then, I might have at least taken him home for the night and then maybe none of this would even be happening.
I flip him off as I push through my front door. “See you never.”
—
Sunshine warms my face again the next morning.
I don’t need much more than that to know nothing has changed.
I’m still in Heart Springs.
For the third morning in a row, I’m waking up in a bed that’s not my own, in a place I’ve never even heard of. I haven’t been able to check my email in seventy-two hours, which is seventy-one and a half hours longer than I’ve ever gone before. My grandmother has no idea where I am, and though I know she won’t be fretting about my safety, she sure as hell is going to be pissed at me for screwing up a billion-dollar deal. I’m trapped here, with no way of getting home and no way of calling for help, loathe though I am to admit I need it.
We’ve gone beyond something being not quite right and I’ve been pushed over the edge into an unfamiliar emotion: hopelessness.
I throw off the covers and trudge into the living room. Everything looks just as pristine as it did the day before, and the day before that. My dragging feet carry me to the kitchen, where, luckily, I find an espresso machine waiting.
Espresso you make for yourself is never as good as when someone else makes it for you, but if my only other option is another face-to-face meeting with Mimi, who claims not to know me, then I’ll deal with subpar coffee.
After I knock back the shot, I open the door to the pantry. I don’t think I’ve even eaten anything since being here, and though I didn’t feel hungry before, my stomach is suddenly rumbling. And the pantry is full of my favorite snacks, all the junk food I only let myself indulge in on the rare occasions when I lose a case.
I scoop a bag of Doritos and a sleeve of Oreos into my arms, bringing the goods back with me to the couch. I sink—quite literally—into the cushy sofa, flicking on the TV as I open the cookies.
A woman’s face fills the screen as the TV comes to life. She wears a frilly pastel sundress, much like the ones hanging in the closet in my room. Her makeup is simple and natural, her hair curled and hanging over her shoulders.
I try to change the channel, but despite pushing the buttons on the remote and the TV itself, no other choices pop up.
“Whatever,” I grumble through a mouthful of cookie crumbs.
If I’m going to be stuck here in pastel purgatory, I may as well enjoy the break. When was the last time I let myself sit on the couch and just veg? Probably junior high, but even then, I was busting my ass to make straight As and win every speech and debate competition I could find. My mom would always encourage me to take it easy, enjoy time with my friends and not worry so much about silly things like grades and trophies. Which is how she ended up on the other side of the country working for pennies, tapping out on raising me before I even reached high school, leaving me in the care of my grandmother, who got a chance to fix the mistakes she made with her own daughter. Grandmother isn’t one to make the same mistakes twice, which is how I ended up a partner in our family’s law firm. I’ve never regretted not taking my mother’s advice.
But today, I let myself go with it. Minutes bleed into hours. The only time I move from the sofa is to get more snacks. Luckily the pantry keeps a full stock of options and I sample a little bit of everything.
When the first movie—a story about a brunette PR exec who goes back to her small hometown and falls in love with a bakery owner—ends with the woman giving up her dreams to stay in the small town, I throw a Twinkie at the TV.
Fortunately, I have terrible aim.
Unfortunately, as soon as that movie ends, another one begins.
This one is about a blond talent agent who follows her client to a small-town inn where she gets snowed in and falls in love with the owner.
At the end, she quits her agency—the one she founded—to move in and work with her new husband.
By the time the fourth film wraps, a horrifying realization has dawned on me. The towns in these movies, they look alarmingly like Heart Springs. Everything is bright and colorful and clean. The people sound like they’re in a sitcom from the 1950s. All the conflicts resolve in exactly one hour and forty-two minutes.
And I am the big-city girl—brash and “unlikeable” and with a high-powered job that, according to these movies, is making me miserable and sucking away my chance at true love.
I’m a big-city girl and I’m trapped in a small town.
I sit up straight—or as straight as the cushions will allow me to.
I’m a big-city girl and I’m trapped in a small town.
The opening of this story might be familiar, but I refuse to be the kind of woman who abandons her dreams for the love of a small-town man.
Fuck that.
I wipe the crumbs and cheese dust from my hands. And from the fabric of the pajamas I’ve been wearing all day. And from the couch cushions.
I head into the kitchen with new determination. Ignoring the pantry, I find the junk drawer—every kitchen has one. And this one holds exactly what I need: a notepad and a pen.
I take my tools back to the living room and turn my full attention to the TV.
I spend the rest of the afternoon taking notes, paying attention to the hidden nuances of the stories on the screen, the familiar plot points and recurring characters, the common ways the conflicts resolve. Then I use the rest of the night to make my plan.