I want to wash my dirty hand more than I want to breathe, but . . . if Alex . . .
“Hey, Jane.” He emerges from the hallway leading to the restrooms and stops in front of me.
I exhale a relieved breath. And then I stare. He’s wearing the same shirt. The Led Zeppelin tee I got dirty yesterday.
I look down at my hand. Well, at least this is different. Not everything matches my nightmare Monday.
“Your interview is today, right?” he asks.
I lift my gaze to his. “Have you ever had déjà vu?”
His brows lift. “Yeah, sure.” Head tilts. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? “I had a terrible nightmare and it’s like . . . it didn’t end.”
A wrinkle forms between his brows. “Is there anything I can—”
What am I doing, telling Alex about my problems? Like he needs a reminder about how pathetic I am. “It’s nothing. I gotta go. I’m late.”
I step around him and make it to the bathroom, once again engaging in a futile attempt to fix my hair and makeup. I take a few deep breaths. I can do this. But can I? Can I handle being fired again? What if it doesn’t happen the same? Maybe it will be different. It has to be different. With Alex, it was different.
Then it’s back down the pristine hallway of doom.
I open the conference room door, holding my breath.
Stacey, Blade, and Drew are all there. Dressed the same, sitting the same on those damn pillows.
“Good morning. Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s fine, Jane. Please, have a seat,” Stacey says.
I don’t sit. There’s no way I’m repeating the fart noise from yesterday. I hand out the materials and loom over them like some kind of awkward overlord.
This is the worst.
Don’t panic, Jane. Breathe.
But my newfound psychic ability doesn’t cease the inevitable conclusion.
I give my pitch. The same, practiced pitch.
And it’s the same exact shit show where everything they said in my dream is repeated nearly verbatim.
I don’t fit in.
Okay, universe, got the message during middle school but feel free to keep it coming.
I leave the conference room just as I did yesterday, but the shock and dismay and depression—which are all still there but not as prevalent—are being shoved aside in favor of confusion and panic.
I have to get out of here. I need space to think.
Even my thoughts are the same.
Then Mark is there, grabbing my hand. I follow him on autopilot. Again I’m tugged into the closet. Even knowing the conclusion of this particular story line, I don’t say no. I don’t put up a fight. I let it happen.
I should tell him no. After all, he’s using me. I’ve known, probably the whole time, and just didn’t want to believe it. I shouldn’t do this. Logically, I know it, but the truth is I crave the contact, such as it is. I’m using him as much as he’s using me. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make sense.
And I still do it.
My shirt rips. I didn’t even feel the nail poking me this time.
What is wrong with me? What is wrong with today?
Mark is talking. I don’t have to listen to know what he’s saying.
It’s the same one-sided conversation, made even more so because I don’t think I could speak up if I tried.
“I know she’s only worked here for a few months, but she seems to like you, so I just thought you might have some inside intel.”
Without a word in response, I straighten my clothes and leave him in the closet.
And then, I’m back at my desk, staring at the gray stapler set precisely in the corner.
“Hey, are you okay?” Presley.
I meet her worried gaze. “I’m not sure.”
“How did it go?”
I stare at her for a few long seconds and then step to the side, toward the exit.
“Wait, do you want to talk about it? We could take an early lunch.”
My head shakes slowly. “Maybe tomorrow.” My gaze tips down to the hole in my nicest shirt. “I should have been prepared for this,” I mutter.
“Prepared for what?”
My head snaps up. “Nothing.”
Outside, as I walk briskly away from the office, it happens again. Footsteps behind me.
I turn around before he speaks.
Alex stops a few feet away, concern scrawled across his face. “Hey, Jane. You okay?”
“I . . . I’m fine.” I’m not fine. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the tear in my shirt. I need to get out of here. Run. Hide. My shock is wearing off and my brain is screaming danger, danger.
“How did it go?”
“Um. It was fine. Just fine.”
“Are you all right? Are you not feeling well, is that why you’re leaving?” He glances back at the building behind us. “You never take time off.”
“It’s nothing I . . . yes, I might be coming down with something.” I look away from his concerned gaze. It’s almost too much to take after what I just did with Mark in the closet. Again!
I don’t deserve sympathy. I deserve everything this horrible day has thrown at me. Twice.
“Do you need a ride?”
“No. No thanks. Bye, Alex.”
There’s no wandering the piers for me today. I take the next available train home.
This time, I’m not drinking.
Instead, I stress clean, scrubbing my frustrations out on my bathtub, the grout in the kitchen tiles, even the baseboards while my mind tries to make sense of everything that happened today. Yesterday. Whatever. When I’m done, I’m hot and sweaty and starving, and I still have no idea what the heck is going on with my life. I order delivery from the Elephant Bar down the street, too scared to leave my apartment again. It’s a jungle out there.
When the food arrives, I pay the delivery guy and step on a piece of paper that’s been shoved under the door.
Eloise.
It’s the same note as before, except I was home all day and didn’t hear her knocking. Maybe I missed it over all the excessive cleansing.
I take the food and my laptop into the living room. I
