Chapter 1
I reach for my spare pillow, pull it over my face, and scream into it.
I’d go on screaming, but it’s so draining. It takes too much energy, and I have none. This exhaustion is gutting; it’d be enough to drive me insane on its own. How many days in a row can someone go with little to no sleep? Without rest?
How am I supposed to get myself out of the loop if I can barely get myself out of bed?
And what’s the point? I’m just going to die again anyway, along with everyone I love.
Archimedes jumps on the mattress, probably both disturbed by my muffled scream and anxious it will interfere with the serving of breakfast. I let the pillow fall away, reach out for him, and he permits a brief cuddle.
The thought of him scared and suffering is beyond devastating.
What happens in the loop after I die? Does it end for everyone else? Does that timeline cease to exist?
Is there a world where he’s still hidden behind the toilet as aliens destroy everything around him?
“All right, Archie. Come on, bud.” I release him and he runs to his food dish. I feed him, make myself some coffee, and sit at the counter staring off into space while massaging my temples.
I rewind back to the first time I lived this day. I go through everything I did that morning, trying to pinpoint if there was some shift, something noticeable that might have caused a tear in the…I don’t know. Space-time fucking continuum.
But there’s nothing. I got up. Did some work. Packed. Prepared to leave. Left. Went to the wedding. Is that where it started? When it started?
I think it’s fair to say that not going to the wedding didn’t work. Really did not work.
Cassie’s exasperated voice is in my ear, recommending horror as medicine. A reminder it could always be worse.
A masked killer. Demon ravens at the beck and call of a phantom in a top hat. Zombies. Aliens. There’s no avoiding the horror. It will find me and swallow up the whole world in the process. If I don’t figure it out, it will get worse. Because it could always be worse.
I let my head back and blow a raspberry at the ceiling.
I have to figure this out.
I have to go to the wedding.
And here’s Cass again, telling me, Buck up, honey!
I’ve been so down, so scared of accepting where I’m at, scared of confronting the uncertainty of my life as it is now. Maybe this is the universe forcing me to face it. Maybe if I adjust my outlook, my attitude, it will change the trajectory of the day, and the loop will stop?
My coffee has gone cold, but I drink it anyway, then pour myself another cup. I open my deck for work. Good for this A-lister and their entrepreneurial spirit. We all could use a drink, right? Another bottle in the selection, a win for all. I finish and send it in.
I take a long shower, scrub the bad energy off me with a loofah I probably should have replaced weeks ago. I towel off, lotion myself, wipe the fog from the mirror, and practice smiling.
I’m not super confident a big, strained smile will save me, but it’s something. A start. A wish. A hope. My brain is mush, my body is beat, and my options are limited. If this is some cosmic punishment or reckoning, maybe I can appease the universe with sugar.
I text Cassie and Evan that I can’t wait to see them, that I’m excited to spend the weekend together.
Are you really? Evan responds.
Luke is packing the cooler full of liquor, Cassie says. LMK if u have requests.
Evan promptly requests, Dom Pérignon.
How about some Bud Light? she responds.
Don’t insult me.
I text Steph congratulating her on her wedding day, asking if she needs anything. Bobby pins? Sedatives?
Just you!! she says.
I consider going through my suitcase one more time so I can cross-reference my packing list, but if I forget something, who cares?
I forgo my typical apartment checks—stovetop, faucets, et cetera—because I doubt the next horror will be ending up on the phone with Liberty Mutual, and if I do come back on Sunday night to a soggy floor, I’ll just be grateful that it’s Sunday night.
I leave Archimedes extra food and water, toss him a few treats, say my goodbyes, then carry my suitcase out to the car, powered by excessive caffeine and lingering adrenaline.
My brain doesn’t register the heft of the suitcase until I’ve already tossed it into the trunk.
Everything hurts—my shoulders, my elbows, my fucking toes—so nothing hurts. It’s the status quo.
I light a cigarette and take two drags before stomping it out, then head down the block to the bodega and buy three Red Bulls because I need my wits about me.
“Long day ahead?” the clerk asks with a bright, friendly smile.
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Good luck,” he says, lifting both hands and crossing his fingers.
“Thank you.”
It’s a brief interaction, a microdose of kindness that I think I can handle until I burst into tears on the sidewalk, hands full of carbonated chemicals. I stagger back to my car, drop the Red Bulls into the passenger seat, and sob into the steering wheel.
That might be all it takes to save the world, to save my life. A little bit of kindness from a stranger. A little bit of luck.
I wipe my tears on my sleeve and check my reflection.
“This is going to be the last time I live this day,” I tell myself. I start the car, almost believing it.
—
I listen to my pop playlist on the drive, sing at the top of my lungs, buzzing from the Red Bull and newfound resolve.
It’s artificial energy—caffeine and chemicals.
It’s working, for the most part. My bones are still tired.
I’m still sleep-deprived delirious, singing all the wrong lyrics to songs I’m certain I know the words to. And my scalp is weirdly itchy.
Probably because right under the surface creeps the grim understanding that this day could end just like the others.
But Madonna is a great foil for foreboding.
“When you call my name, it’s like a little prayerrrrr.”
I keep a careful eye on the road and make sure I don’t hit any squirrels. Maybe that’s what started this. Reckless driving.
“I’m down on my face, I wan-na take a nap.”
When I pull up the dirt road to the Lakeside, my throat is raw. I’m so overcaffeinated my soul is vibrating. I’ve sweat through my clothes—I can feel it pooling in the small of my back.
It’s fine. It’s cool.
I get to the gravel lot and park next to Evan’s Civic. I gather up my cans of Red Bull—two of them now empty—and open the car door.
The last few times I was here I don’t think I stopped to properly admire the beauty of the place. It really is magnificent—the fairy-tale forest, the lake twinkling in the light, the grassy slope of the field, the scent of flowers.
I inhale. It’s much stronger than I remember—the floral smell. Probably because last time I was here it smelled like rotten meat.
But I’m not thinking about that. I set the Red Bulls down on the gravel and get a cigarette out of my bag.
“Classy,” Evan says. He stands on the steps of the reception hall, one hand on his hip, the other tipping down his tortoiseshell Ray-Bans to give me a look of disapproval. Wyatt is beside him, waving at me.
“Hey there, Willa,” Wy says, trotting over and giving me a dad hug with a solid pat on the back. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too,” I say, lighting my cigarette.
“Is it sophomore year? What are we doing?” Evan says, swatting away a plume of smoke.
I think of those strange, fuzzy gray clouds.
The neon lightning. The alien. The way the light of the tractor beam felt, getting slurped up only to be unceremoniously dropped.
I know I asked it to let me go, but still.
Did it think it was being polite? Oh, sorry, my bad.
Thought you were into it. Never mind! Have fun plummeting to your death! “Willa. Why are you shaking?”
I bring the cigarette back to my lips and notice my hand is trembling. It’s bad.
“Red Bull,” I say, pointing to the cans at my feet. “It gives you wings.”
“Again, I must ask. Is this sophomore year?”
I shrug and change the subject. “You’re so handsome.”
He smiles, his cheeks turning pink. “Flattery will get you everywhere. We’re sharing a cabin. Did you know? You, me, and Cassie. And Luke. And…”
He gestures to Wyatt, who gives a thumbs-up.
“Yeah, can’t wait.” I almost burn myself with my cigarette courtesy of my hand tremors. I give up and stomp it out. “Just like old times. You want to show me around?”
“Do I?” He taps his chin, pausing to think, or pretending to think, hard to say. “Yes, I do. Wyatt, can you take Willa’s suitcase to the cabin?”
“That’s okay. I can do it.”
“I’m happy to,” Wyatt says, circling to the trunk and popping it open.
“He is,” Evan says. “Any—”
“Opportunity to show off his brute strength. I know.” I finish his sentence with a wink.
“Cute,” Evan says, unamused at being interrupted and unimpressed by my mind reading. Wyatt lifts the suitcase out, closes the trunk, and kisses Evan’s forehead before plodding up the path toward the cabins.
“Thank you!” I call after him.
He gives an overhead wave without turning around.
“Shall we?” Evan asks.
“We shall.” I toss the empty cans back into my car because I can’t be bothered to find a recycling bin. I take my sole remaining Red Bull with me.
“All things considered, you seem to be doing well,” he says.
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not, but I’m going to assume that you are.”
“No, I’m serious,” he says, threading his arm through mine and leading me down the hill, around the side of the reception hall to the series of Adirondack chairs facing the lake.
It is such an incredible view. The cobalt blue water, the lush green of the trees. A soft breeze carries that potent floral scent I noticed earlier. It’s promising, to smell flowers instead of rot. Instead of death.
“Sit,” Evan says, sinking into one of the chairs. “I was hoping for a moment alone with you before the festivities begin. How are you? I’ve been meaning to call you for a proper catch-up, but then I thought with the wedding coming we’d just talk in person.”
Instead of sitting in my own chair, I squeeze in beside him. He groans but lets it happen.
I look up at the cloudless sky, at the bright shining sun. I think about what to say next.
I think about this day; about every time I’ve lived through it. Every decision, every death.
I think about Evan.
I think about the two of us at eighteen falling asleep in my XL twin bed watching movies and gossiping about everyone on our dorm floor.
I think about the two of us dancing at warehouse parties in Bushwick, in nothing but fishnets and glitter.
I think about helping him pack up his apartment to move away and be with Wyatt, about the two of us eating pizza off paper towels while watching old Britney music videos on my phone.
I think about the last time I made it out to Chicago, us walking along the river a few steps ahead of Ravi and Wyatt, eavesdropping on their conversation about sports.
We went over to Evan and Wyatt’s place and played board games.
Then Ravi and I went back to the hotel, and he passed out, and I cried into my pillow because I missed Evan already, because I had no idea when I would see him next.
Because the time together always goes by too fast and the time apart too slowly.
I think about the silver lining of the loop—at least I get to be with my friends.
If we didn’t all repeatedly suffer vicious deaths, if we weren’t at this fucking wedding, then maybe I’d stay.
Let it be. It’s not like I have anything to look forward to, any grand plans for the future. Any plan at all.
“Willa?”
I think about what I really, really don’t want to say right now, and I say it. “I’m not okay, Ev.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m just…lost. In my life. In time and space. Did I make the right choices? Did I make all the wrong ones? Is it too late for me to be happy? Everyone else seems to have it figured out. Did I miss my chance? Is happiness something I’m even capable of? Am I broken?”
“I don’t think you’re someone incapable of happiness,” he says. “But happiness isn’t something you stumble into by chance, or a level you unlock and ride off into the sunset.”
“No, I know—”
“Do you?” He leans back in the chair, stares out at the lake for a moment before turning to me.
“Look. It’s normal to second-guess life-altering decisions.
Regret doesn’t necessarily mean you made the wrong choice.
It just means you made a choice. You can what if yourself to death, Willa.
Ask a thousand questions there are no answers to, that there will never be any answers to. The only—”
“Way out is through. I know.”
“Sure, but that’s not what I was going to say.”
“I’m sorry. What were you going to say?”
“I forget.”
“No, you don’t. Don’t be—”
“So perfect and wise and good-looking? Sorry, can’t help it,” he says, grinning.
“What I was going to say is, the only thing that will come from constantly looking back is an inability to move forward. You have every right to grieve your relationship, which, by the way, I love Ravi, but I love you more and I have every confidence you will find someone wonderful if that’s what you want.
But grief and happiness can exist simultaneously. That’s just what it is to be alive.”
“You are perfect and very wise and very, very good-looking.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Ev. I love you.”
“Of course you do. That’s enough sentimentality from me. If I say one more sappy thing, I’ll melt like the Wicked Witch.”
“Speaking of wicked witches…”
“Vicky,” we say in unison, then erupt in maniacal laughter.
“All right, Willa the Good Witch,” he says, pushing himself to stand. “To the cabin.”