Chapter 1
My eyes flip open.
Sunlight. It’s coming in through the windows. I’m in my studio. I’m flat on my back. In bed.
I’m in my bed.
Breathing. The surf of my pulse pounding in my ears.
Alive. I’m alive in my bed.
“God-fucking-damnit! Fuck! Motherfucker! What the fucking fuuuuckkkkk!”
Archimedes leaps off the foot of the mattress and runs, terrified, into the closet.
I kick my covers to the floor. I’m in my pajamas. I grab my phone and check the date. Friday, September 25. It’s the morning of the wedding.
Again.
I rip off my socks. My suitcase-smashed foot is healed—no bruise, no swelling.
I press on it. It hurts a little but nowhere near how it did.
My head throbs, my chest is tight. I hold up my phone and open the camera, reverse it.
I still have a face. I look fine. Tired, but fine.
Not sure how to tell if my soul has been sucked out—TBD.
I go to call Cassie but hesitate, hovering my thumb over her name. She’ll just tell me it was nothing. A bad dream. Let it go. Simmer in the hellfire hot tub. She’ll accuse me of being needy. Of making today about me.
Which, not to prove her point, but it kind of seems like it might be, considering I can’t escape it.
Instead, I Google “repeat déjà vu” and skim the results.
Stress and exhaustion can lead to déjà vu…
Can also be a sign of seizure disorders…
What is premonition déjà vu?
Déjà vu and Time Loop Theory…
How do I know if I’m stuck in a time loop…
A time loop?
A time loop.
Fuck me. That’s not a thing. Not a real thing.
Right?
There’s a Medium article that lists “The Top 5 Signs You’re Stuck in a Time Loop.
” It’s written by someone I’ve never heard of.
Obviously. Not a doctor or scientist. Obviously.
Just some guy named Jeff who seems to have a lot of opinions on “temporal paradoxes.” His signs aren’t specific enough to validate anything I’ve experienced, but Jeff isn’t far off.
Intense déjà vu. Check. Intuition/Precognition.
Sure. Familiar time frame. Yeah, the wedding.
Deviating from reality. I’d say homicidal ravens and a supernatural killer in a top hat would fit neatly in that category.
And lastly, a recent major life event resulting in trauma and/or emotional distress.
Jeff doesn’t give a whole lot of advice on escaping the loop, except some vague bullshit about breaking patterns of behavior, practicing deep self-reflection, and examining choice.
How did I even get here? What am I reading?
Do I honestly believe I’m stuck in a time loop?
No.
I can’t believe that because then I’d be crazy. Then I’d be Jeff.
I put my socks back on but don’t bother to change out of my pajamas. I grab my phone, my keys, my cigarettes, and my wallet. I check to make sure I have my insurance card, then head to the nearest urgent care.
—
The waiting room is just a giant germ. The woman across from me hacks up a lung, the man beside me continuously sneezes—neither makes any effort to cover their mouths, so, I look forward to coming down with whatever they have.
How kind of them to gift me their virus.
What a generous infection. A child has a full-on tantrum beside a mother who looks like she’s regretting every choice she’s ever made to bring her to this moment, and I relate to her completely.
I’ve been here for over an hour. I’ve neglected my work—a stupid deck I have due on Monday for an A-lister’s new tequila brand, which I’m pretty sure I’ve already done twice in the past forty-eight hours, not to mention I just had my soul sucked out, so I’m not exactly eager to forfeit it again by helping a multimillionaire make more money.
If this isn’t a medical or psychological issue, if I am somehow stuck in some sort of temporal paradox, maybe the soul-sucking hasn’t happened yet. Or maybe it technically never happened at all. But I experienced it just the same, so the damage is done.
I check my phone. I have a message from Cass asking for my ETA.
I probably shouldn’t hold a grudge for the things she hasn’t said in this timeline or dimension or whatever it is. But again. The damage is done.
I don’t respond to her message. I can’t.
I don’t have an ETA. One, because I’m in waiting room purgatory.
Two, because I’m terrified of going at all.
Because on the off chance I’m not sick, or crazy, if it’s not just in my head, then going to this wedding means dying again.
My friends dying again. Would my absence spare their lives?
Or would they all die faster without me there to warn them?
These are ridiculous thoughts. I press the heels of my hands into my forehead.
It’s possible it was a Russian doll of a nightmare, and I’m awake now, and it’s over. More than possible. That’s the likely explanation. The logical one.
I should be strategizing what to say to the doctor when they call me in.
I want an MRI, a picture of my brain, some kind of medical evidence to rationalize everything, and for whatever it is to not be worse than the Eyeball Man or Top Hat phantom.
And to preferably not be committed to a psych ward. Is that too much to ask?
“Willa? Willa Sullivan?” A friendly blonde appears at the door. She wears purple scrubs and a matching scrunchie, her hair in a high ponytail.
I stand up and hurry over, follow her through the door.
“Okay, we’re going to be in this room right here. On your right. Great.” She’s so bubbly, and I’m not sure I can handle it. It’s stressing me out. “You can have a seat right here.”
She gestures to the examination table. What’s worse than an examination table? Sitting on that paper, the crinkling noise it makes the soundtrack to being sick and vulnerable.
“My name is Belle. I’m a nurse practitioner,” she says. “What brings you in today?”
“I…I’ve been having these intense, prolonged stints of déjà vu. Um, and vivid dreams. Not just dreams. Nightmares. Visceral nightmares. And…” I’m realizing none of these things sound medical. What did I put on my form? “Headaches.”
“What do these headaches feel like?” she asks, still disturbingly sunny. I regret not caffeinating.
“Um…yesterday it was sharp. Concentrated here,” I say, pointing between my eyes. To where I was stabbed. “Then today just a general throbbing. Whole head. And I’m exhausted. Two days in a row, I’ve woken up just exhausted. It’s like I haven’t slept at all.”
“Have you had nightmares before?” she asks.
“I’ve had bad dreams but never anything like this.”
“In what way?” Her smile is so bright as she flutters her eyelash extensions at me, as she taps her manicured nails on the keyboard, making her notes about what’s wrong with me. I don’t like this power dynamic. I hate going to the doctor.
Ravi used to get on my case about it. I tried to explain how my parents never took me when I got sick as a kid, how I taught myself to soldier through.
I told him about the bitch nurse back in the seventh grade who thought I was lying about being nauseous and sent me back to class, where I threw up on myself in front of everyone.
My classmates never let me live it down.
I was the girl who barfed. I might as well have been radioactive until middle school graduation.
You’re an adult now, he’d say. You have to go.
There’s nothing to be scared of, he’d say. It’s all in your head.
He was always telling me that things were in my head.
The cat is mad at me. It’s in your head. He’s a cat, Willa.
Do you hear that dripping? No. Really? It’s probably nothing. Probably in your head.
We’ve definitely watched this movie before. We’ve never seen this. You must be confusing it with something else.
I must be confused.
It’s probably nothing.
It’s all in my head. It’s in my head in my head in my head.
“Willa?” Belle says. “How are you feeling right now? Experiencing any pain or headaches? Any déjà vu?”
“No,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “The déjà vu will happen later.”
“Later? Can you explain what you mean by that?”
“My friends are getting married today at a venue I’ve seen pictures of but have never been to. But it feels like I have. It’s like I’ve already lived this day. Twice. This is the third time I’m living this day.”
“Groundhog Day,” she says, still with that fucking smile.
“What?”
“Like the movie. Groundhog Day.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“Really? It’s great. You should watch it. I love rom-coms.”
“You don’t say,” I mumble. “Um…”
“Sorry,” she says. “Bill Murray lives the same day over and over until he figures out that he’s in love with Rita.”
I stare at her.
“No unassuming Prince Charming at your friends’ wedding?” she asks, laughing. “Or Princess!”
Just a guy who’s not looking for anything serious and my ex-fiancé. “It’s not a rom-com. It’s not…it’s not happy. In my dream. In my head. Everyone dies.”
Finally, a frown. “I’m so sorry. I just got engaged so I’ve got romance on the brain. I’ve gotten us off topic. Are you experiencing increased stress around this wedding?”
“Congratulations,” I say flatly. “And, yeah. Increased stress. I started smoking, again. Cigarettes. I’ve also been taking melatonin and, um, gummies. THC gummies. Not irresponsibly, I don’t think. But it’s new to me. I’m worried this is something neurological.”
“I don’t see a primary care physician on your forms.”
“I don’t have one. That’s why I’m here.”
“Hmm,” she says. “And I’m seeing you didn’t fill out your family medical history?”
“My dad left when I was six and my mom…we, um, don’t have a relationship. I don’t have access to that information.”
It’s happening. I’m ruining her day. I’m breaking her spirit. I think this was my intention, but now I feel bad. Is guilt proof that I still have a soul?
I imagine guilt and anxiety as the guardrails on my life. Where would I be without them? In a fucking ditch somewhere.
Or on a beach. I don’t know. How can you tell if you’re in a cage or outside it, when you’re pressed up against the bars?
“I’m sorry. I am stressed,” I tell her. “But I don’t think it’s just stress. Whatever’s happening, it’s so vivid and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s scary.”
“I understand. So, I would suggest Advil for the headaches, and a lot of water. No more supplements. Sounds like those might either be the cause or at the very least exacerbating the issue. And what I’m going to do is refer you to a neurologist. Get you checked out.”
“All right. Thank you,” I say, peeking at my phone for the time. “How long will that take? I need to leave for the wedding soon.”
“You’ll have to call their office to make an appointment. Might take a couple of weeks to get you in.”
“A couple weeks? I don’t have a couple weeks. It’s tonight. It’s today. It’s…it’s urgent. That’s why I’m here. At urgent care. I need care urgently.”
She smiles again, this time without teeth.
“If you feel what you’re experiencing is a medical emergency, I recommend a trip to the emergency room.
I could write you a prescription or advise lab work, but it seems like your concerns are for an underlying neurological issue or acute stress.
Do you have a history of anxiety attacks? ”
“Not attacks, no.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Willa, I’m hesitant to prescribe antianxiety medication because you don’t have a primary care physician to monitor the dosage, or any potential side effects.”
“It’s fine.” I hop off the exam table, ripping the paper. “This was a bad idea. Waste of time.”
Tick, tock.
“I’m sorry. It’s obviously just…stress. Never mind.
Never mind,” I say, bolting out the door.
I’m guessing Belle thinks I was just trying to get a script for Xanax.
If I was attempting to manipulate her for drugs, I’d like to think I’d be more calculated than admitting I suspect I’m living the same day on repeat.
It’s lucky she didn’t determine that I need immediate psychiatric help. There are other ways that could have gone. Leaving with nothing but a fifty-dollar co-pay is frustrating, but not the worst-case scenario.
I’m learning a whole lot about worst-case scenarios.
I’m not particularly eager to learn more, but what am I going to do? Skip the wedding? Abandon my friends because I’m having the weirdest nervous breakdown imaginable?
And if the nightmare is real, I should be there to at least try to save them.
Who knows. Maybe third time’s the charm.