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“No,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry. I just… really want to hear about your day. Your first day.”
The emphasis he places on first is subtle, but I catch it.
I swallow hard, examining the odd but annoyingly compelling person across from me. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t blink, just holds my gaze with a steady intensity. All the hints are there. The way he’s acted unfazed by my strange statements. If you decide to stay in physics. The fact that he’s sitting here right now.
He’s done nothing to indicate I can trust him, except maybe asking these questions. If he’s messing with me, he’s doing a hell of a job.
“I woke up at six fifty to the sound of my roommate begging our RA for a room change,” I start, almost wishing I’d taken a mozzarella stick to keep my hands busy. “I went to the ninth-floor bathroom but didn’t shower. Went to physics, during which you kindly informed your professor-mom I was planning to switch out. Then you asked me to meet you here and tried to force your mozzarella sticks on me.”
“And before that?”
“Before I met you here, or…”
He leans back in the booth, bending an elbow and propping one hand behind his head. “Dealer’s choice.”
It’s ridiculous, how close I am to telling him, this near stranger—and yet the thrill of it is a decadent, addictive thing. I can’t shake the feeling that he already knows what’s going on and he’s trying to get me to admit it first. Worst-case scenario, he laughs me out of the Dawg House and I spend the next four years avoiding him. Best case…
“On my first day…” I lower my voice, worried people will overhear us. Pushing each word past my lips feels like spilling a secret I’ve been sworn never to tell. And god, I can’t keep it inside anymore. If there’s the smallest chance I’m not the only one with a glitchy timeline, I have to go for it. “I fell asleep in the common room on my floor, and I woke up back in my room. On September twenty-first.”
As soon as I’ve said it, I start questioning myself. He’s going to think I’m losing my mind. I watch his face carefully, but there’s no indication he finds this even remotely unusual.
“That’s it?” he asks. “Just those two times?”
Just those two times, as though repeating a day once is completely normal.
“Today’s my third time. Hence my outfit choice.” I cross my legs, aware of the unfortunately placed hole in these leggings.
Something odd starts happening to his face then. He wrenches his mouth to one side, as though he’s trying not to react, before he gives up, allowing the muscles in his face to take control. Somehow, I get the feeling Miles is often waging war against them. It’s a slow surrender, his lips curving into what might be the sunniest smile I’ve seen from him so far.
“I thought I was the only one,” he says. “I’ve been stuck here for months.”
Chapter 9
I STARE AT HIM, THE words slow to sink in.
I’ve been stuck here for months.
“Sixty-one days, to be exact,” Miles is saying. “I haven’t found an ideal way of keeping track yet. I figure I’ll lose count at some point, but”—he taps his head—“this old thing is proving to be even more remarkable than I thought. I’ve always had a photographic memory, which has really come in handy while I’ve been trapped in this… anomaly.”
Anomaly. The word isn’t nearly complex enough for the reality.
“You’re repeating this day too.” I’m too stunned to linger on the brag about his photographic memory. “It’s not—it’s not just me.”
The relief feels like a sun break after weeks of Seattle gloom. A gulp of water after running a sixteen-minute mile. Because if Miles is here too—even if I like him about as much as the student body of Island High School liked me—then maybe that means there’s hope.
Maybe I’m not alone in this.
“I had a hunch yesterday,” he continues, “when you were already in class before I got there. But I didn’t want to leap to a conclusion before I was certain.” How very scientific-method of him. “This is—this is incredible.” At that, his eyes light up, and for the very first time, he looks genuinely excited, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You know what this means? Parallel universes, split timelines, relativity—there are endless explanations. Endless possibilities.”
“Incredible,” I repeat, voice flat, as my head keeps spinning. “Probably not the word I’d use.”
“Watch out for the ketchup,” he says.
“What?” Over his shoulder, one of the café employees narrowly avoids slipping on a reddish puddle on the floor. “You could have at least wiped that up for her,” I mutter.
He levels me with a matter-of-fact glare. “I have. About thirty times.”
A chill skates down my spine. “Maybe—maybe you saw that before you sat down. How do I know this isn’t some huge prank?”
