“I’m just ridiculously hungry,” Will says, slowing down. “Sorry.”
I finally manage to grab his hand; he squeezes mine, but it feels a little too hard and a little too quick, like a pat on the head.
“I’m hungry too,” I admit with another flicker of impending doom. “Where are we going?”
“Huh?” Will doesn’t look at me. “I thought we were trying out one of those cool new pop-up restaurants?”
“What?” I abruptly stop walking. “Why?”
“Oh.” He stops walking, frowns. “I thought I texted you about it this morning, Cassie. Shit. I’m so sorry. Again. This week has been...confusing. You’re vegetarian, aren’t you? It’s a new place a three-minute walk away from you, so I thought it might be fun to try it out.” He smiles broadly. “A unique culinary experience.”
Something cold flickers across my stomach.
“Okay. It’s just...” I frown. “Never mind.”
The sensation in my neck intensifies. No curry, no dramatic choking and drinking out of a vase. Something has definitely been thrown off course again. And sure, you could argue that it’s a positive sign. That Will has chosen a venue he believes I’ll enjoy, catered for my specific culinary tastes, which is objectively a sign of romantic effort. That’s what the signs are telling me. Except it doesn’t feel right, and I’m sick of trying to push that sensation away.
Together, we watch a white van speed past.
“I’m sorry I’ve been quiet this week,” Will says as we cross the road, hands still linked but somehow locked as if nothing to do with each other. “Deadlines all seem to be hitting at once at the moment.”
I nod. “Of course. I understand.”
Brixton is bright and loud, but all I can think is: there were no deadlines the first time round, and now I just don’t believe him.
We turn a familiar corner; I say, “So what is it exactly you’re working o—”
Then I freeze.
“Are you okay?” Will frowns and follows the direction of my eyes toward the shipping container. “Do you not like egg, Cassie? Have I screwed up?”
Just an Oeuf is written in swirly yellow writing, exactly where If It Ain’t Baroque was previously signposted. Or—if we’re being specific—where it will be, in approximately three months’ time. The antique lace drapes are now white muslin curtains covered in yellow spots, the corrugated walls are coated in shiny yellow plastic, and outside is a statue of a giant, ugly plastic chicken. The fact that I hate eggs with the passion of a thousand fiery suns seems the least of my problems.
I was right: something has spun off in the wrong direction.
I just don’t quite understand how.
“Welcome to Just an Oeuf!” Lipstick and Lace Girl smiles at us from over her clipboard, except this time her lipstick is bright orange and her choker is made out of feathers. It’s exactly the same girl as last time. Or next time. I’m losing track. “We hope to give you an egg-cellent alimentary experience tonight. Name?”
“Baker,” Will says as the world starts to warp in and out.
Even in my shock, it’s nice to hear the word alimentary casually thrown into my dining experience.
“Do you always work here?” We follow the chicken girl through to the exact same table with the exact same stools, except now they’re covered in bright yellow fluff. “How long have you been here?”
“Sorry?”
“Does this place switch themes soon?”
“Oh.” The girl frowns at me and places the menus in front of us. “Maybe. I think the owner is trying out a few ideas.”
I study the restaurant carefully. Instead of flocked wallpaper, it’s painted yellow, the duck heads are fake chicken heads, the carved gold chairs are fur-lined and white. It’s a lot emptier than the next incarnation, and yet another courageously themed concept. Maybe they should just give up and try serving pizza.
“If It Ain’t Baroque,” I breathe.
“What was that?”
“If It Ain’t Baroque,” I repeat faintly, feeling a little sick. “That’s what’s coming next. It’s eighteenth-century-themed food. You know, Fricassee, Goosed-berries, Beet Root Pan Cakes, four words.”
“I like it!” The waitress laughs. “I’ll let the owner know. He loves a culinary pun and he’s looking for a new idea.”
Piano fingers run down my spine: Did I just predict the future, or am I now actually creating it?
Will pours water from the jug and I stare at that too. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I feel a bit weird.”
The waitress leaves and I pick up the menu and stare blankly at all the egg puns. Hard to Beat. What the hell is going on? Breggsit. We’re here three months early. Practical Yolk. It’s just a coincidence, right? Will picked the same restaurant, that’s all. Eggstraterrestrial. It’s no big deal. He saw a flyer and remembered I’m vegetarian. Eggspresso. I’m overthinking it all again, right?
Honestly, I’m getting to the point where I never want to see a pun again.
We’re not haunted by them—we’re plagued.
“This menu is cracking me up,” Will observes, grinning at me.
I stare at him. “What?”
“Never mind.” Will looks down at his menu again. “I think I’ll go for the bacon and eggs. What are you going to have, Cassie?”
Maybe I’m not overthinking it. Maybe I’ve been told I’m overthinking it so often, by so many people, I’ve convinced myself it’s all I’m capable of. But what if they’re wrong? What if I’m thinking it exactly the right amount? What if everyone else is simply underthinking it, continuously, and the deficit is actually theirs? Because something tells me I’m not in the wrong here: my instincts are spot-on.
“Cassie?”
“Sorry?” Swallowing, I try to refocus on the menu: scanning for the least cloaca-originated option. Fried egg and chips: create a solid and impenetrable wall between them with some bread and hope it doesn’t seep through. “Thank God It’s Fry-Day?”
“That looks good.” Will nods. “I think you should whisk it.”
I stare at him. “Please stop with the egg jokes now.”
“Okay.” He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”
The waitress brings a little basket of what appear to be bread rolls with melted Haribo eggs stuck on top, and I’m beginning to think whoever owns this place needs to focus less on novelty value and more on food.
“Are you ready for an egg-streme experience?” The waitress smiles and I recognize her white dress: & Other Stories, summer 2017. “Drinks? Can I suggest a couple of glasses of eggnog?”
“Just regular red wine, please,” Will says, and I feel another shock of repetition combined with a flicker of relief. No custard masquerading as a beverage for us. “The Eggsplorer for me and the...”
They start chatting about how long the restaurant has been here, what the profits are like, so on and so forth, but I’ve stopped listening. I feel my stomach twist like a wet towel. This shouldn’t be happening—it is nonsensical, illogical, irrational—but every single instinct in my body is now telling me that I have reached the end of my loop again, three and a half months early.
“Cassie,” Will says quietly.
I look up. “Yes?”
“Is everything all right?” He frowns. “What’s going on?”
I breathe out slowly. Oh, not much, Will. I just rewound time four months, exhausted myself trying to make this relationship work, and instead of improving the situation, it appears I just slammed my foot on the accelerator.
“I’m fine,” I say with a smile. “Thank you for asking. How are you?”
“I’m eggs—Sorry. I’m awesome.” Will looks up as our food arrives looking and smelling as disgusting as the cooked unfertilized embryo of another species always does. “Brilliant, actually. I just got some great news, but...”
He looks at his eggs, then back at me, then back at his eggs. I suddenly sense a torrent of colors, but yet again, I have no idea what they are, and I have to be honest: I’m getting so very tired of constantly guessing.
“So I just got offered an assignment in Mexico.” Will reaches for his wine and takes a way-too-big mouthful. “To shoot a documentary on vaquitas. I’m leaving next Saturday, for two weeks.”
What the hell is a vaquita, anyway?
“Except,” I say, abruptly putting my fork down, “you didn’t.”
29
Will didn’t go to Mexico.
At no point in our original timeline did Will go to the Gulf of California to film whatever a vaquita is: I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed him disappearing at the start of our budding relationship for an entire fortnight. And now I know for sure: it’s happening. The loop is over. We’re at the end.
It’s more than three months early, and our time is up.
“Cassie.”
The restaurant is completely empty.
“Cassie.”
Everything is silent.