Page 91 of Wished

Geneva isn’t this dark. I’d be able to see the sky, the stars, or the dawn. There are streetlights, city lights, the winking of a boat trailing through the water. So I’m not on the wooden bench on the water’s edge anymore.

I moan, blinking into the blackness, the movement causing a sharp pain to ricochet through my head. My mouth is on fire, dry and sharply bitter. There’s a queasy rolling sensation in my stomach, as if I’m in a boat, shoved in the hull, and I’m splashing up and down with the tossing of the waves.

Since this began, I’ve woken up in Max’s bed in Geneva, in Max’s bed in Paris, and now... I stretch my legs, wincing at the pounding in my head ... Now I’m in another bed.

It’s smaller. The mattress is floor-hard but still sags in the middle, the sheets soft and worn from too many washings. There’s chamomile spritzed on the foam pillow, the scent barely noticeable. The air is still, the only noise the sound of my breathing and the heavy beating of my heart.

I know for a fact that if I roll over onto my stomach and reach up and to the right eighteen inches I’ll find a lamp on a nightstand. If I flick it on I’ll see a tiny, windowless bedroom painted bright yellow.

I’m back.

I’m home.

I let out another moan. Why is it that I feel as if I’ve been hit by a delivery truck and had all the packages crash on top of me? It’s like my body is reflecting my heart.

Except, if I’m back here, that means ...

Max.

He’s himself again. We aren’t married and he’ll be himself. Will he remember?

I jerk upright, hiss at the sudden pain, and then press my hand to my head at the wave of dizziness.

It doesn’t matter. I kick aside the sheets and my old quilt and reach for my nightstand, feeling around for my phone. If Max remembers, he’ll contact me. He may have already tried to call. If he hasn’t, I’ll go to him. I promised I would.

I finally hit the cold rectangle of my phone and grab it. I close my eyes for just a second, sending up a quick prayer. Not a wish. A prayer.

Then I turn on my phone.

The glow illuminates my bedroom, a cool blue light sweeping over the room. I squint at the light as it hits me, causing my head to throb with renewed vigor.

I grip my phone. Shake it to make sure I’m seeing it right.

Then I blink.

Blink again.

Nothing changes.

Max hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. I’m certain he hasn’t emailed.

My stomach drops, the queasiness increasing.

There isn’t any reason for him to have called. There isn’t any reason for him to see me ever again. There certainly isn’t any reason for him to love me.

Why?

Because there was no wish. There was no Paris. There was no Saint-Tropez.

It’s 7:13 a.m., five hours since I went to bed. Drunk on too many bottles of wine with Dorene and my mom after getting fired. I’m hungover. Terribly, horribly hungover.

Jobless. Heartbroken. And ... stunningly ... alone.

“It was a dream,” I say, my voice cracking. The noise sets off a sledgehammer in my head. “It was a wine-induced, drunken stupor of a wished-for dream.”

I let out a gasping half-laugh, half-sob. “It was a dream.”

I drop the phone and it hits the bed with a dull thud. I was so surprised when I woke up in Max’s bed with not even a hint of a hangover. Well,surprise. Here it is. Because none of it was real.Thisis real.

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