I smile and push myself off the bed. “Sure. But not The Breakfast Club, okay? I’ve seen that too many times.”
She looks at me in surprise. “How did you know I was going to watch that?”
I shrug. “Just a hunch.”
My sister runs back to her room to get the movie ready and I walk over to my window and stare out at the lonely tree in our front yard. The one Owen climbs on so many other versions of this Monday. I don’t know what will happen tonight. I’ve already messed with every single moment of the day.
But I crack the window open anyway.
Because despite being dead and stuck in purgatory, it turns out I still have some hope left.
Break On Through
9:45 p.m.
Hadley chose Some Kind of Wonderful, another teen movie made in the eighties about a guy who empties his entire college savings account to take the popular girl out on a date, but then discovers that he’s actually in love with his best friend.
As the credits roll, I turn to my sister. “Hads, what happened today? Why did you walk home from school soaking wet?”
Flustered, she searches for the remote in her tangle of blankets and presses Stop. “How did you know about that? Did they put it on the Internet?” She grabs her phone off her nightstand and swipes it on. “Is there a video?”
“What?” I ask, confused. “Did who put it on the Internet? Hadley, what happened?”
But once again, she completely shuts down. “I’m tired. I need to go to sleep.”
I know this is my cue to leave but I don’t budge. “Hadley, you know you can talk to me about this, right?”
“No!” she screams and I flinch. “I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because you wouldn’t understand. You have everything figured out.”
This makes me laugh, and I immediately realize what a mistake that is because Hadley clearly thinks I’m laughing at her. “I have nothing figured out!” I tell her.
She crosses her arms, evidently not believing me.
“Do you know why I stayed home from school today?” I ask. “Why I really stayed home from school?”
“You were sick.”
“No. I was scared.”
This was obviously not even in the same galaxy as what she thought I was going to say. “Of what?”
“Of my life. Of facing it. Of being me. The same old stupid me, day after day.”
“But your life is perfect,” she argues.
“It’s not.”
“You get perfect grades and all the teachers like you and you’re going to be on the varsity softball team. And you have the cutest boyfriend in school!”
I sigh. “Actually, I have none of those things. And Tristan broke up with me today.”
Her jaw drops. “Because of one fight?”
“No, because…” I trail off. Because why? Six breakups and I still don’t seem to have a straight answer to that question. “I guess things were just broken between us.”
“But you can fix it!”
I look at her sweet, innocent face and feel a pang in my chest. She’s so desperate for me to tell her that she’s right. That I can fix it. That my seemingly perfect life will go on exactly the way she wants it to.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe some things aren’t fixable.”
“Maybe everything is fixable.”
I reach out and ruffle her hair. “When did you get to be the wise one?”
She laughs. “I’ve always been the wise one. You’re just noticing it for the first time.”
I nod. “You’re probably right.” I stand up and start for the door.
“Ells?” my sister calls out.
“Yeah?”
“They told me Avery Frahm wanted to kiss me. He’s the cutest boy in our class. I never should have believed them. They told me to wait for him on the soccer field. Then they turned the sprinklers on.”
I open my mouth to demand who. Who would do this to my sister? But before I can get the word out, I realize I already know.
The giggling girls. They came running out of that side door when I was looking for Hadley. Now I know what they were giggling about.
I run back to my sister and pull her into a hug. I can tell by the stiffness of her body that she’s trying not to cry. She’s trying to stay strong. Stronger than I would have been if I were in her shoes.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Tomorrow we’ll make it right.”
10:02 p.m.
When I get back to my room, Owen is sitting on my bed flipping through my copy of The Book Thief, which he must have found on my bookshelf.
Seeing him in my room brings an onslaught of unwelcome memories. I try to force them from my mind, but they attack from all sides. I can suddenly see Owen in every single version of this day. Bending down to examine my lips in the girls’ bathroom, wishing me good night in Cherokee as he climbs out my window, telling me he likes my outfit as we stand outside the school in the pouring rain, jumping up and down like a lunatic after winning the ring toss game, squeezing my hand on the Ferris wheel.
And last night, telling me that he’s in love with me.
This one hits the hardest. In the most vulnerable spot.
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with relief that he doesn’t remember. That I don’t have to talk about it. Because what would I say? What could I say?
He’s my best friend. My only friend.
Yet somehow it feels like it didn’t even happen. Or rather, it happened between two other people. A different him and a different me.
“This is read,” he accuses, holding up the book and pointing at a dog-eared page.
I let out a soft chuckle. “I know. I read all the book club books.”
I watch his reaction. The shock in his eyes. The revelation of hearing this confession for the first time.
Then I burst into tears.
Owen closes the book with a smack. “What’s the matter?”
I sit down next to him on the bed and hold my head in my hands, sobbing quietly. I can feel Owen’s franticness. He’s trying to figure out what to say, what to do, how to fix it. How to be Owen.
Maybe some things aren’t fixable.
Maybe everything is fixable.
“I have to tell you something,” I murmur between shudders.
Owen grabs Hippo and pushes him into my lap. “We’re listening.”
“It’s something you’re probably not going to believe.”
Owen takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for bad news. “Try me.”
God Only Knows What I’d Be Without You
I’ve confessed my secret to Owen so many times, you would think it would get easier. It doesn’t. I start from the beginning—the first Monday—and I don’t stop talking until I get to this very second. I tell him about Tristan’s text messages, my parents’ fight, my ticket, the fortune cookies, Owen’s dream, Daphne Gray’s attempt to poison me, the election speeches, my history quiz, the carnival, The Girl Commandments, my extreme makeover, yesterday’s rebellion, and even Hadley’s unexplained walk home.
The only parts I leave out are the Ferris wheel and his confession to me last night. Because I just can’t deal with it right now.
When I finish, Owen grabs Hippo from me and squeezes him tightly to his chest. “I think I need this more than you.”
I laugh, but it quickly dissolves into more tears. “I don’t know what to do. I just want my life back. I want to wake up tomorrow and not know what’s going to happen. I thought I had it all figured out. I thought if I could just keep him from breaking up with me, the day would be fixed, but it wasn’t. And now I’m afraid I might be stuck here forever.”
I collapse onto my back, letting the tears roll down the sides of my face.
“Ellie,” Owen says after a long moment, twisting his body to look at me. “You can’t keep changing yourself to please one guy. If he doesn’t love you for who you are, then he’s not worth it.”
I
sniffle. “You sound like one of those inspirational GIFs.”
“I happen to like those inspirational GIFs.”
I grin through my tears. “You would.”
He ponders for a moment and then asks, “What exactly did you say that first night?”
“Huh?”
“That first Monday when you wished you could have another chance. What were your exact words?”
I think back, trying to remember. It feels like forever ago. “I didn’t say anything. It was just a thought in my mind.”
“Okay, what did you think?”
I sigh. “I dunno. It was something like ‘Please give me another chance. I swear I’ll get it right.’”
Owen silently turns away from me. I can hear him breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Like he’s trying to remind the air where to go. And then, “You never mentioned him.”
I sit up, wiping my eyes. “What?”
“You never specifically mentioned him. You said ‘I swear I’ll get it right.’”
“I think the ‘him’ was implied,” I say defensively.
“What if it wasn’t?” Owen challenges. “What if this day was never about getting him back?”
His question renders me speechless. I never even considered the possibility that this wasn’t about Tristan.
Owen’s next words are barely a whisper. “What if it was about getting yourself back?”
“Now you really sound like an inspirational GIF.”
He laughs and stands up. At first, I think he’s going to leave and I feel a flutter of panic, but instead he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and produces two fortune cookies.
“Choose your tasty fortune!” His voice is artificially cheerful.
I shake my head. “My fortune is bleak. I don’t need a cookie to tell me that.”
He nudges his hand toward me. “C’mon.”
I oscillate between the two, finally deciding on the one on the left. I toss it next to me on the bed and collapse onto my back again. Owen sits down and cracks his open.
“If your desires are not extravagant, they will be granted,” I recite in a bored voice.
He laughs. “My desires are always extravagant, but that’s not what it says.”
“What?!” I bolt upright and grab the tiny strip of paper from his hand.
Tomorrow will bring unexpected things.
It changed. Owen’s fortune changed.
But how? Why?
I rummage through my tangled sheets until I find my cookie, scrambling to get it open and read the message inside.
All we ever really get is today.
“Owen!” I exclaim, bounding to my feet.
He’s startled by my outburst. “What?”
“I think you might be right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”
“You’re not always right.”
“Uh, objection. Yes, I am.”
“Objection. I can think of plenty of times you were wrong.”
“Like when?”
“I have two words for you: sheep’s milk.”
“Withdrawn,” he mumbles. “But, hey, speaking of me being right, did you ever watch the season premiere of Assumed Guilty?”
“No,” I lie. “Do you want to watch it with me now?”
Owen glances at the time on his phone. “It’s too late, isn’t it?”
Maybe some things aren’t fixable.
Maybe everything is fixable.
Or maybe it’s just about knowing which things actually need fixing.
I shake my head and flash him a smile. “I don’t think it’s too late.”
The Way We Were (Part 6)
Sunday night …
It wasn’t the movie I wanted to watch, but once Tristan pressed Play and snuggled up next to me, it didn’t matter anymore. All I cared about was having him next to me. It was our first night alone together in a long time. Whack-a-Mole had had a busy summer. They were booking gigs like crazy, but now that school was back in session things had started to slow down. I knew Tristan was anxious about that, but I was secretly grateful. It had been an exhausting few months, spending my nights in clubs, and my days in Jackson’s garage listening to the guys practice and strategizing on marketing ideas.
Then school started a month ago. My schedule was crazy and my homework load was crazier, which made it hard to get together. At school, we were back under the social microscope. I knew everyone was just counting the days, waiting until that inevitable moment when Tristan would dump me like he dumped every other girl, and just knowing that made me all the more determined to prevent it from happening.
But now, we were finally alone. Tristan’s mom was on a date and we had his house to ourselves. I suggested a movie because it seemed so low-key, especially after our whirlwind summer of crowded rooms and loud music.
Although the real reason I suggested the movie was that we’d just spent twenty minutes in his bedroom in almost total silence. I couldn’t decide if something was on Tristan’s mind or if we had simply run out of things to say to each other.
Tristan chose some action flick that he had missed in the theaters. I would have preferred something a little more romantic, but it didn’t matter. As long as we were together.
We were only twelve minutes into the movie when the alerts started going off on his phone. There hadn’t even been a single explosion in the film yet, but his phone was already blowing up.
I recognized the sound of the alert. It was from Snapchat. Someone (or multiple someones) was messaging him. I knew Tristan relied heavily on Snapchat to promote his music. That and Instagram were how he kept in touch with his growing fan base, but it irritated me that he kept looking at the screen. He didn’t actually respond to any of the messages (he’d just casually glance at them and then set his phone aside), but the fact that he kept looking—like he was checking to see if something more interesting was going on in the world—made my temper start to flare.
I had switched my phone off the moment I arrived at Tristan’s house.
I didn’t want to be distracted by anything.
But Tristan was almost welcoming the distractions.
By the seventeenth ding, I finally sat up and asked, “Who’s messaging you so incessantly?” I tried to keep my voice light. Friendly. A casual observation of his phone activity.
He waved away my concern with his hand. “Just some girls from last week’s show.”
Girls.
The word felt like a slap across the face. It’s amazing how five little letters can pack so much punch. He said it like it was the most innocent word in the English language. As harmless and unremarkable as “bread,” or “spoon,” or “chair.”
But to me, the word implied so much more.
All I saw through my red-tinted vision were flirty promises, too-short skirts, high-pitched giggles, and manicured fingernails.
I told myself to keep calm. Chill out. Stay cool.
You are the anti–drama queen.
“What did they say?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not much. Just wanting to know when our next show is.”
“Seventeen times?” The question rushed out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop it.
Tristan pushed Pause on the remote and turned to look at me. “Excuse me?”
I tried to backpedal. “I just meant it’s weird for you to get seventeen messages all asking the same thing.”
“Were you counting them?” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
“It’s a little distracting,” I admitted. “You know, while we’re trying to watch the movie.” I rubbed his shoulder in an attempt to disarm him. “I was kinda hoping we could have some alone time.”
“We are alone.”
I bit my lip. This was going downhill fast. I had to fix it. “I know. I mean, without our phones.” I pulled mine from my bag. “See? Mine’s off.”
“Fine,” Tristan said. “I’ll put it on Silent.”
Disappointment f
looded me but I refused to let it show. I grinned. “Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
It was meant to be a joke, but Tristan barely even smiled. The tension between us was suffocating. What had happened to the playful, affectionate guy who used to run to me the moment he got off the stage?
As I cuddled up against him, I vowed to keep my jealousy in check for the rest of the night.
You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. Tristan is a musician. He has to stay connected to his fans. It’s part of the job.
My little pep talk seemed to work because my frustration eventually dissipated and I found myself pulled into the plot of the movie, which admittedly wasn’t half bad. It was a spy thriller about a CIA agent who is wrongfully accused of treason and has to go on the run to prove his innocence.
When the hero narrowly managed to escape an intense, high-octane chase through the streets of Rome, I glanced up at Tristan to share in a moment of relief, only to find that he wasn’t even watching the movie.
He was focused back on his phone.
And this time, I got a glimpse at the screen.
It wasn’t a message. It was a photo. Of a girl. She was posing provocatively, the phone held high above her to capture the perfect angle down the front of her shirt.
Enraged, I launched from the couch and stomped toward the front door. I yanked it open and charged onto the lawn.
Tristan was behind me in an instant. “Ellie? Where are you going?”
“Home!” I shouted.
“Why?” I was devastated to hear annoyance rather than concern in his tone.
“Why are random girls sending you selfies?”
He sighed. “Because that’s what they do. I don’t ask them to send those. They just do it. I can’t control what people send me. I’m a musician. It comes with the territory.”
“Why don’t you just shut off your phone?”
“I can’t. What if someone calls about a gig?”
“Someone incapable of leaving a voice mail?” I roared back.
“Ellie,” Tristan said, his voice aggravatingly condescending. “You’re overreacting. It was just a picture. I didn’t even respond.”
“That’s your big comeback? That you didn’t respond?”