Page 62 of Time Loops & Meet Cutes
“Ha! I did drop an F-bomb, but I didn’t go quite that far.”
“You could have. After all, you’ll still have a job tomorrow, unless this is what gets us out of the loop.” She has a sip of her drink. “That’s why I quit: to see if it would break the curse. It didn’t feel quite right to me, like it did to you, but I had to try.”
“I thought you weren’t entirely happy at your job.”
“I’m not, but I think it’s my feelings about my relationship bleeding into work, more than anything else. I’ve started to wonder about switching to a slightly different role in the same company, though.”
Terror suddenly seizes me. If I do get out of the loop and this is the “true” version of June 20, then I quit my job for good. Even though I have savings, the idea of being without a job freaks me out. But at least time would be moving again, right?
“You know what?” I say. “Let’s get drunk tonight.”
A few hours later, I have my elbow propped on the bar, head resting on my hand. I’ve consumed five—or is it six?—beers.
However many, it’s enough to give me the hiccups, and I’m currently reading articles about how to getridof hiccups, wondering if they will lead to more success than my attempt to ask for a raise. (Well, I suppose I did get a raise, but it was a lot smaller than what I asked for.)
I’ve already attempted drinking lots of cold water and sucking on a lemon, with no success. I would try breathing into a paper bag, except I don’t have one.
Avery—who has consumed less alcohol than me and/or isless of a lightweight than I am—is flirting with a tall white guy at the other end of the bar. Good for her.
I ask the bartender for the bill, and he looks a little relieved—I think he was afraid I’d ask for another beer and he’d have to cut me off. Or something. Everything is a bit hazy right now.
“Noelle?” says a familiar voice.
I attempt to execute a fancy turn on my barstool and somehow end up on the floor instead, Cam’s face above me.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I mumble.
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Your shift finished,” I say as I pull my knees to my chest. That’s apparently another way to stop hiccups, but it was hard to do on a barstool. I take advantage of my position on the floor and try it now.
“Dammit!” I say when it doesn’t work.
Cam takes my hand and helps me up. Our faces are very, very close, and his is creased with concern.
Don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Because I was worried about you,” he says.
“Butwhy?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “You hadn’t had a lot to drink when I left, but you said you’d just quit your job, so I guess I worried…” He shakes his head. “I just had a feeling, so I called to ask if you were still here, and when I heard you were…”
He sounds distressed that he doesn’t entirely understand the situation.
I decide to explain it to him. “I’m stuck on June twentieth. I’ve lived this day over a hundred times, and on many of them…” It takes me a moment to remember where I was going with that. “Right! On many June twentieths, I’ve seen you. At the bubble tea thingy-ma-bob. At the night market. Here. You don’tremember. Not really, but your sub-whatsitcalled… Yoursubconsciousseems to remember me. I think. I don’t know.” I hiccup.
“Uh…”
“Really. I’m not that drunk. Well, maybe I am, but that’s the truth. Avery will tell you.” I turn to seek out my friend. The room seems a touch wobbly. “Avery!” I have to shout at her a few times before she comes over. “Tell Cam that I’m stuck reliving the same day.”
She gives me a look that says,You told him? Really?
Or possibly:How fucking drunk are you?
This is the wonderful thing about having a close friend, I’m learning. You don’t need words to communicate.
