I’m coming over.
I love you, but engaging in conversation is too ambitious for today.
It’s an emergency, B.
Of what variety?
If I tell Bridget the truth, there’s a chance she’ll assume, like Penn, that I’m ill or possessed. But she might be convinced. She regularly sees a psychic, keeps an entire folder of astrology apps on her home screen, and forced me to watchJumanjiconstantly when we were kids, even though the CGI monkeys scared the hell out of me.
The idea of existing inside a game will probably thrill Bridget. Most likely, she’ll be jealous. If anyone’s going to believe in MASH coming true, it’s her.
I think I’m stuck in an alternate universe.
Does this universe have coffee and bagels? Because you’re only welcome here if you bring ample provisions.
Caffeine and carbs, incoming.
—
My tie-dye JeepWrangler is as subtle as it sounds, with a teal-blue interior, a kiwi-greenRstitched into both front seats, and a colorful beaded charm wrapped around the rearview mirror, two tiny disco balls hanging over the dashboard. It’s a far cry from the white Nissan Versa I’ve leased for years, but when in Rome, or a time warp, or whatever.
With the top down and a pop station playing, I stress-eat a Ring Pop I found in the pantry and cruise along familiar streets where everything but me seems to be in normal working order.
Lakeville is a small town named after a lake that’s more of alarge pond. A brick train station sits at the center of downtown, and Main Street is lined with wide sidewalks and two-story Tudor-style buildings with wooden eaves. This weekend, all the shop and restaurant awnings are trimmed in red, white, and blue bunting for Labor Day.
When I reach the lake and round toward the O’Briens’ house, bright green trees tunnel overhead and stone-cold panic courses through my veins.
Frolicking through a dream is all fun and games until there’s no clear exit from said game. The thought of being trapped here? With Penn under the same roof? For an undetermined amount of time? While real life may or may not continue without me?
Cool cool cool.Just run me over with this Jeep, why don’t you?
I park in front of Bridget’s childhood home: a brick ranch house with green shutters and the lingering, potent scent of whatever seasonal candle Sue recently burned. Her parents aren’t home this weekend. They’re at a friend’s Michigan lake house, soaking up some of the last warm days before fall hits. I wish they were around. Seeing them would be a comfort.
Don is a gregarious lawyer, and Sue is a warm hug of a woman who worked as a receptionist at our elementary school. Even now, they both wear their adoration for Bridget like tattoos across their foreheads. As a beloved only child, she still embodies the enviable, innate confidence that comes from having heard, early and often, that she could do anything—which she did. Bridget tried and thrived in all of Lakeville’s sports offerings, plus piano lessons and a couple years of theater. She’s the kind of well-rounded that dominates in Trivial Pursuit and lets her fit in among any crowd. Considering she could’ve had any kind of best friend, I’ve always felt particularly lucky that she chose me. I joke that I haveMary-Kate and Ashley to thank for it. Bridget always wanted a twin, and proximity to me was her second-best option.
I let myself into the house and kick off my electric-blue sneakers.
The living room looks exactly like it did last night, in the real world, when Bridget hosted a pre-party. Purple streamers hang from the ceiling, gold balloons float beside the brick fireplace, and—wait. Harry Styles is smizing at me from where his poster still hangs over the leather couch. But last night, Bridget yanked that poster off the wall before dinner. She brought it with us.
An unsettling itch spreads across my skin. This MASH world is the same, only slightly off, like one of those “Spot the Difference” side-by-side picture puzzles inHighlightsmagazine.
“Is that my caffeine delivery?” Bridget calls from down the hall.
In Bridget’s bedroom, nothing has changed for multiple decades. The lavender dreamcatcher over her bed has been there since fifth grade. Ditto all her cheerleading trophies, which take up an entire shelf.
“I’ve got a triple-shot latte,” I announce. “Plus, the Kool-Aid Bursts I found in my fridge. And bagels galore.” I’m determined to fuel Bridget properly before I launch into myHelp, I think your game accidentally vaulted me into another dimensionspeech.
She’ll need to be lucid for that.
“Please whisper,” Bridget croaks. “I’m tasting sounds. And they all taste like tequila.”
Her complexion is the color of fast-food chicken.
She sits up warily, and I settle into the twin bed beside her. Either she’s too hungover to joke about my outfit or she’s used to seeing me dress like a walking pile of Fruity Pebbles. So much for my days as a disgruntled Ann Taylor employee.
She takes the bag from me and moans, “Why am I the only one feeling like a corpse?”
I pat her leg. “Because I drank a pot of coffee. And napped. And it’s noon.”
