18 #2
But I can’t get in his car. My heart feels like it’s breaking into a million pieces, and I know if I have to sit beside him and pretend like anything is normal, I will explode. So I shake my head instead. “I need to walk. Get some air.”
“Marygrace, come on,” Robbie protests. “I can’t leave you alone.”
I turn away from him. “I’m full-grown, Robbie.”
“No, I’m not saying you’re helpless.” He pauses. “You’re strong, so much stronger than me.”
I swallow. “Goodbye, Robbie.”
“At least take my coat,” he calls out after me.
I pause. If that’s what it takes for him to go. I nod okay.
His coat smells like pizza and spices from Anthony’s house, but when I slide my arms into the sleeves, I catch the old familiar scent of my friend: pine and vanilla. It feels like coming home, which brings a lump to my throat.
His lips turn up in a half smile. “Merry Christmas, MGS.” Our eyes lock. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He gets in his truck and, with a solemn nod, drives away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, sinking into his jacket, tears pricking my eyes. Is it my fault that I’m trying to find something as elusive as love?
You’re a relationship chameleon, Robbie said.
It’s not true, is it? I would have argued with him before, but after the last few days of time loops, I am seeing a different picture.
I set off walking down the sidewalk, hustling to keep my blood flowing.
As I walk, my mind flashes through the chapters of my dating life like scenes in a nineties movie montage.
With Dale, my rock band boyfriend, I became his biggest fan—literally a full-time groupie, chasing his gigs, his schedule, his spotlight.
Then came Flynn, my finance bro boyfriend. I lived the one percent life, dressed the part, played nice at every cocktail party, but deep down, I was constantly bending to fit into his world, worried about what everyone thought of me.
And now there’s Anthony, my party boyfriend and restaurant owner. With Anthony, I don’t think at all. I have no pressure, no second-guessing, just updating his feeds and making sure his followers adore him.
I shut my eyes as Madam Lunas’s words come back to haunt me.
In one year, I will be with the love of my life.
But how will I know who the love of my life is? These loops seem to be doing nothing but proving who isn’t the love of my life.
I’m walking for so long I don’t notice I’ve made my way into town until a blinking light catches my eye.
I glance up to find a red-and-blue OPEN sign next to a door that says TIME STANDS STILL.
Well, my attempt to knock myself out on ice didn’t work, so maybe some shots will finish the job.
The bar is exactly what you’d expect on Christmas Eve: a soft glow of fading alcohol brand lights mounted haphazardly along the walls, cheap tinsel garlands drooping a little from too many years of service, and a jukebox in the corner crooning—what else—“Last Christmas.” Perfect. Hit me below the belt, Universe.
The crowd is a patchwork of solitary figures hunched over their drinks—men and women staring into glasses like they’re hoping to find answers at the bottom, a few muttering at the TV over the bar, others just quietly keeping their own company.
I slip onto a stool at the bar to join them, the leather seat cool against my legs, the countertop faintly sticky from someone’s spilled cider. Just another soul looking to drown herself into oblivion. At least it comes in a tiny shot glass with salt on the rim.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks.
My body tenses as I recognize that accent and singsong voice.
I look up to find Madam Lunas grinning at me. Her midnight-blue sweatshirt twinkles with silver stars and crescent moons. She winks and it feels like a floodgate opening. All my anger and confusion come barreling back, fueled by my fight with Anthony and the lecture Robbie gave me.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I moan. If anyone at the bar notices my anger, not a one blinks.
“I’m not doing anything to you!” she responds, filling a glass with water.
“Something stronger,” I say. She shrugs and puts two glasses on the bar, then plunks down a bottle of whiskey. “It’s nothing you didn’t ask for, anyway,” she muses as she pours it neat.
“When does it end?” I ask, throwing back my shot and then out of spite grabbing hers. I grimace as the liquid burns down my throat. “Is it when I’ve finally found the person I’ve slept with who miraculously isn’t a dick?”
“You mean the love of your life?” Madam Lunas corrects. “That’s not for me to decide. That’s up to you, anak.” I make a face at her using the term of endearment my mom uses.
“But how can I decide if I don’t know what I’m doing?” I ask, reaching for the bottle.
“You have to figure out what you’re doing,” she says.
I squeeze the bottle tight. I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe I never did.
“No.” I lean toward her. “You have to help me. Show me how.”
She sighs. “I will try—”
“Barkeep!” someone calls down on the other end of the bar. She looks at me sadly, sympathetically, like my mother. God, I miss my mother.
“You will figure it out, my dear. I believe in you” is all she says before she leaves.
I snort. Figure it out? The only thing I’ve figured out is that I don’t belong here.
I lift the bottle and raise it as a toast—beer before liquor, never sicker—and let its contents take me away.