Well, shit. I slide the phone under my pillow, like if I sleep with it there and wish hard enough, I’ll wake up in the morning to find Jasper next to me. Or we’ll be back at Wench. Either way is fine.
But as I stare into the darkness of my room, wishing won’t cut it. It’s going to take action or bust. The time for half-baked plans and trial runs is over. I’m going to figure out who is responsible for this time loop and how we escape it for good.
And then I’m going to get Jasper back.
CHAPTER 16
Aday is not enough to learn everything there is to know about time travel, but I’m doing my best. I tell Ezekiel I’m taking another day off work. He looks worried, but I promise I’ll be ready for the presentation, and he doesn’t argue.
I think about going back to Jasper’s, about making up some story as to why I need to get into his apartment so I can try to get a copy of those plans we took from Wolfe, but wasting the whole day trying to guess passwords that will open Jasper’s computer doesn’t seem like a good use of my time. Also, I can’t bring myself to face Jasper’s family. They must be devastated, and as the mysterious friend they met only hours before he was killed, my reappearance will only prompt questions, most of which I can’t answer.
I think about going to work, even if I already told them I wasn’t coming in. I could close my office door and no one would know I was there. But someone would figure out eventually. Clarissa, probably. I still haven’t called her back. There’s no time for reassurances and chitchat. I can’t have any distractions. The longer Jasper stays dead, the further away he feels.
In the end, though, I wind up at Wench. The basics of the scientific method state that all variables should be kept the sameas much as possible. I don’t have Jasper with me, but somehow, staking out a booth at the diner feels as close to recreating the conditions as I can get.
“Second time in three days,” Vee says as she comes to take my order. “To what do I owe the honor?”
I bite my lip because my instinct is to say something blunt or to ignore her friendly smile and place my order, but somehow it doesn’t feel the same now that I know Jasper has seen through the armor. If he has, Vee must have ages ago too.
“Call it nostalgia,” I say.
She grins, flicking her long braid over one shoulder. “You know you’re welcome here any time you want.”
That’s probably always been true, but the awkward silence that follows fills in all the answers as to why I couldn’t do it.
“So,” Vee says, pulling her notepad out of her apron. “What can I get you? Peppermint tea?”
“Coffee,” I say. “Black. And a tuna salad sandwich. You know what I can’t have.”
“Sure do. I’ll look after you.” She straightens proudly. The fact that even this little interaction can make her happy only leaves me feeling worse, but I don’t have time for my daily dose of self-loathing.
I spend hours online. Credit to Vee, the diner has all the ambiance of an abandoned theme park, but she’s got an awesome Wi-Fi signal. I start with the scientific journals, but nothing reputable publishes articles about time travel theories. So I start going through the disreputable ones because as wild as some of the theories are—they range from brain tumors to parallel dimensions—the fact remains that I lived the same day more than sixty times, and there has to be an explanation for all of it.
I read articles about alien abductions, government experiments, and homemade basement time machines thataccidentally sent the inventor back to the moment of his birth and caused a paradox that meant both he and his infant self simultaneously ceased to be. It’s unclear how anyone could have known about that sequence of events, given he had nullified his existence, but somehow I don’t think that’s the important part when the author’s name links to another article about how snowflakes feel emotions. I find another article that asserts the 1980s are a myth and that’s why we all feel some kind of collective nostalgia, regardless of what year we were born, for a moment in time that never actually happened.
“Oh my god.” I bury my face in my hands. “This is impossible.”
“Pie?” Vee asks. She’s been popping by all day, sometimes with coffee refills, sometimes with small plates of allergen-friendly snacks I can munch on between paragraphs. It’s a kind of caretaking I haven’t felt in a long time. “Everything is better with pie. It’s peach. Cooked. You can still eat those, right?”
“Will the pie replenish itself at the moment I finish it? Bring itself forward in time to help nourish me as I bang my head against the wall over this conspiracy theory bullshit?”
“I don’t think peaches have any significant quantum properties, though now you’re making me think that a bottomless pie special might be a hit around here.” Vee cocks her head. “I’ll bring you a piece. With ice cream too.”
I go back to my laptop, scrolling through more articles, trying to find the logic and science behind what’s happening. I’m developing a headache. At least it’s just stress and probably caffeine overdose, as opposed to the remnants of a concussion from a day that never stops.
I startle when the plate is set in front of me. Then a second plate lands at the seat across from mine, and Vee sits down. Along with the two empty plates, she’s brought an entire pie in apan. It only takes a few seconds before the scent of warm pastry and peaches hits my nose, and my mouth waters immediately.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“We’re having pie,” she says. She cuts through the top crust and lifts slices out of the pan, setting them down on each plate. I watch, practically drooling, as she digs into hers with the side of her fork, squeezing yellow-orange goo out the sides. It glistens in the light and wow, that looks good. My stomach growls as she slides the fork between her lips and I cut a bite for myself, lifting it to my mouth with shaking hands.
“Oh my god,” I say as the peaches hit my tongue. Vee is watching me, eyes crinkling at the corner in silent laughter. Her face has lines I don’t remember. It’s only been two years, but she’s aged.
“See?” she says as she takes another bite. “Pie makes everything better.”
I don’t want to admit she’s right, but the way I demolish my slice like it’s the first thing I’ve eaten in a week says otherwise. Vee watches me with satisfaction as I help myself to a second slice before she’s even halfway through her first.
“Good?” she asks.
