Chapter 16 Something Doesn’t Add Up
The rest of the morning passed in a blur.
Familiar faces, familiar teachers, familiar lessons I had already lived once.
A strange déjà vu clung to everything, thick as fog.
During lunch, Anton crossed my path in the hallway.
He froze when he saw me. Hands in pockets, hair mussed like he’d raked his fingers through it too many times.
He had always been attractive. Warm eyes. Easy charm. The kind he didn’t even seem aware of.
Now he looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.
“Hey, Ash. Uh… about Friday—”
I said nothing.
Just watched him.
He swallowed hard, shifting his weight..
“I’m really sorry,” he rushed out. “I invited you, and then I… I don’t even know what happened. I got blackout drunk. I barely remember anything.” He let out a breath, frustrated with himself. “I didn’t mean to ditch you and go off with Apple. I swear I didn’t.”
He looked genuinely ashamed, like he wanted a second chance.
In my first life I had run off crying, blaming myself, agonizing for days.
Now I simply nodded.
He wasn’t a bad guy.
Just young.
Stupid.
And easily swayed by a pretty girl who knew exactly which strings to pull.
“It’s fine.”
The coldness in my voice made him flinch.
Compared to everything I’d lived through, this incident wasn’t even a blip.
His shoulders sagged. He looked relieved and miserable all at once.
“I… I actually really liked you. Before I ruined it.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
I remembered the way he used to glance at me when he thought no one noticed.
And then the air shifted.
Like the pressure before a storm breaks.
Apple appeared out of nowhere, her smile brightening the second she saw us.
“Anton! Ashley!” she sang, as if she wasn’t the reason the situation existed. “What are you two talking about?”
Anton stiffened.
Apple's gaze flicked between us.
“We were just talking about the party,” I said. “But we’re done now. Take care, Anton.”
I had no patience for her drama anymore, so I walked away without looking back.
After school, I took the long way home.
I told myself it was for the fresh air, but really, I just needed space. Somewhere I could think without eyes on me. Without voices. Without expectations pressing in from every direction.
When I passed the small convenience store on the corner, something in the window caught my attention.
I slowed.
Then stopped.
A bright Powerball poster.
Tonight’s drawing.
Jackpot: $99,000,000.
I remembered this exact drawing from my first life. Apple had gone on one of her dramatic online rants about it. Something about fate. About how the winning numbers matched her birthdate and how the winner “owed her half for the cosmic coincidence.”
Or something equally ridiculous.
But the numbers had stuck.
Burned into my memory.
18 — 1 — 20 — 2 — 48 — 6
January 18, 2002 at 6:48 AM.
I couldn’t help the little smile tugging at my mouth as I stepped into the store. I bought a single ticket and chose those exact numbers.
Poetic justice, really.
I folded the ticket carefully, tucked it into the hidden lining of my backpack, and zipped it shut.
That night, the drawing results were exactly what I already knew. I won half the prize. Almost fifty million dollars.
I wasn’t cashing it yet.
Not until I turned eighteen in five months. Just long enough to keep my parents’ hands off a single cent.
And after graduation…
I could leave.
Cut them off.
Start over.
Money solved a lot of things.
But it couldn’t give me the answers I needed.
Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts drifted to Mom.
Her sharp glances. Her constant irritation. The way everything about me seemed to bother her.
The way she always chose Apple.
And then, like a whisper from another life, Apple’s voice surfaced in my mind.
“You know she never loved you, right? No matter what you did, she never would. Have you really never wondered why?”
I had wondered.
I’d just never had the courage to look closely.
But now I did.
Mom and Apple shared the same warm brown hair; Dad’s was sandy blond. My own was pale blonde, almost silver in a certain light.
Their eyes matched too: that light brownish-green hue, almost hazel. Mine were the same blue as Dad’s, the same shape even.
They were short and soft-bodied.
I was tall and willowy, like Dad, but still… not quite like either of them.
A genetic outlier in my own family.
And then there was the one detail I had ignored for years:
Apple was only eight months younger than me.
Eight months.
Every time I asked, Mom insisted she’d been premature. But there were no pictures of baby Apple in an incubator. No NICU stories. No saved hospital bracelets. No medical keepsakes at all.
Just… nothing.
I stared up at the ceiling, a slow, cold thrum building in my chest.
Something was wrong with this family.