Page 76 of Time Loops & Meet Cutes
The guy next to us clearly thinks we’re off our rockers.When he shifts to another table, I wonder if he thinks we’re contagious.
“Look through the pictures on your phone,” I say. “Your texts and emails.”
She covers her face with her hands. “How can I just notremember? It seems impossible.”
“It’s like how nobody else remembered the previous versions of June twentieth in the time loop.”
I think of Cam. I assume he won’t know my name, but will I look familiar to him?
After leaving the coffee shop, I wander the neighborhood. A restaurant that I liked has closed. It was there just a few days ago—well, a few June 20s ago—and now it’s gone. After living so long in a world where such things didn’t happen, it’s disorienting. I feel like a small-town girl who’s overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the big city.
I consider going to see Cam, but I’m a little afraid of what I’ll find, and I’m already dealing with a lot.
When I get home, I spend some time catching up on the news, then scroll through the pictures and videos on my phone. I come across a video of Lenora calling me “Auntie No.” I smile, but there’s an ache in my chest. Though I can see records of what happened, nothing can make up for the fact that I wasn’t there.
Except some version of mewasthere. It’s all very confusing.
That night, I go to bed in my flannel pajamas and don’t set my alarm.
When I wake up, it’s January 25.
It appears time is moving normally, but there’s a seven-month gap in my memory. I assume that corresponds to thenumber of days I was stuck in the time loop. Though I’d lost track, the number seems about right.
Yes, I’ve gotten out of the loop, which is what I wanted, but I’m not as relieved as I thought I would be.
Because now, it feels like I have amnesia.
28Cam
I turn the screen toward the man in the gray parka. He taps his credit card before hefting his beer into a tote bag.
“Have a good day,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face.
It’s usually not a problem to smile.
Some people have a rather romantic notion of what opening a craft brewery is like, but it’s a lot of work. I thought I was prepared for all that it would entail, yet I wasn’t, not fully.
Still, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing… most days.
Today is not one of those days.
It’s a Sunday, which means that if I had a “normal” job, I could be home, but instead, I’m at Leaside Brewing. One of our suppliers suddenly went MIA, and there’s a scheduling issue that I need to sort out. Normally, I don’t mind the putting-out-fires aspect of the job, but now, I wish I could be on autopilot.
Which I sort of am, standing behind the bar, popping over to the other register whenever someone pulls something out of the four fridges that comprise our bottle shop, but there are lots of things on my mind. Lots of problems to solve. And I’m only in the taproom because Miriam is out sick.
“Another Dufferin Grove?” I ask the guy sitting at the far end of the bar.
He nods. He’s an avid home brewer, and his wife recentlyleft him. They’ve got a couple of kids in their teens. He comes in a few times a month.
The next fifteen minutes are busy, and when there’s a lull, Justin emerges from the back.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I force another smile.
I’m not really okay, and I’m sure he knows it, but I’m coping.
My grandma died ten days ago, so I haven’t been here as much as usual. She was ninety, and her health had started to go downhill a few months ago; it was a death we were all prepared for, grieving before the end actually came.
