I stumble into the bathroom, setting my wine on the counter, and then tug off my clothes. I hate these clothes. I shove them in the tiny bathroom trash and then get into the empty tub in my bra and undies.
A quiet sob fills the space.
Is that me? No, I pat my chest, no sobbing coming from in here. I’m not crying but someone is.
My eyes drift shut. I’m dizzy. Tired. So tired. Who is crying?
Ugh. I’m not the only one who had a terrible Monday. I’m so glad this day is over.
Chapter Four
Buuuuuurp.
Groaning I roll over, tugging my pillow over my head.
What the heck?
It’s the same song. Spackle me? Is that what he’s saying?
Sleep recedes, reality intrudes. Brain fires up, trying to make sense of the noise.
Does the neighbor play this every morning? I guess I wouldn’t know, since I’m usually gone by now. But today . . . I have nowhere to be today, because I am un-gainfully unemployed. I guess I should get up and look for a job at least. But I don’t want to do anything except hide forever.
I’m probably hungover.
I take a second to assess my physical well-being, bracing myself for pain, but . . . I’m fine. My brain is clear, if still slightly groggy from sleep. No aches or pains. My head should be killing me with the racket thumping through the walls. But there’s nothing. No dry mouth, no nausea, no anything.
I’m not hungover at all, which shouldn’t be the case since I don’t drink much and the amount I ingested yesterday was enough to inebriate at least three of me.
Wait, didn’t I fall asleep in the bathtub last night? I must have been really out of it because I don’t even remember climbing into bed.
Knock knock knock.
Someone’s at the door. What time is it?
Stumbling out of bed, I glance down. I’m in my ducky PJs. Didn’t I throw these in the hamper yesterday?
More knocking. Maybe it’s Eloise stalking me since my phone is still dead.
My phone. Which is on my bedside table. I pick it up and stare at the blank screen. Didn’t I mess with it yesterday and throw it in my briefcase?
I didn’t touch my briefcase once I started drinking, so it should still be in the . . . nope. I come to an abrupt halt next to my desk. The briefcase is here. On the floor, perpendicular to the wall. This is where I normally put it, but last night, I dumped it in the kitchen. I know it.
Knocking again.
“Coming! I’m coming.”
I open the door.
The neighbor in the red robe. He’s knocking on Hugo’s door again.
“Hugo! Come on, man, it can’t be that bad.”
I blink at him. Is this like, a daily routine they have?
He pounds on the door again. “It’s Monday! I have a meeting in thirty minutes, Hugo. Help me out here, huh?”
“Monday?” The word whispers out of my mouth, inaudible under the music.
No. That’s not right. What is this, some kind of performance art or something?
I stare at my neighbor until he turns away from Hugo’s door and catches me.
“Hey.” He nods and shuffles over to his door, across the hall from mine.
“I’m sorry, did you say Monday?” I yell over the din.
“What?” A crease forms between his bushy salt-and-pepper brows.
“Today is Tuesday,” I tell him.
He frowns. “No. It’s Monday.”
“It can’t be Monday. Yesterday was Monday.”
He rolls his eyes and pulls his own phone out of a deep pocket in his robe. “Here.” He holds it up, facing me.
“It’s the—” I blink at the impossible date. “It is the seventh.” I’m frozen, staring at the digital June 7th like it might morph itself to 8th right before my very eyes.
When he pulls the phone away, I grab his arm to keep it in my sight. “It’s the seventh.” It’s really the seventh. “Oh my gosh I had the worst dream last night.” I release him to press a hand to my head.
I can’t process this.
“Oh crap, I’m late. Again!” I spin around and slam the door behind me.
Dizzy with adrenaline and nerves and confusion, I get dressed and grab my makeup bag. Déjà vu rushes through me. This is so bizarre. The outfit I laid out is there, on the chair in my bedroom. There’s no tear in the side of my blouse, no gold safety pin from Alex. I smooth it out, staring hard at the side that was ripped. Yesterday. Or so I thought. Was it really a dream? I’ve never had such a vivid dream. Or nightmare, more like. But it didn’t really happen. It couldn’t have.
Relief blows through me like a spring breeze. I won’t get fired. Things will be back to normal. I’ll do fine on my pitch. I won’t get fired. It will be great.
But the fuzzy, warm feelings are short-lived.
On the train, it’s just like my dream. Redhead with bright clothes. Business dude flailing his hands and talking.
The train lurches and I reach for the pole again.
I lift my hand into my field of vision. Again with the brown questionable substance.
I stare at it, my mind going a mile a minute, my heart picking up in time with my racing thoughts. What if I’m psychic now? Is this what it’s like for psychic people? One day you know everything that’s going to happen?
I should be rushing to work, but the sense of discombobulation won’t leave and it makes me feel like I’m walking through water.
“Hannah, can you—?” The words stall out in my mouth.
Her nose twitches like she’s smelling something rank. Exactly like in my dream.
“Hey, Jane.” Presley appears behind her, a brow puckered. “You look like you need a sec. I’ll tell the team you’re here and will be with them in a minute.”
I can’t even say thanks this time. I nod and turn in the direction of the bathrooms.
But not before I catch Mark’s sly wink, making me flinch.
I approach the hallway to the bathroom like a
