Chapter 16
“Thanks for that, Amelia,” I say, when we’re far enough out of the town square that I’m sure Liam won’t overhear us. “ You upchucked all over your bed? ”
“I had to move the goodbyes along,” Amelia says. “With your topsy-turvy stomach now full of hot chocolate, I was obviously saving you from an even more embarrassing situation. You’re welcome , Libby.”
The look she gives me is pointed, but then we both burst out laughing.
We’re back at our parents’ house less than ten minutes later, which is when I realize I forgot to get the bread. I’m also still wearing Liam’s toque. “Do you happen to have Liam’s number?”
“Sure,” Amelia replies, taking my coat and hanging it up. “How come?”
I hold up the wool beanie. “He loaned me this, but I forgot I was wearing it.”
“You can drop it off at Slice of Life. He’s there most days,” Amelia replies. “Or I can give it to Beckett. I’m meeting her and some friends at Beans and Brews later.”
Now I watch her carefully, trying to see if her face gives anything away when she mentions Beckett.
But her cheeks are pink from the cold, and she’s busying herself with the hangers, so I can’t tell.
They’ve been good friends for years, but I have no idea how they went from that status to getting married in less than a year.
Another example of what I gave up, relocating to Toronto: I’m out of the loop when it comes to what’s going on with my family.
Except I can’t just blame the distance. I’ve been self-absorbed, laser-focused on my career, on my relationship with Austin—I can’t even be bothered to check my voicemail most days.
My conversation with Claire, about buying my parents’ medical practice, comes to mind. The guilt heaps on.
“Hey, about this morning,” Amelia says. “Whose wedding were you talking about?”
“I was hallucinating, obviously.” The easiest explanation is usually the best one. “Dehydration can do wild things. I see it all the time in the emergency room.”
She squints, not buying it. “I need you healthy, Libby. We have a lot to do to get ready for the you know what ,” she says, whispering the last part from behind her hand as she shuts the closet door.
“Honestly, I don’t know how you guys handle medical stuff.
Good luck to me if I ever have a kid! One stomach flu or croupy cough and I’ll probably lose it. Melodramatic Mila, right?”
Amelia’s laughing at herself, but I’ve gone quiet—thinking of what she’s just said. We have a lot to do to get ready for the you know what. No, Amelia, I do not know what.
Also? If this isn’t all a dream, or some coma-induced hallucination, then Amelia is pregnant.
Or will be this time next year. Yet standing here with me in the foyer of our parents’ house, she has no clue what’s to come.
The lightheadedness returns, the energy leaving my body.
Do not pass out, Elizabeth. Don’t you dare.
“Libby? Are you okay?” Amelia holds out her hands, as though saying, “calm down, everyone calm down.”
I don’t respond, only shake my head.
“Is the hot chocolate looking for an exit plan?” she asks nervously. “Do you… need something?”
I don’t like stressing her out, but it’s easier to pretend I’m sick. My mind is a soupy mess, and it’s stressing me out. I’m not used to feeling unmoored, as typically the more chaotic a situation is, the steadier I am. “You were right. Hot chocolate… bad idea.”
I slap a hand to my mouth and race up the stairs, hearing Amelia shout, “Parents, we have a hot-chocolate situation! This is not a drill!”
I’m lying on my bed, pretending to be “napping,” but I’m paralyzed with indecision.
I’m afraid to do anything (what if I’m changing the future?) but also afraid to do nothing (what if I’m stuck here?), and the back-and-forth is giving me a tension headache.
A buzzing interrupts the stillness, followed by the tune “White Christmas.” It’s Austin, and I answer right away.
Might as well let this play out however it’s going to.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Better,” I reply, but I’m distracted. I’m riffling through my overnight bag, looking for the bottle of ibuprofen I’m sure I tossed in. Though in this timeline I have no memory of packing the bag. Or why I’m home two days earlier. “My mom gave me ondansetron.”
Wait. No, she didn’t. That was in the other version of this home-for-Christmas mash-up.
My heart beats faster as panic attempts to worm in.
I glance at the contents of the duffel bag, now strewn across the bed.
Pair of jeans. Two sweaters. One of Austin’s sweatshirts that he hasn’t worn in ages, which I found at the back of the closet.
Leggings. Three pairs of socks, none of them matching. Black bikini bottoms. No ibuprofen.
I roll my eyes at the bikini bottoms, remembering how I thought they were underwear when I race-packed last year. I was exhausted after a long shift and worried about Mom. I ended up buying a package of Fruit of the Loom underwear—bright white, full coverage style—at Everhart’s.
“Anyway, I feel more or less fine now.” I continue sifting through the socks. Yep, none of them match.
“That’s a relief. Those tickets were not cheap,” Austin replies.
I stop, a black sock in one hand, grey in the other.
Who says that, especially when the trip is a gift?
Then I try to recall if we had a conversation like this last year about the plane tickets, but can’t.
I probably would have laughed off his comment, despite its making me feel uncomfortable.
Austin makes plenty of money, and he isn’t typically one to scrimp on anything.
But in this bizarre moment in time I’m reliving for reasons unknown, his comment lands all wrong. I fight the urge to simply hang up.
“I’ve got back-to-back surgeries the day you get home, but I’ll come over to your place after I’m finished,” he continues. “That should give you enough time to pack. We can order in, and—”
“What?” I stare at the phone on my bedside table, and for a moment there’s silence on his end as well.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Austin finally says.
“I can’t come home ,” I say. Oddly, it feels strange calling Toronto home , even though it is my home. “I need to stay here.”
I’m petrified of leaving Harmony Hills right now.
I still don’t understand what’s happened, or how permanent this time hop is going to be.
For all I know, when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll be back in the proper year, and Austin and I will be broken up, and Amelia will be married, and things will make sense again.
I obviously can’t leave with things as they are now.
“What are you talking about?” A hint of irritation in his voice. “You’re supposed to drive back the morning after the party.”
“Wait… there’s a party?” Is that why I’m home early? For a party?
“Babe, are you okay?” Austin asks, the irritation replaced with concern.
“Of course I’m okay!” Easy, Elizabeth. “Sure, the party. I’ll be home the day after that.”
Now I have to figure out what this party is, and what it has to do with me.
Austin starts talking about a recent surgery, and I mostly tune him out as I stuff the clothes back into the duffel bag. Austin’s sweatshirt from his undergrad at Queen’s falls out from the pile, and I reach for it. That’s when I feel something solid and square stuck in the sleeve.
Snaking my fingers down the sweatshirt’s arm, I touch the item, held in place by the cuff. I tug it out, then promptly drop it on the bedspread like it’s burning hot.
The blue velvet box—the sort that holds something as sparkly as it is life-changing—rests in the folds of the quilt. Austin’s voice drones on through speakerphone. He’s shifted back to the trip. “Hopefully they’ll upgrade us… You should see the suites; you’ll lose your mind…”
The velvet is soft against my fingertips. With shaky hands, I slowly open the lid. The hinges are stiff, and it resists for a moment before releasing with a satisfying “pop.” The gasp I let out is involuntary.
“Uh, Austin, I have to go.” I’m abrupt, interrupting him as he’s telling me about our hotel’s rooftop pool. My insides buzz with what feels like electrical currents—I have to get off the phone right now . “I should lie down. I’m feeling sick again.”
This part is true, but it has nothing to do with food poisoning and everything to do with what’s nestled inside the velvet box.
“Okay, get some rest,” he replies. “Feel better, babe. I’ll call you later.”
I hang up without saying goodbye. Sitting heavily on the bed, I stare at the ring.
I’m filled with an undeniable sense that this ring was intended for my finger. I also know, with absolute certainty, that a proposal never materialized. In any timeline.