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“Then let’s do it,” I say as she grabs her keys. “Let’s be tourists.”
We gaze down at a tiny Seattle from the Space Needle’s glass floor, the buildings and cars and trees looking like toys.
“I can’t believe it took us so long to do this,” my mom says. All around us, early-fall visitors point and gape at the city below, taking advantage of the mild weather before the winter gloom sets in. “It was a badge of honor, almost. You know how much Jocelyn loves teasing us about it.”
“She really does have a little too much fun.” At the mention of Jocelyn, my heart twists. If I can’t get us to tomorrow, at the very least, I can give my mom today.
My mom gets to her feet, and we head toward the outer observation deck. “So, if you’re stuck in a time loop,” she says, “there must be something you’re supposed to fix in order to get out, right?”
“I’ve tried that. What would you do?”
“Hmm. Acts of kindness? Attempting to right wrongs?” She gives me a hopeful look, and I shake my head.
“Tried them all.”
“What about unfinished business?”
I pause where I’ve been dragging my hand along the glass. Of course, the only thing that comes to mind is the one I’ve been trying my hardest not to think about.
All these months later, I’m still not sure how to tell her about prom. About everything that came before it. Today should feel low-stakes, since she’ll forget it all by tomorrow, but it’s not so much about telling her as it is putting what happened into words. Hey, Mom, I was casually bullied most of high school and it culminated in a sexual nightmare I still can’t think about without breaking out in a cold sweat.
If prom really is my unfinished business, I have no idea how to finish it.
“Nothing I can think of,” I finally say.
She throws an arm around my shoulders. “Maybe you just needed to spend some time with your beloved mother.”
“That seems to solve just about everything.”
I can’t ruin this moment, however bittersweet it is. Because if I tell her, even if—when—we all wake up on Wednesday again and she forgets it, I won’t. I’ll have said it out loud, given a name to everything that’s broken me. I’ll have acknowledged the thing that has always terrified me the most—that no one has ever truly wanted me—and I won’t be able to take that back.
“What do you think—should we do Smith Tower next?” she asks, and I force a smile and tell her yes.
DAY TWENTY-THREE
Chapter 29
“THINK OF IT AS A belated birthday gift,” I tell Miles when I pull up in front of Olmsted in another rental car the next day. A stick shift, just because I can. There’s a folded T-shirt on the passenger seat that says BIRTHDAY BOY. “Or technically an early birthday gift, I guess?”
“Please don’t tell me I have to wear that.” Gently, he pushes the shirt off to the side before he slides in.
“Um, you do if you want to be cool like me.” I turn in my seat to face him, showing off the almost-matching shirt I fancied up with some glitter and quick-dry paint. CHERISHED FRIEND OF BIRTHDAY BOY, it says, and Miles rolls his eyes. Three weeks ago he’d probably have groaned, so I’m calling it progress. “And look, I’m driving stick!”
“Well done.”
“I feel like you’re about right here”—I hold my hand out at waist level—“and I need you to be at least here.” I move my hand above my head.
Miles lets out a long-suffering sigh and tugs on the shirt over his long-sleeved thermal, and I spike the volume on my early-2000s mix before speeding out of the parking lot and off campus.
Truthfully, I think we just need to get out of Seattle. West Seattle wasn’t far enough, and maybe this won’t be either, but the change of scenery has to do something, even if it’s just to give our brains a break. I’ve needed a mission.
I don’t care what I sound like when I sing out loud, and while Miles sings much, much quieter than I do, I kind of love this version of him. The window down, a slight breeze, his elbow resting on the door… there’s something carefree about him I’ve never noticed before. Maybe because it’s something he’s never allowed himself to be.
“You’re probably not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” Miles asks. “Although I’m guessing Canada, since you asked me to bring my passport.”
It is indeed Canada, and I struggle a little navigating the roads as the signs switch from miles to kilometers, while Miles goes off on a mini lecture about why we should all be using the metric system.
“What is this?” he asks when we hit Vancouver and I stop in front of a museum, rolling down my window to grab a ticket for the parking lot. Then he draws in a sharp breath as he spots the ad covering half the building. “You brought me to an exhibit of period costumes?”
