Page 95 of Kiss Slay Replay

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.