15
By now, I’m pretty sure Wham!’s “Last Christmas” is what plays over and over again in the ninth ring of Hell. It’s certainly playing in my version of hell right now as I lay in yet another unfamiliar bed. The mattress is springy and cozy, though nothing like the luxury in Flynn’s villa.
Flynn. The memory of him makes me smack my forehead. I can’t believe I almost fell for him again.
It hits me then that the day keeps looping, but the man doesn’t. That can’t be random. That has to mean something.
If this is some cosmic joke, it’s an incredibly specific one. And if Madam Lunas was right—if a year from now I’m supposed to be with my true love—then maybe the point isn’t surviving this day over and over. Maybe it’s about breaking my own pattern.
And so far, I realize I’ve been with guys who take more than they give. Attention doesn’t equal care.
If I’m getting out of this loop, it will be with someone who shows up fully.
Clearly, Dale and Flynn were not the loves of my life. Who’s next? And will he be my true love so I can finally end these cycles?
Reaching my hand out to find my phone, I automatically shut off the alarm, interrupting George Michael singing about saving his heart for someone special.
Why even bother, George? You’ll probably end up with a fuckboy who acts like he’s community property. You do everything for him—put your career on hold, pretend to love mushroom coffee—and then you find pictures of skimpy girls on his phone asking to sit on his face.
I don’t have to check the date to know I’ve started this cycle all over again.
I roll over to find that I’m alone in a dark room and let out a sigh of relief. My head is pounding, and I need a moment to process everything before I find out who I’m spending Christmas Eve with today.
My brain is too fuzzy to even run through the remaining names of my exes. And honestly, if Flynn wasn’t the one, who else would it be? Some of those guys would have had to change significantly in the years since I dated them in order for them to be someone special I’d give my heart to.
But right now, to save me from my own tears, I’m going back to bed.
The savory smell of garlic fried rice pulls me from sleep a few hours later. Am I home? Has Mom prepared her famous island breakfast?
I open my eyes and the light filtering through the curtains is brighter than it was when I first woke up, bright enough now that I really take in my surroundings.
The life-size cutout of Will Ferrell’s “Frank the Tank” character is the first thing that comes into focus. Nope. Definitely not Mom’s house.
The space itself isn’t small, actually, it’s a generously sized master bedroom, but it’s been claimed by the kind of mess only a single guy can curate.
Clothes are scattered across the floor, reminding me of modern art—the kind where the artist splats paint on a canvas.
The furniture doesn’t match, but at least it exists, and there’s an impressive lineup of empty beer bottles decorating the windowsill.
Even from the bed, I can tell they’re international brands—the guy who lives here is a traveler or more likely just a beer connoisseur.
But it’s the room’s decor—or rather, the theme—that really grabs my attention.
The Greek letters Pi Kappa Sigma are everywhere, on mugs, sweatshirts, and plastered on pendants across the room like some kind of fraternity-sponsored wallpaper.
In fact, this space is less of a bedroom and more a shrine to the Kappa Sig life.
I half expect a toga-clad roommate to burst in at any moment carrying a red Solo cup.
That, combined with the incredible cooking smell, tells me pretty much everything I need to know about who’s outside this bedroom door.
And that’s a good thing, because the way my head is still pounding tells me that in this timeline, I partied too hard last night and now I need electrolytes, Advil, and greasy food.
After a quick visit to the en suite bathroom, which is also untidy and lacking any personal touches or evidence a woman has set foot in it, I open the door and pad down a hallway, passing two barely furnished bedrooms. The staircase at the end of the hallway confirms this is a decent-sized house that has been recently updated with new hardwood floors and paint.
My ex may not be tidy or interested in creating a space that feels like home, but this is a nice house, which means he’s doing well.
On the first level, the living room is bare except for a leather couch and matching armchairs.
Down the hallway, there’s a family room that greets me with all the charm of a college frat house that never quite graduated.
I note a sagging sectional sofa that looks like it’s survived one too many all-night pizza and gaming marathons, foosball and Ping-Pong tables, and a massive flatscreen TV mounted proudly on the wall—the altar in this Greek temple.
Surrounding it are faded Kappa Sig pennants.
A string of Christmas lights dangles near the ceiling, their bulbs glowing faintly. It’s hard to say if they’re up for the holiday season or if they’ve become permanent mood lighting—either way, I appreciate the holiday charm.
I follow my nose around a corner into a large, stylish kitchen that would inspire Pinterest boards, not the other way around.
Compared to the rest of the house, this bright kitchen is everything—clean, tastefully designed, with restaurant-grade-looking appliances.
It’s the perfect setting for cooking a five-course meal and hosting a dinner party at the same time.
It would also make a great place for taking foodie photos to post—I palm my phone.
Maybe I can snap a couple of shots for my feed—if I still do that in this alternate future.
Even though I’m surprised by the gorgeous kitchen layout, I’m not surprised to see Anthony, his head of thick, dark, wavy hair bent over the kitchen island where he’s working several frying pans at once on a massive range stove.
Slabs of Spam and fried eggs sizzle delightfully.
Another pan has the garlic fried rice I smelled upstairs.
Beside him on the stainless-steel countertop is a carton of eggs, several chopped vegetables, and packages wrapped in wax paper.
On another counter is a plate of crusty bread and bowls of muesli.
Anthony’s dad is Filipino and his mom has German ancestry, which means he cooks the best comfort foods. My stomach grumbles so loudly I’m surprised he doesn’t hear it over all the sizzling in the frying pans.
It’s shocking to stand barefoot in this fancy kitchen, watching him cook, like it’s any other weekend morning.
We dated in college, where he cooked his famous hangover cure breakfast feasts in his run-down frat-house kitchen. We were only casual—he was a frequent rebound after Dale—but I used to crash at his frat house after game days just to get in on the breakfast action.
I was trying to lose myself with carefree partying to numb the pain of Dale’s breakup.
And if Anthony ever suspected he was a rebound, he’d been too laid back to say anything.
He let me hang out and take photos of his dishes for my feeds, a nice distraction from the loss of singing and music and Dale.
Here in the kitchen, Anthony licks his lips as he cooks, all his mental energy focused on the pan. He’s so cute and locked in, I almost want to take a picture of him now to post online.
What would my caption be? Five-star meal, ten-out-of-ten chef.
I giggle to myself.
“Amazing, right?” Anthony lifts his head from the pan when he hears my laugh, and he greets me with his signature happy-go-lucky grin. He still has his boyish dimples, though his face has filled out a bit and his laugh lines are pretty well defined.
Otherwise, he looks a lot like he did in college four years ago—casual and confident in that carefree “I can’t be bothered” kind of way.
He’s still muscled and lean—which is frankly unbelievable given the amount of beer he put away.
Some people are just luckier in the metabolism department, I guess.
“It smells fantastic,” I agree, stepping closer. Even though it’s my third time loop, I’m still not over how weird and out of body it is to see these guys I once knew so well. They feel almost like strangers to me.
“Island breakfast time. Come get it,” he says in his frat-bro drawl. But hearing him call it island breakfast sends comforting shots through my heart. He grins as he scoops the dish onto a plate. “Spam eggs Benedict with my hollandaise sauce. That’ll soak up some of last night’s party.”
“Wait.” I dig in my pajama shorts and pull out my phone. “Pictures first.”
He grins and poses with the plate angled in such a way that the food is well lit by the bronze pendant lights hanging from the ceiling. I snap a shot with my cell.
“I hope you love it,” he says when he’s finished hamming it up for the pictures and hands me the plate. “If it’s good, I’m thinking this might be a dish on my brunch menu for some Hawaiian vibes.”
“Brunch menu?” I echo. Is he cooking more food? Then I remember it’s Christmas Eve, so maybe we’re having guests?
“Wow, you are hungover.” Anthony laughs as he fixes himself a plate. “For my Asian-fusion comfort food restaurant. I know we discussed opening with dinner to start, but brunch is so popular and the extra buzz would be amazing.”
I freeze, fork hovering over the eggs on my plate. Anthony is opening a restaurant? Did I hear him correctly? Sure, the Anthony I knew was an incredible cook, but never would I have imagined him having the initiative to open his own place. I don’t know whether to be surprised or proud of him.
Fortunately, Anthony isn’t offended by my stunned silence, or maybe he doesn’t notice.
“We can talk about it later,” he says around a mouthful of food, nodding in approval at the taste. “Now stop dallying and get your grub on. Kegmas is in T-minus six hours.”
My fork stops midair. Did he say “Kegmas”?