Chapter 8 Noelle
8 Noelle
June 20, Version 14
The next morning, I add Avery’s number to my contacts.
ME: I assume you’re still stuck on June 20?
AVERY: I am. Wordle is still happy.
AVERY: And that terrible take on what’s wrong with women these days is still going viral, as is the bizarre baby squirrel video.
It’s nice to have someone who actually remembers , and once again, I wonder if there are others like us. I’ve already tried a little internet research on time loops, but I need to expand my efforts.
I create a new anonymous Reddit account and post about our issue in some subreddits. I try a few different social media platforms as well, but the fact that I don’t have a big following anywhere makes me worry that my reach is limited. I also comment on an article about the night market. When I see that I’ve gotten a response to my first post, I tell myself not to get excited.
boba247x: The mods should delete this. What a stupid hoax.
It’s in a Toronto subreddit, so I respond by predicting the specific TTC delays that will happen later today, as well as the power outage caused by the Canada goose. I add that a certain celebrity known for being a “wife guy” will be exposed as a cheater.
Then I force myself to put aside my phone and dedicate my time to watching movies.
I figure I’ll start my research with Julia Roberts. She has lots of films to choose from. I watch Pretty Woman , which, unfortunately, doesn’t translate very well to my life. Then I move on to Runaway Bride , and it crosses my mind that Cam could be a journalist. It seems marginally more likely than a billionaire, doesn’t it? And if he’s a journalist, he could write a story about me, the woman stuck in a time loop.
That seems far-fetched, but I’ll give it a try.
While eating a late dinner, I pull out my phone and look at the responses I’ve gotten to the posts I made earlier.
piedpiper16: Holy shit. She was right about the power outage and all the TTC delays.
discogirl_: There are delays every day.
piedpiper16: But she predicted the exact times and locations.
The thread becomes a discussion of whether or not people believe I’m trapped in a time loop. Sadly, no one has any advice or personal experience to offer, and before long, it will all vanish anyway.
“Have we met before?” Cam asks when I see him the next day.
“We have,” I say. “Cam, right? Cameron?”
“Actually, it’s short for ‘Canmore.’?”
I’ve never heard of someone with that name before, but I know it’s a town in Alberta. “Did your parents, um, name you after the place where you were conceived?”
I cover my face with my hands after saying that.
You see? This is why I don’t try to pick up random guys. I get tongue-tied and end up saying the least appropriate thing.
Cam laughs. “I hope not. They just said they looked at a map of Canada for inspiration.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“Noelle.”
“Nice to meet you. Again.”
There’s an awkward pause, and then I say, “You’re a journalist, right?”
“No, you must have me mixed up with someone else.”
“Ah, I remember now. Secret billionaire.”
“And you’re the heiress?” He winks at me.
That wink pins me to the spot. I think he’s flirting? What do I say now? I’m so disarmed by that easy smile, the way he’s lightly resting his arm against the counter. He’s only a few inches taller than me, so when he leans, we’re about the same height. That dimple—yes, he has a dimple—is almost right in front of my face.
“Where have we met before?” he asks. “It’s strange that I can’t remember.”
I don’t know how to answer. How am I supposed to think straight? I thought he was fairly attractive before, but now, I swear there’s a goddamn sparkle in his eyes, and it’s bewitched my brain.
“Order thirty-two?”
I grab my drink. “Sorry, got to catch my private jet!”
I run out the door in an undignified manner totally unbefitting of an heiress. (I don’t know any heiresses, but I’m making an educated guess here.)
At home, I decide I’m not ready for this flirting business.
I need to do more research.
Before continuing with Julia Roberts’s catalogue, I read a bunch of articles, none of which I find helpful. Ticket to Paradise is similarly useless, seeing as Cam and I weren’t previously married.
Notting Hill , however, is quite intriguing. I could play Hugh Grant’s part, despite the lack of travel bookshop. I’ll just spill bubble tea all over Cam, then invite him to my apartment, where I’ll make slightly awkward conversation—I think I have that part down pat—and he’ll kiss me.
The “back to my apartment” part is a bit problematic, as I don’t live all that close to the bubble tea shop, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it? Some more movie research suggests that a little physical altercation isn’t uncommon.
I text Avery.
ME: Have you dumped Joe?
AVERY: Not yet. I’d rather dye my hair purple, but I should try doing it. I know it might not be permanent, but if it’s the thing that gets me out of the loop, it WILL be permanent, and that’s scary.
ME: You deserve better than him. Are you concerned about your living situation? Is that what’s stopping you?
AVERY: Yeah, if I get out of this relationship and June 20, I have no family to stay with. My dad’s in Winnipeg and my mom’s not an option.
ME: If you do get out, you can live with me until you find a place.
I send the text without really thinking about what I’m offering. I’ve lived alone for years. I’m used to living alone… but I don’t take back my words.
ME: Though if you get out of the loop and I don’t, who will I be in your reality? Will I remember you? I might have no idea who you are. And if I do get out, but a day or two later than you, how does that work? It makes my head hurt.
ME: But seriously, if I know who you are, you can stay with me.
AVERY: Thanks. What about you? How’s Cam?
ME: I need to step up my game.
The following morning, I once again start my day by adding Avery to my contacts, as well as posting on a bunch of forums, though I’m less hopeful than I was yesterday.
Then, dressed in a different blouse than the previous times, I head to the tea shop, ready to execute my plan for a meet cute. However, when Cam looks over at me and says, “Have we met before?” I start to doubt myself.
I feel like I’m using him. Meet cutes aren’t supposed to be engineered; they’re supposed to be spontaneous. Plus, it seems wrong to spill a drink on this nice man.
I have to try something, though. I can’t be stuck in June 20 forever.
Better to injure myself, I decide.
“I don’t think so,” I say, “but I come here every now and then.”
“That’s probably it.” He smiles at me.
It’s nice when people are predictable. One of the few perks of reliving the same day.
“I’m Noelle.”
“Cam.”
We lapse into silence. I don’t ask if he wants to go on a date.
“Number thirty-two?”
I reach for my order. “Thank you.”
Then I turn, take a step, and force myself to trip on a table leg. It doesn’t come naturally, especially since I have half a liter of tea and tapioca balls in my hand. But my future might be at stake here, so I do it. I fall, my tea hitting the floor and covering it in liquid right before my knee makes contact. My arms come up to cushion my face.
“Shit!” I cry.
“Oh my god,” Cam says. “Are you okay?” He crouches before me, just like he did that time at the market.
“I, um…” I stammer. “I think so?”
Ideally, this is when he tells me that I shouldn’t put weight on either of my legs, then sweeps me into his arms, and when I look at him like he’s my hero, he kisses me. (My imagination isn’t usually prone to romantic flights of fancy, but I’ve watched a lot of movies in the last forty-eight hours.)
Alas, this isn’t quite what happens.
He offers me his hand. “Can you stand up?”
“Y-yes. I think so.”
Turns out, I’m a liar. I put one foot flat on the ground, but then my feet slide apart, perhaps owing to all the liquid and bubbles on the floor. I’m heading toward the splits despite the fact that I cannot, well, do the splits.
My recently acquired expertise in romance has led me to believe that some men find clumsy women irresistible, but Cam might not be one of those men. Besides, although some people manage to look cute while being clumsy, I’m positive I look more like a drowning raccoon. I doubt anyone would want to kiss me in my current state, but since I need help getting up, I take the proffered hand. It’s warm and strong, and for a second, I think it’s a pity that I’ve both sworn off dating and found myself trapped in a time loop. Maybe if life were different, I’d want something real to happen.
I swear Cam holds my hand a split second longer than necessary, but maybe that’s my imagination.
“You okay?” he asks, stepping back once I’m standing.
“Just peachy,” I lie.
When I get home, I’m in no mood to watch more rom-coms. Instead, I buy a novel that promises “treachery via time loop,” hoping that, despite the story being set in the distant future, it will give me some ideas for sorting out my problem.
After reading a quarter of the book, I conclude that this is unlikely, but I’m quite enjoying the novel. It’s nice to be able to read and watch movies on a weekday afternoon, rather than being at the office. Just in case, I fill out the contact form on the author’s website, asking if it was based on personal experience. After all, aren’t writers often told to write what they know?
Avery finally breaks up with Joe, and we arrange to meet for a celebratory dinner. I suggest we avoid the market—the thought of running into Cam again is too humiliating to bear—and we eventually agree on a burger joint.
Although my attempt at a meet cute didn’t lead to a kiss, I’m a little inspired by the feeling of Cam’s hand around mine. I think it’s worth trying that again, but this time, I’ll spill it on him , even if the idea makes me feel rather guilty. I tell Avery about my plan, and she approves.
The next day, Avery is still in the loop, and I’m simultaneously disappointed that changing her love life didn’t work and relieved that my friend is still here.
In an attempt to mix things up for my encounter with Cam, I put on my favorite drop earrings and a sundress. The dress was one of my rare impulse purchases a few years ago. Occasionally, I wear it to the office with a cardigan, but mostly, it just sits in my closet.
I spin around and the skirt flies up. Oops. Better not do that when I’m in public or I might flash someone.
Before heading to the tea shop, I take an empty plastic cup and practice turning around and knocking into the refrigerator (i.e., Cam). After nearly bruising my forehead, I decide to stop practicing. I’ll just have to cross my fingers and hope I can pull this off. Improvise.
Hahaha. Improvisation is way outside my skill set.
Still, I’ll do anything to get out of this stupid loop, so I march into the tea shop and place my order, as usual. Cam enters at the same time as always.
“Have we met before?” he says when he turns to me.
Now, spilling my drink is the main part of my plan, but I figure a touch of flirtation beforehand wouldn’t go amiss.
“I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember if we had.” I shoot him a smile and do something with my head, something that’s supposed to look like I’m tossing my hair over my shoulder in a sexy way, though I’m not sure that’s what happens.
He smiles back, but he’s a rather smiley guy, from what I’ve observed, so it’s hard to read how he feels about this.
“I’m Noelle,” I say.
“Cam.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Number thirty-two?” says the woman behind the counter.
“That’s me! Thank you!” I sound artificially upbeat.
As I reach for my cup, I make a point of sliding closer to Cam. Then I spin, the hand carrying the bubble tea rather far from my body. It’s at this moment that I remember I wasn’t supposed to spin, and in a panic, I try to shove down my dress with both hands so no one sees my underwear. Rather than knocking into the hard refrigerator—I mean, Cam’s chest—the cup spills on his crotch before falling to the ground.
“Shit!” I cry, more vehemently than I did yesterday.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cam says, even though bubble tea is running down his legs. A tapioca pearl clings to his shorts, very close to…
Well, it’s fallen to the floor now.
“No big deal,” he says. “I was going home to change before work anyway, and it’s hot outside, so I won’t be cold.” He’s definitely much calmer than I’d be in such a situation.
Just as I’m debating what to do next, since a kiss doesn’t appear to be forthcoming, the door opens, and a middle-aged woman walks in with her small dog. Before she can stop him, the pup lunges toward the tapioca pearls.
Now, I suspect tapioca pearls are not as bad for dogs as grapes—despite being somewhat similar in appearance—but they’re probably not an ideal part of a dog’s diet. I manage to step in front of Cam and the mess on the floor, and the dog laps at my bare leg, making the situation even more awkward.
There’s a banging sound behind me, and an employee comes around the counter with a mop. I feel embarrassed at the extra work I’ve made for him, as well as the scene I’ve caused.
All I can do is flee—and this time, it’s without any mentions of my private jet.
Okay, I think I need to call off Operation: Get Kissed. This really isn’t going well, and I don’t think the truth would go over well either.
Hi, I’m stuck in a time loop and I think a kiss might help get me out of it. Want to do me a favor and stick your tongue down my throat?
Yeah, no. That sounds utterly ridiculous. In fact, everything I’ve been doing lately has sounded utterly ridiculous, but when you’re stuck in a ridiculous situation, what else are you supposed to do?
It occurs to me that I could simply just… kiss him. Make the first move, without giving him a chance to pull back. But I want him to consent to kissing me.
Or maybe, while he was dripping in Iron Goddess milk tea, I should have leaned toward him and puckered my lips and hoped it was clear what I wanted… and he could do it. Or not.
But the idea of going through all that again is almost physically painful to me. As is the idea of kissing another man, for some reason. My brain has fixated on this easygoing guy, who doesn’t look like he’s held together by duct tape—but what do I know? I’ve only seen this brief snapshot of his life.
I find myself wishing I knew more. Wishing I knew how that smiling mouth would feel against mine, that strong hand on my back or around my waist.
I shake my head. Nothing will come from dwelling on such things.
Once again, I meet Avery for dinner. We go to a Greek restaurant on the Danforth, and I don’t hold myself back from ordering two appetizers.
“You know,” she says, as we’re waiting for our food, “we could try kissing each other. I’m straight—”
“Me too.”
“—but what if we need to kiss someone else who’s in the time loop? It seems unlikely, but it could be worth a shot, if you agree.”
“Yeah, why not.”
“We’ll do it after our meal.”
Outside an unbusy subway station, Avery presses her lips to mine. It’s not unpleasant, but it doesn’t do anything for me, and cartoon bluebirds don’t start singing or anything like that.
When I wake up to my alarm on June 20 again, I’m not surprised.
The two of us spend the next week or so—is it weird to think of time in weeks when it’s all the same day?—attempting to find a way out of our predicament. I post in more forums and subreddits without success. I try to contact a few more authors to see if their time-loop books were based on experience, but I don’t hear back. A discussion with a physicist leads to a lot of jargon I don’t understand and no good suggestions—I don’t think he truly believed us but treated it as a theoretical question.
I’m starting to lose hope.
After yet another fruitless conversation with a scientist, I go home and turn on the TV. I want to stay indoors for a few days, and the great thing about a time loop is that I can eat the same food in my apartment over and over again. (See? I’m finding the silver lining where I can.) There aren’t a lot of benefits, but that’s one of them.
I don’t feel like watching a six- or eight-episode season of a TV show that I’d be able to finish in a day. No, I want something with lots of episodes, so I start a show that I haven’t seen in years. Since I have time, I’m going to binge-watch in a way I’ve never allowed myself to binge-watch before.