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“A love cleanse,” Kiersten muses out loud. “Kind of fitting considering you and your love for everything crunchy granola, eh?”
I ignore her comment, too preoccupied with finding my answer.
My aunt flips through several pages, scanning the words withthe speed of someone who spends most of her day reading. “I can’t seem to find anything here about how to reverse it.”
My stomach sinks. “So I’m fucked?”
Aunt Livi shoots me a disappointed look.
Kiersten kicks her feet up onto the coffee table. “I’m starting to feel a little bit insulted here. Why are you so desperate to ditch us? I might be biased, but I think our reality is pretty solid.”
Kiersten’s the person I would have thought would understand my urge to get back to the life I know. But I guess a small part of me understands her point. Aside from Dax and my terrible basement apartment, at first glance, there seems to be nothing wrong with this reality per se. It’s just different.
But back in my other life, I had a carefully cultivated plan. One with a nice thick security blanket that kept me warm, fed, and a functional level of anxious. Yes, Stuart ripped a giant hole in said plan, but I’m a woman with contingencies. My terrible job came with retirement savings. I invested wisely with my condo. The predictable, uncomplicated vision I had for the next few years of my life should remain relatively intact, just with Stuart’s head cut out of the picture—metaphorically, of course.
“I don’t know what this reality’s Gemma is like, but I do not go with the flow,” I tell them. “I like plans. Ideally, well-thought-through ones. Where I know where I’m sleeping at night, and there is a minimal chance my life will go sideways.”
My sister and my aunt exchange a look, and before I realize it, their arms are around me, forming a Gemma sandwich.
“I get it,” my sister says softly into my hair. “You and I got the same raw deal here too, kiddo. We haven’t seen mom since 2017. Dad sends a Christmas card every year, but it goes to an address Trent and I moved from before we even had kids.”
So our parents are the same as they are back home:chronically absent and the reason my therapist holidays every winter in the Bahamas.
“It’s not you. It’s me.” I cringe at the phrase. “I’m just freaking out at the idea that I might never get home.”
“Let’s not fret quite yet.” Aunt Livi pulls the book from the coffee table to her lap. “Maybe we just need to think. You performed this cleanse and ended up here. What if we repeat the exact same thing, but instead of wishing you never had a relationship with Stuart, you wish that you did?”
I almost object because I donotwant to wish that, and it feels too simple. But I have nothing better to suggest. “What do we have to lose?”
I pause and wait for Kierst to voice an objection. My gut tells me she’s still far from convinced that I’ve managed to cause a rift in time.
Surprisingly, she shrugs. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
Aunt Livi jumps to her feet with the same level of enthusiasm she had last night. “Gemma, you take the book and read out the list of ingredients.”
The next five minutes are another eerie déjà vu. And my lack of tequila goggles makes the whole experience far less whimsical.
Still, we locate everything we had the first time we attempted to throw this spell down, including the white birthday candle, the hot-pink knitting wool, and even the leftover jerk chicken.
“So what exactly do we do with all this crap?” Kiersten pries open the Tupperware container of chicken and smells it while I consult the book. The events of last night are still a little muddled in my brain.
“We light the candle,” I explain, “and then we tie my hands, and then we…”Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, no, noooo.
“What?” Aunt Livi and Kiersten say simultaneously.
“We don’t have everything.” My head drops to my hands as I chastise myself for being such a—excuse my language, Aunt Livi—fucking idiot.
“What? What do we need?” Kiersten grabs the book.
I watch as her eyes skim the directions to the very last thing on the list.
“The final step, do not be remiss,
Is to seal your fate with a kiss.”
“Dax,” I answer before she has a chance to ask.
“But he doesn’t—” I can see, in her eyes, the precise moment she puts it all together. “Oh man…you are so fudged.”
