Chapter 3
My senses are under assault.
People shout to be heard over the music, a vaguely familiar rap song that’s so loud, I can barely think.
The air is thick with the heat of too many bodies packed in too small a space, and as I shift, my sweaty thighs stick to the leather couch underneath me.
I’m engulfed in a cloud of smoke, and I cough uncontrollably at the distinctly pungent smell of weed.
It’s been years since I’ve dealt with this stench so potently.
Jesus Christ, have these kids never heard of vaping?
Wait a second.
Kids. I’m surrounded by kids.
I glance down at my right hand and raise it up to my face.
The scar on the inside of my thumb from when I was reckless with a curling iron in my twenties is nowhere to be found.
Instead of immaculately maintained, professionally long acrylic nails—always in a neutral shade, unless I’m feeling saucy enough for red that month—chipped glitter polish stares back at me.
My nails have been bitten down to the quick, and the cuticles around my thumbnails are ripped raw from my picking at them.
I’d forgotten about the state of my nails before I got in the habit of dropping a hundred dollars on them twice a month, but I would recognize these hands anywhere.
I touch my nails to one another, but the usual clicking sound they would make tapping together is gone. Not that I’d be able to hear it anyway, but I can just tell; the sensation of my bare nails against air somehow feels wrong to me.
I’m eighteen years old again… I am a kid.
I glare up at the ceiling. “No. I wasn’t serious.
” Is my caseworker listening? “I was just brainstorming—this isn’t my choice.
I don’t choose this. There’s no way my muttering was legally binding!
” I wait for the drab office to spin back into view.
When it doesn’t, I cry out, “Come on. This isn’t funny. ”
“What isn’t funny?”
I whip my head to the side and see my best friend, Madison, two red Solo cups in her hands.
She’s a rather unfortunate victim of the time—it’s 2012: Her foundation is thick and matte, her cheeks contoured with a shade too orange to match her dark-brown skin because makeup-brand execs haven’t yet caught on to the fact that darker skin has undertones too (Don’t worry, I want to tell her, in a few years, Rihanna will save us), her brows are heavily filled in, and her hair is in microbraids pulled into a larger fishtail braid.
She looks like a baby.
“Madison. I haven’t seen you in—”
I catch myself. For her, it’s probably been five minutes.
I run my hands nervously down my thighs, then frown—this dress is made of cheaper material than anything I’ve purchased in years, and the sensation of running my hands across it isn’t exactly comforting.
Also, my thighs are fucking tiny. Well, not tiny—I’ve never been what I would call tiny—but certainly tinier. It feels good, but it also feels wrong.
This is not the body I’m used to.
Madison doesn’t notice anything amiss; she just plops herself down on the couch between me and the stoner who is the source of the secondhand high I’ll probably soon be feeling.
“I know I took forever, but this place is packed.” She says that like it’s a good thing, and I realize why when she giddily continues, “I can’t believe we’re at an actual frat party.”
“Yeah… me neither,” I say, my voice hollow.
You have no idea.
She hands me one of the cups. The adult, logical part of me wants to ask if she allowed anyone else to touch this, but I don’t say anything, because if I know myself at eighteen—which I think I do—I warned her about all that before she went to get them.
We both take a gulp of mystery punch. Whew, that is sweet.
“Ooh, yummy,” she says.
“Yum,” I echo half-heartedly.
“Speaking of yummy,” Madison says, her voice dropping an octave.
I follow her gaze across the room and see…
Oh, hell no.
It’s funny how time makes you forget things. For instance, I forgot what a total wreck Madison’s love life was for the first three years of college before she saw the light and realized that the love of her life had been right there all along in the form of our close friend Patrick.
It was a wreck because of him.
Jake.
Jake, the guy currently holding his hands up in victory after making a shot in beer pong.
Jake, the loser Madison is currently eye-fucking.
“No. No way. Not him. Not again.”
Jake, the asshole Madison lost her virginity to on this very night and who then proceeded to ruin the next three years of her life.
They dated on and off until junior year, when she finally walked away for good.
He cheated on her throughout—hence the off periods—and completely shattered her self-esteem.
Only no, he didn’t.
No, he hasn’t.
Not yet.
I can stop it. That’s what this whole do-over thing is about, I realize—I can fix not only my life but also the lives of the people I love.
I can save my best friend from having her heart broken.
I can spare her so much pain.
“What are you talking about?” Madison says. “Do you know him? Do you have a class together? Maybe you could introduce us.” In two seconds flat, Madison’s voice goes from bewildered to ecstatic.
“Yes,” I begin slowly, trying to formulate a believable lie. “I do know him. I met him at… that club meeting I went to the other day, what was it…”
“The volunteer club? That brings food and supplies to homeless people?”
Well, shit. Why did that have to be the last club meeting I went to? I want to contradict her and say I went to something super boring and self-serving, but my brain draws a blank.
I make a mental note to figure out what classes I’m taking and what clubs I’m in, because now that I think back on it, my freshman year was kind of a blur.
“Yes. Right. That one—except he only joined because it’ll look good on his med-school application,” I say, grimacing like I wasn’t similarly motivated, except it was law school for me.
“He’s going to be a doctor?” Her eyebrows shoot up with interest.
Okay, new tactic. “He slept with half the women in the club. Never called any of them. Broke their hearts.”
Madison’s smile fades, but I’m on a roll.
“He’s a cheater too. There was one girl—he cheated on her repeatedly. Had her in full denial. Blaming herself, thinking it was her fault. Really ripped her confidence to shreds.”
This isn’t fun anymore. Actually, I feel really sad. And also guilty. I should have done something like this the first time around—I’d seen all the warning signs, but I’d ignored them.
Not this time.
Frowning, Madison asks, “Why blame herself if he’s the cheater? She should’ve dumped him.”
Wow, Madison. Victim-blame much?
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I guess it’s one of those things you can’t really understand until you’ve lived it.”
With any luck, this Madison won’t ever understand.
“You got all that from an informational session? You were gone, like, twenty minutes.”
“Sat next to a chatterbox. She was gossipy, but, hey, at least we know to avoid that guy.”
“Right. You’re right, I definitely don’t want to get involved with that.”
Phew—glad I can check off that box.
My eyes catch someone at the other end of the room, and my heart skips a beat.
Ellie Aarons stands in the corner with his best friend—and Madison’s future husband—Patrick Leon. They’re such babies is the first thought in my mind.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re both cute. Awkward, nerdy cuties. Ellie especially, but also… they’re eighteen.
“Him, on the other hand—I see real potential in him.” I direct Madison’s attention to Patrick.
“The tall guy in the blue?” she asks, perking up as she follows my line of sight.
“No. Not El—not him. The other one. With the curly hair.”
Patrick really did have great hair in college, I muse. Dirty-blond curls that got lighter when he started playing intramural Ultimate Frisbee sophomore year. That’s when he really started to blossom. The current iteration of Patrick is a skinny, pale thing.
“The one in blue is cuter,” Madison says.
“He is, sure, yes, but I feel like the curly-haired one is better for you.”
Damn it, Madison, don’t make me spell it out. You’re going to fall in love with Patrick and marry him and move halfway across the country and have an adorable (I’m sure) baby.
Madison gasps as if outraged and says, “You have your eyes on the blue, and you want me to distract his geeky friend.”
“No,” I protest, even though she hit the nail on the head. I do want to talk to Ellie. But I also want to steer her toward the happily ever after she deserves. “No, I genuinely think you’d be good with him. I see real marriage potential. He’ll get hotter in his twenties, don’t worry.”
He really does. Oh boy, does he. Madison liked to joke that it was the Black Wife Effect.
Madison rolls her eyes and says, “I’m eighteen, I’m not looking to get married.”
I pause. Yeah, good point. Madison is focused on losing her virginity, not marriage. “Right, that’s fair. But if you were—”
“Not everyone is dying to meet their soulmate on day one like your parents did.”
She says it cheekily. I force myself to laugh, but I feel hollow at the reminder.
My parents met at college orientation, dated throughout undergrad, and got married the summer after graduation.
They supported each other—emotionally, if not financially—through law school and medical school, respectively, and built a life together.
What did I tell Madison about them? I don’t recall the conversation.
Did I brush it off as a simple biographical detail, or did I admit I’d always hoped my life might follow a similar path?
Did I tell her that the thought of having someone by my side through the different phases of life had always seemed wonderfully romantic?
That I longed to carve out my own little corner of the world, a place for just me and my other half, where I would never feel lonely?
In the end, of course, my reality had not been quite so idyllic.
“Forget about marriage, I bet he’d be a great boyfriend too. Or even”—I think about how she originally got together with Jake tonight and pivot—“a great low-stakes casual hookup.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I’ve got a feeling.”
“I know the two of us just met, but I want you to know I see right through you.”
I frown at her words, but of course that’s true. We met as roommates our freshman year, and from her perspective, that started only a little over a week ago.
“It’s fine,” she continues. “You don’t have to convince me. I practiced my flirting techniques in the mirror all summer—time to put them to use. I’ll be your wingwoman.”
“I don’t need a wingwoman. Even if I wanted something to happen with him, it wouldn’t. Sure, we’ll have an amazing conversation. There might even be a moment when it looks like he wants to kiss me. I’ll ruin it because I’m nervous. And a moment like that will never happen again.”
Madison claps me on the shoulder, shaking me out of my reverie.
That wasn’t good. I almost spilled the beans. I glance up at the ceiling. What exactly constitutes something existence-erasing?
“So don’t ruin the moment,” she says as if it’s obvious.
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“Maybe it is.” Madison shrugs. “Remember what we said before we left the dorm?”
I smile. To me, fourteen years have passed since I walked out of that dorm. “Refresh my memory.”
“We’re not in high school anymore.”
“Thank God for that,” I mutter. I shudder at the thought of accidentally going back earlier than now. Reliving AP exams? The SAT? College applications? No, thank you.
“And we’re going to act like it. No one here knows we’ve never had boyfriends. Or that we’re virgins.” Her voice drops low on the last word, as if it’s something to be ashamed of. “We can be whoever we want, so we’re going to be hot girls. I mean, look at us—we’re hot.”
She’ll hear no argument from me. I’ve spent many nights scrolling through old photos, lamenting the fact that my self-esteem at this age had been too low to appreciate what I had.
Although I really don’t want to spot a mirror and see how I’ve done my makeup.
“You’re right. We are hot. And however we did things the first time—I mean, in high school,” I say, stumbling to correct myself, “that isn’t how we have to live our lives now. Let’s go meet our men.”
I stand, waiting for the twinge that always hits my knee when I do so. Nothing comes.
Ha. Of course it doesn’t. Because I’m eighteen years old.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize that I don’t have any of my usual aches and pains—the tightness in my lower back and shoulders; the headache that always lurks in the background, ready to ruin my day; the ache in my ankles, although at a level so low I hardly even notice it.
Is this what it feels like not to be in a constant state of low-grade pain?
Being eighteen is amazing.
Madison walks forward, swaying her hips, full of confidence that I know is a front but damn if it isn’t convincing.
“Our men,” she says, turning to me with a giggle. “Isn’t it kind of weird to think of boys our age as men?”
“No,” I say. “Well, yes. Definitely. But I have a good feeling about these guys.”
We weave through the party, my shoes sticking to the hardwood floor with each step.
The sensation calls to mind the ugly shag carpet of the office I was in earlier this evening. Earlier this evening, or fourteen years from now, or somehow both at once.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I almost miss Jake stepping in front of Madison.
“Hey,” he says, all cocky and confident. I scoff—three years of pain, and that’s how it began? With Hey?
“Sorry, no,” Madison says, and skirts around him. I can’t help my smirk of triumph at his bewildered look. That’s right, Jake. Not this time.
This time, it’s our time. Madison and I are going to go get our men.
Our eighteen-year-old baby-faced… men.