Time of My Life
Mary Frame
Contents
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Also By Mary Frame
About the Author
A Note From Mary
Copyright © 2021 by Mary Frame
Cover design by Sarah Kil
www.sarahkilcreativestudio.com
Editing by Elizabeth Nover at Razor Sharp Editing
www.razorsharpediting.com
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.
Summary
Today is the worst day of Jane Stewart’s life. And she’s reliving it over and over (and over and over) again.
She’s late to the same make-or-break meeting.
She’s fired from the same soul-crushing job.
And—the cherry on top—she’s dumped by the same lying, selfish dirtbag.
But no matter how many times she relives the same disasters and no matter what she tries to change them, it all ends in the same abysmal mess. Because, apparently, being stuck in a time loop on the worst day of her life hasn’t cured her crippling social anxiety. Go figure.
The one bright spot? Her long-time crush wants to be more than friends . . . if only she can get them past their first date. And so her happily ever is doomed before it can even begin unless she can find a way to save her job, her heart, and, oh yeah, the space-time continuum.
To Dave Pijuan, a.k.a. O-Pijuan-Kenobi.
Thank you for being a wonderful cubicle mate, friend, and the best melon picker ever.
You will be missed.
Chapter One
Belching. Someone is belching. Ugh, why is it so loud?
I roll over, pulling a pillow over my head. Pounding bass vibrates into my skull, shaking the walls. My pillow is not an effective barrier.
What is that?
Did he say hocus-pocus?
Is someone in my apartment? They broke in just to pass gas and play music at excessive levels?
Is it my alarm? Oh no, it’s Monday.
I jerk up, already reaching for my phone to kill the noise, plucking it from the charging cord.
Wakefulness weaves its fingers through my sleepy mind. My heart thumps along with the music.
I stare at the blank screen. I barely slept last night. It took me forever to fall asleep, worrying over my meeting today, trying to think through every potential response and outcome. My dreams were full of everything that might possibly go wrong, from missing my notes to arriving late to showing up naked.
The memories fade as reality rushes in to take its place.
My phone is dead.
“That’s not my alarm. My alarm didn’t go off,” I croak to the empty room.
The music is still thumping.
I stare at the dark phone screen. I always leave it charging to avoid this exact scenario.
“Oh, no. No no no no no.” I rush out of bed, forgetting the cell phone mystery, skidding into the kitchen to stare at the clock on the oven.
It’s nearly eight.
“This isn’t possible.”
Someone bangs on the door. Maybe the world is ending. That would be good. If there’s some kind of disaster situation—a building fire, a tsunami incoming, aliens invading the planet, maybe—that would be the perfect excuse for being late for the most important meeting of my existence.
I swing open the door, but no one’s there.
“Hugo! Come on, man, it can’t be that bad.”
I peek around my doorjamb. I don’t want anyone to witness me in this state, no makeup, my hair a dark mass of chaos, not to mention the bright blue ducky pajamas, a gift from my sister, Eloise. But I can’t help staying to witness . . . whatever this is.
A portly middle-aged man with thinning hair in a bright red robe stands in front of the door next to mine. I don’t know his name, only that he resides in the apartment across the hall from mine.
I generally avert my gaze to avoid small talk when I pass any of the other residents in my building, so I don’t know much about any of them. Based on the masculine laughter—and other noises that sometimes penetrate the thin walls—I know my next-door neighbor is gay. But that’s as far as it goes. I’m not good at small talk. Or any talk.
But now I unwittingly know my next-door neighbor’s name.
Hugo.
It’s fitting, considering his huge size. He’s a goliath of a man, wide and tall. Body builder maybe. Football player. Possible assassin. Fearful, by all accounts. Except in his choice in music. While loud and pounding, “sparkle me” rapped over and over doesn’t exactly inspire fear.
As the music hammers through the air with no response to the knocking, red-robe man pounds harder.
“It’s Monday! I have a call in thirty minutes. Help me out here, huh?”
Monday. Meeting.
Oh, crap.
I slam the door and rush to the bathroom, racing through my morning ablutions, pitching my ducky pajamas into the hamper. No time for anything more than peeing and scrambling into the clothes I set out the night before, a sensible pale pink blouse and slimming black slacks. I toss a small bag of makeup into my briefcase on top of my proposal. Then I’m out the door, running to the BART station on the corner to catch the next train.
I barely make it in time, the doors shutting behind me as I squish in between a redheaded woman in a hot pink T-shirt and bright yellow pants and a man in an Armani suit on his cell phone, one of his hands clutching the pole in the center of the car.
Once the train is in motion, I grab my phone from my bag and hold down the power button. Maybe it needs a reset or something. If I can call the office, let them know I’m going to be late, make some excuse, maybe I won’t have a
