Chapter 5
I can’t believe you had unprotected sex!”
Madison has repeated this refrain on a loop all morning.
I’m driving us to the closest pharmacy so I can pick up some Plan B. I didn’t travel back in time just to let my second chance at life get thrown off course by an unplanned pregnancy.
I awoke this morning feeling more disoriented than I had in years.
My head swam with a hazy swirl of memories that made no sense.
I died? I was in college again? I slept with Ellie?
There was a strange, antiquated office space?
It was like waking up from a series of vivid dreams, and the logic of the events made about as much sense as in a dream.
I once read that we remember dreams as winding, non sequitur storylines because we actually have multiple dreams each night, and in the morning our brains patch them together, creating weird narratives where one moment you’re at school and then you walk through a doorway and into a bank.
That’s what it felt like. Separate, distinct dreams that my brain patched together. Death. Office. Party. Sex.
And yet, as I came to, I noticed things that called the dream explanation into question. Cheap plastic blinds instead of my blackout curtains. I was in a strange bed, lying underneath a thin, scratchy comforter, with somebody’s arm wrapped around me.
Someone pounded on the door—the frat boy whose room this was, returning from wherever he had passed out the night before. He didn’t seem fazed at discovering that Ellie and I—two complete strangers—had apparently had sex in his bed. Just said, “Nice one, dudes,” and stumbled past us.
Ellie and I said awkward goodbyes, and I gave him my number before walking to my dorm. And now…
“You could have an STD.”
“I don’t have an STD.”
“There’s no way to know. You need to get tested. I read that it can take weeks to get a reliable result, so you should probably get tested twice. Once now, once in two months. Do you think the campus health clinic offers STD screenings?”
“They do. I don’t need to get tested.”
“That’s so irresponsible. He probably had HPV. I read that most people have HPV. Did you get the vaccine? My mom wouldn’t let me, said it would encourage me to sleep around—”
Wow. I just realized I don’t have HPV yet. I should really get the vaccine this time.
“He was a virgin, Madison. I’m fine.”
“I know he said he was—”
“He wasn’t lying. Trust me, I know.”
Late-night drunk talks, remember? But my words cause Madison to freeze. Her voice drops down to a scandalized whisper when she says, “He was that bad?”
“No,” I protest. “He wasn’t bad at all. He was… great.”
“It’s okay. Most girls don’t enjoy their first time. I read that in a magazine. That’s why I want to get it over with as quickly as possible and move on to the good stuff.”
I decide not to disillusion her with the reality that for most women, bad sex continues far past the first time.
“I did enjoy it. It was lovely and meaningful and… great. And you’re right—most people’s first times aren’t amazing. Mine sure wasn’t—”
“So it was bad.”
“No, that’s not what I—”
There’s no good way to explain to Madison that in another life, I lost my virginity to George from my statistics class, a guy who thought that three quick thrusts of his fingers was adequate foreplay. Because in this life, I lost my virginity to Ellie. Was it perfect? No. But it meant something.
It meant everything.
“Okay, it was kind of bad. It’s fine, he can learn. What about you?”
“What about me?”
I pull up at a red light and side-eye her.
“You really expect me to believe you spent all night in Patrick’s room watching TV?”
“It was a really good show. I think I might like anime. Oh God, listen to me. I’m so weird. I’m never going to get a hot guy to look twice at me. I should just resign myself to ending up with someone like Patrick.”
“Yeah, you should. Not someone like Patrick. Patrick himself.”
“I don’t want Patrick.”
“Why are you acting like this is a death sentence? Patrick’s a great guy.”
“You didn’t say two words to him.”
“I would have if you hadn’t pulled him away, Ms. Thinking-of-Switching-Majors. I can’t wait for Patrick to learn that you’ve nearly failed every math class you ever took.”
“I was wingwoman-ing you. And it worked. I already took care of that by pretending to be surprised that engineering is so math-heavy.”
“And that worked?” I laugh.
“Like a charm.”
“So did your wingwoman-ing,” I acknowledge with a smirk.
We pull up to the pharmacy. I park the car. She gasps as I open my door.
“Oh my God, what if you’re pregnant?”
“That’s what we’re here for. Plan B. Come on.”
I get out of the car and walk toward the entrance. Behind me, Madison yells, “I thought we were here for snacks.”
Half an hour later, with dozens of posters of baby-faced Harry Styles as my witnesses, I swallow my pill with a large glass of water.
I had kind of a jump scare this morning when I was confronted by so many Harrys on my side of the room and SuperWhoLock on Madison’s.
Also, so much teal. Bright, vivid, loud teal. It’s… a lot.
I need to redecorate.
Or maybe I’ll lean in—hard to decide.
“Are you gonna see him again?” Madison asks, watching me with fascination.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “We didn’t make any plans, but I gave him my number.”
“I’m supposed to go to their room to watch season two with Patrick on Saturday. Maybe you could join.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll bring it up when he texts me,” I tell her.
I’m not worried about it. This is Ellie. I know he’ll text.
By Friday, it feels like my cell phone is mocking me. Ellie still hasn’t texted, and it’s all I can think about whether I’m in my room, in the dining hall with Madison, or in class.
And ugh, my classes.
They’re so boring. I AP-tested out of a lot of gen-eds, so I’m mostly in introductory business classes. Maybe I should be grateful I don’t have to stress about school on top of the crisis that is my romantic life, but unfortunately that also means they provide zero distraction.
“I hope I didn’t come across as too awkward, but I’m such a mess in interviews,” Madison laments.
We walk through the quad, having just grabbed lunch between classes.
“I’m sure you did great,” I assure her, but I’ve been zoning out, and I think Madison is starting to notice.
“Do you know how hard it is to convince someone that the skills I developed babysitting are transferable to working in a library?”
“Why is it hard? They both involve keeping a sharp eye out for mischief. Wrangling people. Gently chastising. You have to be stern but considerate of delicate feelings. And aren’t college students just like big toddlers, anyway?”
“Oh, that’s good. That’s so good—next time, I’m sending you to interview in my place.”
“I bet you did better than you think you did.”
I know she did, because Madison worked at the library for the entirety of undergrad.
Madison continues to fret, but I’m too distracted by a sensory memory to hear her.
Watermelon. Scented. Vapor.
There’s that smell again, so familiar that I’m transported to another time and place.
Another life.
Where the hell is he? I’m not supposed to meet him yet. We don’t meet until next year. But if I could just see him…
It’s like he’s everywhere and nowhere, a phantom haunting my second life, reminding me that no matter how much I change, some things will remain constant. Like watermelon-scented vapor.
“You’re not even paying attention,” she says.
“Do you smell watermelon?”
“What?”
“Watermelon. I could swear I smell—”
I look around. I can feel Madison’s frustration, but I can’t stop. I just want to see him…
“What kind of distraction attempt is this? I get it, you don’t care about my interview—”
“I care! Of course I care,” I tell her. But I add, “You don’t smell it?”
“Smell what?”
“Watermelon.”
“What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say with a sigh. “It doesn’t. I just—you really don’t smell it?”
Before Madison can respond, a phone rings. My phone, I realize with a jolt.
“That is so loud,” Madison mutters as I pull the phone out of my pocket in triumph. Finally, Ellie has worked up the nerve to call me. I’ve had my ringer turned up to the loudest setting all week to make sure I don’t miss this moment.
I look at the screen and almost drop my phone.
Incoming call: Mom
It’s the first time I’ve heard from my mom since the night of the accident. The first time I’ve seen her name on my screen since—
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Madison asks.
My phone is still ringing at full volume. Students stare as they walk past. I’m making a scene.
I shake my head and hit Ignore. One thing’s certain—after all this time, I can’t process the emotions of talking to my mom in the middle of a crowded quad. I’ll call her later.
“Who was it?” Madison asks.
“Just spam,” I lie.
We eat dinner in the dining hall that night. When I think back on this period of my life, our friend Helen was usually here, but when I mentioned her name earlier, Madison just went, “Who?”
The memory of Helen—her life as well as her death and my mixed emotions about seeing her again—is almost enough to make me lose my appetite, but Madison distracts me.
“You should come with me tomorrow,” Madison says, then takes a bite of her burger.
I put my slice of pizza down. My dinner consists of pizza and french fries, two foods that I saved for special occasions in my thirties mostly due to having to pop an antacid before even daring to think about eating them, but they have no effect on me now. Not yet.
“I’m not going to ambush Ellie in his dorm room.”
“I thought you liked him,” she says, mouth full of food. “You should make a move.”
“I made a move. It’s his turn.”
I hate this. I hate that although I’m eighteen again, I should have the wisdom and confidence that comes with being in your thirties, but instead I’m waiting around for a guy to text me.
Does this shit never end?
It isn’t even weird gender politics. I’m not refraining from texting him because he’s the guy and I expect him to text first. If he’d given me his number, I would’ve texted him something flirty on Saturday with zero shame.
But he didn’t give me his number. I gave him mine.
“Or—maybe he’d be thrilled. Maybe he lost your number.”
“I put it in his phone.”
“Maybe he lost his phone,” she muses. At my doubtful look, she adds, “Maybe he forgot your name and spends every evening scrolling through his contacts wondering, Is she the one?”
“I told you about the thing with our names. He wouldn’t forget.”
“Maybe he’s looking for Ellie instead of Joey,” she jokes.
“Or maybe he’s nervous. I would be if I were responsible for the entire start to a romance.
You ever think of that? Guys have to text.
They have to ask us out—only they don’t know if we want to be asked.
And they risk seeming like creeps if they make the wrong move. Wouldn’t you be nervous?”
I consider Madison’s words. Maybe she’s right—or maybe I just want her to be right.
“I wasn’t exactly subtle.”
“Maybe he’s just that oblivious. Most boys are,” she offers.
“Yeah. Maybe,” I say, unable to keep my smile at bay at her attempts to cheer me up.
My smile slips off my face when I look up to see Ellie walking into the dining hall…
Beside Cat.
Blood rushes from my face as I recall locking eyes with her at the party.
I always knew she met Ellie the same night I met him. And while he and I became strictly platonic friends, the two of them began a flirtation that finally turned into a relationship fall of sophomore year.
Was it naive of me to think that sleeping with him would change any of that?
A memory surfaces: Ellie walked into the dining hall with Cat, but I didn’t notice him until he put his plate down next to mine and said, “Hey, Ellie, mind if we join you?”
I laughed at the callback, and we all ate together.
My crush was there but not yet a fully formed thing…
I was just happy to make new friends. A sting at the edge of my nail pulls my attention back to the present, and I realize I’m picking at my cuticle, a habit I thought I was long past. I watch as blood wells and, embarrassed, pull my hand down to my lap.
I look up, and Ellie meets my gaze from across the dining hall. His back straightens, and he awkwardly turns away.
I wait for him to turn back around. To acknowledge me.
He doesn’t.
Well, that solidifies things. In this reality, the one where we slept together instead of just starting a weird inside joke about our names, he’s decided to keep his distance.
He didn’t lose my number, and he’s not just nervous. I slept with Ellie hoping I could change the nature of our relationship, and I did exactly that. Instead of becoming my best friend, he sees me as nothing more than a one-night stand.
The only question is—how do I fix this?