“Yeah, I want to know,” I tell him. Because I’m not stupid. I know the answer. But like watching those videos, I need to hear it to come to terms with the true scope of my actions.
He sits up straighter. “It wasn’t a sudden change. It happened gradually after CeeCee’s wedding. Little by little, those love stories stopped ringing true to me. The fantasy they sold felt completely out of the question, so I found another genre to love, and when it was finally time to open a store of my own, I knew I still wanted it to be a specialty shop for underserved readers, so I learned to lean in to the carnage.”
“Oh.” The syllable slips out of me, realization dawning that I’m a joy thief. My actions stole a crucial part of Drew’s identity.
“It wasn’t all you,” he says, a surefire attempt at making me feel better that doesn’t work. “It was life. It was my mom’s relationships when I was a kid. It was the crappy, app-based dating culture in this city. It was long hours and high standards and moving out of our place.”
At least I’m spared the pain of remembering Drew haul his bags out of our minuscule Astoria apartment. It was hard enough seeing him wheel that suitcase out of our shared hotel room. Seeing him leave for good would’ve gutted me.
He continues, “Over time, I just decided the whole situation was a wake-up call. Love isn’t for me, and I’m fine with that.”
“That…that sounds awful sad.”
“It’s not,” he says certainly. “It’s freeing. I don’t believe in love. At least not the way I used to.”
“Neither do I in this timeline, apparently.” Those posters Jessalynn showed me illustrated everything. All those crushed-up flowers, reminding me of the bouquet CeeCee stomped on in the hotel courtyard, prove that I’ve cast off love in the exact same way.
“And you’re rich and famous, so it can’t be sad. Right?” Drew asks, and I can’t tell if it’s a rhetorical question or not. “It is what it is.”
The resignation in his voice is too much for my already-ravaged heart to handle.
“I’m sorry, Drew,” I blurt out, knowing I should’ve said this earlier. “I’m sorry for ditching out on the wedding. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t important to me. You are and always have been one of the most important people in my life. My last life and this bizarre one that I’ve tumbled into. I’m so sorry that I acted against that.”
Drew nods, visibly taken aback. “Thank you.”
“Part of me always thought words were just words—things that could be tossed off and used for a laugh—but after watching those mean videos, I realize that words can be weapons.” An understanding that once seemed out of reach hits me over the head. “Using those weapons for protection is not an excuse when I was never under attack to begin with. I take full responsibility for that. Anyway, that’s all I came here to say.” I wait but he doesn’t speak. Maybe he’s stunned. Maybe he’s letting it sink in. Either way, it seems it’s time for me to go. “I’ll leave you to close up and leave you alone indefinitely, like I promised.”
I’m halfway to the front door when Drew stops me. “I could use some more help.” When I look back, one corner of his mouth tips up slightly.
I’m more than happy to offer it. Anything to not go back to thatmassive, lonely apartment full of gadgets I can’t work and trophies I didn’t earn and dark rooms I don’t need. We complete the tasks on his list in relative, companionable silence. It shuts my brain off for a while.
I watch Drew, through the front window, sweeping the sidewalk outside and can’t help but mourn the loss of those seven years, wondering what we might have experienced had I not murdered our friendship over a career opportunity. I would’ve had a partner in my rise to fame, someone to keep me grounded and levelheaded, and to love me back to sense. He would’ve had support opening his bookstore—a bookstore where love stories could flourish. Milkshake would beours, and he would lounge around the store, greeting customers and spreading merriment.
When the last book has been placed on its rightful shelf, Drew clears his throat, pulling me from the fantasy. “Since you helped me, I’ll help you.”
“With?”
“Getting back.”
“Yeah, right,” I say with a laugh.
“No, I’m serious. I have a plan.” Why I would’ve thought otherwise is beyond me. “The book inspired me, actually.”
“You want me to fight for my life against a murderer who also happens to be my long-lost twin?”
“No, though that would be quite entertaining.”
“Okay, I know I’m an awful person in this timeline, but I don’t think I deservedeath,” I say, trying to make light of a situation that couldn’t be more leaden. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so either,” Drew says, coming out from behind his desk, shrinking the margin of space between us. Where I’m a run-on sentence, he’s a concise clause. Always so sure in what he’s trying to say. “After the inciting incident of the book, the protagonist—he’salmost killed, it’s a whole thing—has to retrace his steps, reach out to the people he saw that night, and enlist experts for help.”
I play with a grouping of pens poking out of a holder by the register. The holder is skull-shaped and the pens stick out of the eye and mouth holes—gross. “Okay, but who’s going to help me? Nobody is going to believe my ludicrous story. Hell, you didn’t even believe me until you remembered those freaky glasses. We can’t just go around showing people those.”
“We ask people who already believe,” he says, with more certainty than anyone discussing time travel should have. “Psychics, shamans, healers, and crystal shop owners. Some of them are bound to know more than we do, at least when it comes to which combination of crystals might help you… Wait, what is it you said they did again?”
“Manifest your future,” I recite. Annoying that I can remember that and not the names of the crystals. My mind was mush by that point. “I could maybe pick them out if I saw them. By color or something.”
“Exactly!” Drew exclaims, stepping closer. There’s excitement in his gait. “If we can jog your memory enough, maybe we can figure this out. Plus, there’s one other line of defense.”
