I like Alex. I like him more than he could possibly like me. And instead of reveling in a win for once, I push it away.
Why does my body fight me at every turn?
I say I want to be happy. I think I want to be happy, but when potential happiness is standing right in front of me, I flee like it’s going to chew me up, spit me out, piss on me, and then set me on fire.
I stop next to a Buddha statue and glance around. I’m in a park. The Japanese Tea Garden. Lanterns are set every few feet, glowing soft circles of light over the bushes, greenery, and rocks. But most of the park is a blob of black in the darkness. I’ve been here before, with Eloise. It’s pretty at night. But dark. I shiver and tug my jacket closer.
This place usually closes at five. And it costs to get in during the day. How did I get in here?
I frown at Buddha. Who knows? Magic tea garden, I guess.
My legs are tired. I plop down on the walkway and stare up at Buddha. He’s sitting in the lotus position, the ornate circle of metal around his head etched with a flowery pattern. One of his hands is lifted, palm facing me, fingers curved. The other is near his lap, palm facing the night sky. He looks so peaceful. So sure of himself.
The universe is shoving happiness in my face and I’m the one blocking it out. The psychic teen was right.
Why do I do that?
I don’t deserve happiness, so even as I want it and crave it and desire it, I run away from it. I’m not good enough. Never good enough.
You’re not trying hard enough.
You can’t make a living with costumes.
You need to set realistic goals, like Eloise did.
I’ll never live up to my parents’ expectations.
So then why do I keep trying? I should just do whatever I want, right? But they aren’t wrong about everything. I need a job to live.
I blow out a breath. I can’t think about my future career until I can get to tomorrow.
And I won’t be able to make time move forward unless I get “through it with love” or whatever. I’m already a slave to this time loop. I can’t continue to be a slave to my anxiety on top of that.
Maybe if I do this, pursue this thing with Alex, time will go on. If I open myself up to it all, good and bad. Love and rejection. Is that why I run from good things? Because if I get them, I’ll find a way to screw them up?
Fear. It’s my own fear, my own fake tunnel holding me back from everything.
The brain telling me I’m in danger when I’m not.
I’m taking control back, and it starts now.
“I have to tell you something, and I really hope you won’t hate me.”
Even knowing in advance about this entire conversation, and where it leads, what’s going to happen, I’m jittery and ready to bolt.
My responses are different though, now that I know everything he’s going to say and have had the luxury of thinking through the whole thing. Each time now, our conversation veers in slightly different directions.
And I keep getting stuck in my head and trying to calm myself down, which leads to silence, which leads to Alex speaking before I can get a word out.
“I’m not doing this right. I really just wanted to ask you to dinner, or coffee sometime or something?”
My tongue is thick, stuck to the roof of my mouth. I’ve already gone through this. Just say yes, Jane.
“Here’s where you tell me you like me too, and you want to hang out sometime. Or you tell me to get lost. One of those.”
“I do.” Wait, that sounds like we’re getting married. “I mean, I like you too, Alex. I’m definitely not telling you to get lost.” I’m flushed. Overheating. With nerves or exhilaration, it’s a combination of all the things.
My voice is high and squeaky. I can’t believe I’m saying this to his face. Doubt pinches at me with crab claws. What if he goes “ha, sucker!” once I get these words out? I shake my head, like that will shake away the doubt. “I guess I’m having a hard time understanding why you would want to . . . drink coffee or eat in my general vicinity.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, because I’m a neurotic mess who can barely hold it together and you’re . . . you.”
His head tips to one side. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“I don’t think that’s my problem.”
His brows lift and he huffs out a laugh. He watches me for a second, considering. “Do you remember when we first met?”
“Of course. When you hired Blue Wave to help you market Bubble Crush and you came in to talk to the staff and pick your team.”
“Right, but do you remember before the meeting started?”
“I remember.” He’d been alone, in the hall where the bathrooms are, slumped against the wall, pale, sheened with sweat. I recognized the signs of a panic attack and talked him through some breathing exercises until he was calm enough to join the meeting. I’ve had some of those moments myself.
“You had no idea who I was.”
I shrug. “I thought maybe you worked for Alex Chambers, not that you were the Alex Chambers. I expected some slick guy in a suit and you were wearing, well, something a lot like this actually.” I use my free hand to motion at his faded Led Zeppelin tee.
He puts a hand to his chest, his mouth dropping open in mock surprise. “This isn’t slick?”
“I mean, it’s something.”
He laughs, then hesitantly reaches for me.
I glance down.
His fingers engulf mine, long and graceful, artist’s fingers, even though he’s an app developer who plays mediocre guitar.
“I never explained to you what happened that morning.”
“You don’t
