We’re not in the office, we’re in a bar, having a drink together, and he’s talking to me instead of one of the many women he could be talking to. My heart pounds in my chest, a heavy hammer of doom. He could be with anyone but me. Except he’s not really with me. We’re standing here in silence.
Crap. I need to make conversation. My mind blanks.
The bartender puts a glass in front of me and I take a few long sips through the little straw.
This is one of the many reasons I avoid socializing. I have nothing of interest to contribute. I hate small talk. Most of the things my brain lands on are lame or boring or weird, and people look at me funny or immediately have somewhere else to be, someone else to talk to.
Maybe that’s why I’m reliving the same day over and over again. Even the universe is tired of my awkwardness and inability to have a normal interaction with another human being.
Say something! Anxiety spikes.
“Um. Well.” I shove aside the straw and finish the drink in two long gulps. “Thanks for the drink. I have to go.” I slip off the chair on the opposite side.
“Wait, Jane!” he calls.
But I . . . I can’t do it. I weave around people, getting lost in the growing crowd, grateful for once to be surrounded by others so he can’t easily find me.
Outside, I take deep gulps of the chilly night air, the cool breeze on my hot face a relief. I hurry down the sidewalk, arms wrapped around my middle like they might keep me from jumping out of my own skin.
Why can’t I do this? Why can’t I be normal? What is wrong with me? Anger bubbles inside, threatening to explode.
I’m so sick of myself.
Routine. Control. Order. Those are the invisible clothes I wear every day. The ones that keep me from panicking, overanalyzing, or freaking out on a constant basis. Except it doesn’t work. It never works. It’s still there, like a tiger, waiting to jump out and attack at the worst possible moments.
You’d think reliving the same day over and over, having some kind of routine, would be a soothing occurrence for someone like me. I mean, I know what to expect. And yet, this day. This day . . . it’s the worst. Why this day of all the days the universe could have stuck me in?
My footsteps quicken, slapping against the pavement.
I have no legitimate reason to panic about a simple conversation with someone I’ve known and worked with for months. Someone who will remember nothing of it tomorrow. And yet, it’s like I can tell my brain those words over and over and it just won’t believe it.
I hate my brain.
I make my way back across the bay to Emeryville. Somehow, I find myself in front of the Druid’s Stone.
It’s after ten, but light streams out of the windows, shining glowing squares onto the cracked sidewalk. And when I push on the door, it opens with ease.
“Hello?”
An illuminated lamp casts shadows over the space. The cuckoo clock ticks in the corner.
I sigh out a breath and shut my eyes. “What am I doing?”
When I open my eyes, she’s standing right in front of me, only a foot away. “Holy mother of tacos!” I press a hand to my pounding heart. “You scared the crap out of me.”
She’s as still and immobile as a mannequin, wearing the Wonder Woman shirt and ripped jeans she had on the last time I was here.
Well, duh, it was the same day.
When my heart doesn’t cease beating from her surprise appearance, I find my voice. “Hey. You’re here. I didn’t get your name last time.”
Her head cocks to one side. “Last time?”
Oh, right. I guess part of me hoped she would remember, somehow.
I shake my head. “Uh, never mind. Are you giving readings right now? I know it’s late but I thought maybe we could talk?”
She slips around the register and does the same thing as before, running a finger down the appointment book.
She looks up. “We’re booked.”
I glance around. “It’s empty.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Why not?” I motion at the door. “You’re open.”
“Now is not a good time. Come back tomorrow.”
Frustration squeezes me in its grip and shakes. “What do you mean? I need help. I need help now. I can’t come back tomorrow.”
But my exasperation doesn’t affect her calm. “What you need is to help yourself. You don’t need a reading. You know what you need to do. You’re just not ready to do it.”
Any argument I might voice dies on my lips.
She’s right. I do know. Giving my pitch over and over, day after day, was brutal torture. But I did it. I got through it, more than once.
But this is Alex. I’ve been low-key crushing on him forever. I don’t know how to get through this.
Which makes her even more right about that last bit. I don’t want to do this. Because I’m scared.
But I’m sick of anxiety and fear. I’m sick to death of myself. Anger boils in my blood, filling every vein and crevice of my body. I’m livid. It needs to change. I need to change.
“What is it you want?” she asks.
I slump against the counter across from her. “For time to move forward.”
“No, that’s not what you want, that’s what you think you want. What do you want?”
“I want to . . . I don’t know, I want to know what to do? I want to make things right?”
She shakes her head. “Is that a question or an answer? Why do you want things to be right? What things? And what will making it ‘right’ do for you?” She lifts her fingers in air quotes.
“I just want,” I shrug, “I want to be happy.”
She nods and smiles,
