“Sam!” Will’s cry of relief is so tangible it turns the air green. “Buddy! There you are! Where the hell have you been?”
With a quick, dutiful kiss on my cheek, he shoots away from us like a paintball and everything inside me abruptly hurts. She’s done it again. She’s ruined everything. This is exactly why I tried so hard to keep her away from me: I do not like who I become around her.
No, that’s a lie.
I don’t like being reminded of who I really am.
“Just stop,” I say as my eyes fill. “Please.”
I’m going to have to undo all of this, aren’t I. Erase it from existence. I’m not sure when you’re allowed to start shouting and swearing at a strange woman in the middle of an art exhibition, but I’m going to assume it’s somewhere after date four; probably never.
“I’m sorry,” she says in a tiny voice. “This has all gone wrong, Cassandra. I just wanted to run into you here, like it was a big old accident, catch you off guard, and then I got all preoccupied with showing off, trying to be funny, and I’ve gone ahead and screwed it all up again. Please can we just start again? I am so, so sorry. Truly. For literally everything.”
Her gray eyes are so earnest and I can feel myself soften, begin to relent, and then—with a crack—one of my Tupperware boxes starts to leak again and I hear it as if it’s still happening.
You’re a monster you’re a monster you’re a monster you’re a—
Something slams shut inside me.
Not because I don’t believe that she’s sorry—there have been enough letters over the years to understand that she is—but because, much like a curse from the gods, turning people into frogs and beetles and flowers and trees and then immediately regretting it, it doesn’t really matter.
At some point, what is done cannot be undone.
But I know one thing that can.
“Sounds lovely.” Sophie beams. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow!”
“Sure,” I say distractedly, typing:
So sorry, can’t make it—stuck at the office.
I press SEND, but all I’m thinking about is Greek Penelope.
Just like my other mythological namesake, it’s starting to feel like every day I weave a complex tapestry, and every night—terrified of the consequences, of what will happen when I’m done—I simply unpick it again.
And nothing gets made at all.
26
This time, I go straight home.
I return to the safety of my bedroom and throw myself into a loop of my own making: read a book I’ve already read, watch a TV show I’ve seen dozens of times, wear my Wednesday pajamas and eat my Wednesday dinner. I listen to a favorite song on repeat, dozens of times; bury myself in familiarity like a small, hurt animal in its den, turning in tiny circles until it can comfortably settle. I make the same small sounds to myself, over and over again. I curl up in a ball on my bed, rocking gently, losing myself in the comfort of a pattern.
I soothe myself with repetition until I feel calm.
Until I can finally fall asleep.
A bright blue light flash; a fraction later, the knock on the door like the thunder after the lightning.
“Mnnnnuh?” Disoriented, I sit up. “Will?”
Where am I this time? There’s another knock, louder this time. Panicking, I try to process my environment: window outline, position of the door, the smell of my duvet, shape of my shelves. Relief settles gently like my old floating duvet: I’m at home.
A third knock outside my bedroom, and I now suspect it’s not Will after all. Having woken up a little more, it seems unlikely that he left the exhibition and crossed London just to break into my house. Groggy and still confused, I turn the lamp on, grab my yellow dressing gown and unlock the door.
“Hey.” Derek leans against the frame. “Were you asleep?”
Blinking, I glance at my wrist before realizing I took my watch off and put it on my bedside table as I do every night.
“What time is it?” I manage.
“Dunno. Midnight? Just after? The pub’s kicked us out. Sal decided to go on with her mates, but I didn’t feel up to it. Can I come in?”
Before I can say absolutely not, Derek slides past me.
Trying desperately to wake up properly now, I pull my dressing gown tight and warily watch my flatmate walk slowly around my bedroom like he’s Dorothy in bloody Oz. He scans all my color-arranged clothes, walks over to my shelf and studies it, picks up my little gold peacock, turns it over and puts it back in totally the wrong place. What the hell is happening? I’m scanning my memories for this scene the first time round, but it isn’t there. Although I worked so late in the original timeline, maybe I just slept through his incessant knocking.
Derek picks up my little silver deer figurine and hiccups, and oh my God, I’ve just realized: Is he drunk?
“Can you stop touching my stuff, please,” I say sharply.
He puts the deer back in the wrong place and I wait until he’s moved away before scurrying forward and pointedly moving it back again. I’m going to have to wash it with soap: it’s got grubby, inebriated-Derek fingerprints all over it now.
“You’ve really made this space your own,” he says, continuing to perambulate with a now noticeable wobble. “I’ve not been in here since you moved in. Which was...how long ago now? Five weeks?”
“Nine weeks,” I say guardedly. “And two days.”
“And two days.” He flicks me a strange look and grins, then goes back to perusing my belongings as if this is a small station shop and he’s got time before he catches his train. “It feels like you’ve only just moved in, Cassandra Wankworth.”
My eyes widen. “Dankworth.”
“That’s what I meant. How are you finding it here?”
“Fine.”
I feel invaded. Sullied. Like I need a six-hour hot shower and a power hose for my bedroom. There’s something icky and khaki coming out of him in short, slimy waves: a really ugly color, but I have no idea what it means. I just know I want it out of my bedroom right now before it coats everything.
“Cool.” Derek goes to my bookcase and begins scanning the contents with his fingers before pulling out a particularly brilliant story about Pandora. “Can I borrow this?”
“No. What are you doing in here, Derek?”
“Oh.” He puts the book back in the wrong place and perches on the end of my bed; I have to stifle a roar. My bedding will need to be thrown out, possibly burned. “Sal is a bit worried about you. We don’t really know much about you yet, you really keep yourself to yourself, so she asked me to check on you. See if you were okay.”
I relax slightly. “She did? Really? That’s so nice.”
“Yeah. You’re somewhat of an enigma, Cassandra.” He looks around my room again. Burps. Teeth gritted, I immediately cross the room and open the window. “You’re a bit of a mystery. It’s hard to know what you’re thinking. Your face never really moves, does it? And your voice is kind of flat. Like a robot. Hey.” He picks up the paint chart next to my bed. “You can’t paint in here. Sal’s dad won’t let us redecorate.”
“I’m not painting,” I say tightly.
“You’re not painting?” Derek stares at it. “So...you’ve just got it here as, like, bedtime reading? Is that why there’s one next to the bath, too?” He peers at me for a few seconds, then laughs. “You’re a strange duck, Dankworth, that’s for sure. Like, are you stunted in some way? Is something in here missing?” He taps his head. “Not being rude, but this doesn’t look like the room of an adult woman.”
I flush hot. “How is that not fucking rude?”
“Hey, don’t get all prickly.” He holds his hands out and drunkenly studies his own fingers for a few seconds, fascinated, then returns his focus to me. “I’m just trying to figure you out. I’m curious, that’s all.” Another hiccup. “You’re kind of childish, but also a granny, with your frozen meals and your mad outfits and your cuddly toy and your dressing gown and your figurines and your hedgehog bowl. Don’t think I didn’t see the hedgehog bowl, Cassandra. What’s that all about?”
I like to see his little friendly face when I eat breakfast—it cheers me up—but I do not think telling Derek this now is going to help my cause.
“It’s just a bowl,” I reply tersely.
“But you’re hot too.” He considers my face. “Very pretty. Rocking bod under all that fluff. I bet you’re a bit of a surprise in the old bedroom department, actually. Efficient. Hardworking. Everything ticked off. Blow job—tick! Hand job—tick! Orgasm—tick tick tick! Marks out of ten, gold star, smiley-sticker sex.”
My mouth drops open in shock.
Somehow, this is even worse than it was the first time round. Why does the universe keep trying to make me move? Why can’t it just let me have a home? All I need is a room without a drunk man in it, waking me up at midnight to talk about my sexual prowess and crockery. Is it really too much to ask?
“Hey.” He chuckles lightly as I attempt to pull the fluff of my dressing gown into the cells of my body. “I’m just joking, Dankworth. Banter, you know? You don’t need to look quite so appalled. I’m not a predator or anything. I’m just playing around.”