Page 1 of Time After Time
Chapter 1
Geneviève
“What the fuck is next, universe?”
As I took my next step, my right heel became trapped in an invisible crack, leading me to battle against gravity for balance. By successfully avoiding face-planting in front of half of New York City, I prevented my awkward tumble from being witnessed. Unfortunately, my right heel snapped.
But wait, that wasn’t all. The universe continued to mock me.
A reckless taxi driver ignored the need for caution in the heavy rain, racing past and splashing me with a wave of filthy water. He even dared to honk at me, as if I could have levitated to avoid it.
I felt a surge of disgust as the layers of my once smart suit now clung to my skin like a bitter, clammy embrace. My once-perfectly styled dark brown hair, which cascaded down to my shoulders, now hung in damp locks, sticking to my scalp and neck like glue. I could only picture the disaster my hair would become once it dried. A frizzy mess, just like those ladies proudly sported in old workout videos from the 1980s—a mixture between Denise Austin and Richard Simmons. Then came theshock of the cold water soaking through my underwear, making me squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw in annoyance.
People passing by on the crowded street stared at my slumped and damp body pityingly, as if I were a forsaken dog abandoned in the middle of the road after being gifted to a child on Christmas morning. Others, however, couldn’t help but snicker.
Sweat beaded on my brow as my fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles became white and my nails carved half moons on my palms. “It’s okay,” I forced out, the words trembling as they left my lips, though every part of me screamed otherwise. It wasn’t okay. I whirled around, my voice slicing through the air in a frantic, raw cry. “Did your father forget to buy you a brain with your driver’s license?!”
If passers-by hadn’t already been staring at me, I was sure they were now—soaked, dishevelled, and shouting at a taxi that had long since vanished. And honestly, I felt as crazy as I looked.
It wouldn’t surprise me if someone had been filming me, planning to post it on social media with a creative and obnoxious caption that was bound to go viral.
As the searing agony throbbed in my temples, I knew it was the universe’s vow to mess with me some more.
Pushing through the revolving door of my apartment building, I finally escaped the chaos of the street. The cool air inside was not welcomed against my drenched clothes and hair, and it did little to ease the pounding in my head. I moved toward the lift, my feet dragging with the weight of exhaustion. As soon as the doors closed behind me, the pulse of a saxophone filled the space, the deep notes vibrating through my skull. Each breath I took seemed to sync with the rhythm, and the headache only worsened. Even the fluorescent bright yellow light above caused me to scowl, my eyes narrowing to slits, hoping to relieve the relentless pounding in my head.
Glancing to my side, I almost groaned aloud when I noticed one of my neighbours, aptly nicknamed Peeping Tom, squeezed into a corner of the small space.
In one hand, he clutched his phone—hopefully I haven’t gone viral yet—and in the other, he held a cup of coffee, reminding me of how my coffee maker had chosen to betray me this very same morning.
I shifted my weight, glancing up at him, but I’d stared a second too long. His smirk grew wider, and I cursed myself for the awkward shift, my foot now balancing on the leg with the only heel that hadn’t snapped off yet.
Three floors. That was all that stood between me and escaping this lift. But, goddamn, it felt like the ascent was taking forever compared to the rapid tap of his foot against the floor—irritating, persistent, and almost making my right eyelid twitch in sync with the rhythm. I couldn’t hold back any longer. Clearing my throat, I hoped he’d take the hint and stop, but if he noticed, he didn’t care. The tapping grew louder, the intervals between each tap shortening, and with every beat, my patience thinned. It took everything I had not to bring my hand to my mouth, biting down on the skin of my thumb in frustrated desperation.
Finally, the floor number blinked, signalling we were almost there. If I didn’t have such a splitting headache, I might’ve actually felt a rush of relief when Peeping Tom shuffled toward the door to exit. But just before the doors slid open, he moved closer, as though his proximity was required for him to leave.It wasn’t. I had already positioned myself away from the doors, trying to avoid any unwanted closeness, but it didn’t seem to matter.
I braced myself, deliberately avoiding his gaze as his body inched closer. His presence felt suffocating, invasive, as if he were intentionally crowding my space. And then, his rancidbreath brushed against my temple, his nose bumping against my skin just before he dragged in a sharp, loud sniff that made my skin crawl. That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I spun around, my knee coming up fast to meet him in a place no man ever wants to be struck.
He let out a yell, the sound barely audible over the grunt of pain that followed. “Bitch,” he spat, and in the same motion, his phone slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. And, of course, the scalding coffee he had been holding splashed across my chest.
Wet hair, ruined clothes, and a broken heel were bad enough, but the searing pain of the coffee on my skin, combined with the ugly stain spreading across my white shirt beneath my black blazer, made me look even more unhinged than I already felt.
Fucking universe.
As the lift doors closed, I had to resist the urge to shove my broken heel into Peeping Tom’s mouth to silence his whining about how he was dying from the pain while he rolled on the ground after missing his floor. If he wanted someone to make contact with his—well, my knee had already taken care of that.
I had no time to close my eyes and attempt the ridiculous breathing techniques my therapist insisted on—none of which ever worked for me—before the doors to my floor opened.
Defeat washed over me, replacing the earlier tension in my body. My shoulders slumped, and my arms fell limp at my sides, drained of strength. For a few moments, I stood in silence, my gaze fixed on the dark blue wooden door of my apartment, struggling to suppress the quiver in my chin.
“Everything is okay,” I murmured, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. “I’m perfectly safe.” I wiggled my fingers to regain control and fumbled for my key in my purse. “I am,” I repeated softly, barely more than a whisper, while a faint cough tried to dislodge the knot in my throat.
The floral scent of roses from my air freshener enveloped me as soon as I walked into my apartment, easing my tension just a little. I tossed my blazer to the ground and kicked off my heels, ignoring the living room to my right as I headed straight to the kitchen, craving a glass of cool water.
You are fired.
The words echoed in my mind, and I began to realise that being fired might not be the worst possible outcome.
If I was being honest with myself, I hated this job before I even got the call for a second interview. I never saw myself working in a place like this. Sure, the salary promised more than I could have ever dreamed of, and it would allow me to live a comfortable life, but it was never the kind of work I wanted to do. Then again, I wasn’t sure what kind of job Ididwant. So, I ended up accepting the offer, and that led to endless hours of gruelling work under an abhorrent boss.
