In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,17
I reach for my neck. Do I look like a corkscrew? Is my head on the right way? Can I see my own butt? I slump with relief until I notice the same white-noise hum of an engine, the same dry, recirculated air. The same everything.
“No,” I whisper, heart pounding. Not again.
chapter eight
Benny stares at me. He blinks slowly, and I silently watch him try to process all of this. Again.
“I feel like I’m following you down this road pretty easily, friend.” He frowns, worried. “Are you sure you’re not having some sort of altitude-poisoning thing?”
Taking a deep breath, I rub my temples and remind myself to be patient; Benny doesn’t know he’s been through this before. He doesn’t know he just asked me this same question. Whatever time loop I’ve tripped into isn’t his fault.
“This is the third time I’ve lived this day,” I say. “It’s the second time I’ve had this conversation with you.”
“So you saw your dad crack a tooth,” he says slowly. “Three times?”
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t think to warn him?”
I slump down, covering my face, and let out a groan. The airport was exactly the same. The drive was identical. Only this time, my arrival at the cabin was even more disorienting than before. Panic kept my throat tight and fragile as I realized that yes, I had done this before—whether it was only in my head or was actually happening, I’m living this day again. I just don’t know how or why.
The only thing that calmed me down once we arrived was my time with Andrew on the porch again. Maybe because I looked even paler and more vulnerable, he seemed to put more effort into his ridiculous introductions.
We gather here in December to build snow creatures, sled down huge mountains, make piles of cookies, and watch our parents get day-drunk . . .
We used to pretend to be in a rock band and you’d be David Bowie and I’d be Janis Joplin . . .
You talk in your sleep but unfortunately never say anything scandalous or interesting, it’s mostly about food and spreadsheets . . .
“What else happens tonight?” Benny asks now, bringing my attention back to the present. He reaches for my hands to gently pry them away from my face. “What are some things you remember that . . .”
I pick up where he trails off. “That might help you believe me?”
Sweet Benny gives an apologetic wince and a shrug, but I don’t blame him. I haven’t caught my reflection anywhere, but I’m sure I look like a complete maniac. I’m clammy, breathless, feeling frayed at the edges. Oddly stiff, I stretch my neck from one side to the other, and a loud crack reverberates through the room. Huh. Better.
Voices move from the kitchen down the hall to the living room.
Abruptly, I stand and pull Benny after me. “Oh. Oh. Kyle is about to show everyone his new tattoo.”
We move across the room to the door. I swear Benny moves with this weird tiptoe step that makes him look like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo as we carefully make our way down the attic steps and peer around the corner. Ricky’s voice carries through the house from the living room. “Guys, come here!” Ricky calls. “Kyle got a cool new tattoo!”
When the words reach us, Benny grips my arm so hard I can feel each one of his fingertips.
I close my eyes, listening carefully. “Ricky’s gonna give himself a hard time for forgetting to get Hendrick’s for Aaron. Miso is going to lick Zachary’s toes, and he’ll laugh hysterically. Lisa is going to put on a Bob Dylan Christmas album that is legitimately terrible, and Theo is going to have a sip of beer go down the wrong pipe and will start coughing for, like, ten minutes straight.” I look at Benny and nod, resolute. “Just wait.”
We turn our quiet attention back to the living room, out of sight but within earshot.
“I don’t know what I’m going to think if you’re right,” Benny whispers.
“Yeah. Same.”
• • •
Twenty minutes later, we’re back in the attic and Benny is pacing the length of the floor, back and forth. His bracelets jingle with every step. I’m on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He’s freaking out because everything I said would happen happened. Finally, he stops near me and lets out a reverently whispered “Whoa. I’m not even high right now.”
I know I should feel vindicated, but given that it’s no surprise to me that I