A moment of weakness.
You aren't ashamed. Everyone is weak, sometimes. And different as you are, you still fall under the categorization of 'everyone.'
"So..." Sarah wraps her hands around her cup of tea. "What did you want to tell me about?"
You stop pacing, look over at her.
You needed time, of all things. Your mind was a furnace. If you acted now, you'd burn away. You couldn't REGRESS far back enough—back before he died, anyway, so what was the point? So you waited—how you hated it—waited three weeks. Tried to be normal again. Carefully read the books. Went to the café every day or so. Spoke with that same waitress. Asked her how she was, about her day. Gradually learned her hours.
Her name is Sarah.
When you said the wrong thing—and you often did, as the embers of rage still flickered in you and your patience was a short wick— you would REGRESS, of course. But you can forgive that. You're not yourself right now. If you weren't in such dire straits, you wouldn't do something like that. Not to someone like her.
So you tell yourself. You tell yourself that with every text and phone call and joke and smile and shit-eating-grin argument over some meaningless thing.
"Well... you're not going to believe me when I say this," you begin. You've rehearsed this fuck knows how many times, even though you could just REGRESS as usual. But you rehearsed anyway.
Sarah raises a pierced eyebrow. "You might be surprised. Go on."
"It's going to sound weird."
"You're weird. We talk about weird things all the time," she points out.
"Point taken. So I'm just going to go ahead and say it, okay?" You grip the back of the chair across the table from her.
She nods.
You take a breath. "Okay. So... I can... I can kind of rewind time."
Congratulations. Your rehearsing didn't pay off for shit.
Sarah is silent, appraising you. Her eyebrows raise, at first. Then the corners of her mouth twitch up... then back down into a pursed line. She leans back in her chair, looking at the ceiling.
"Wow. You're serious."
"You believe me?" Shit. Even you sound incredulous.
"I didn't say that." She taps her nails against the ceramic cup. "I gotta say, I expected something more... hm, plausible."
You clamp your mouth shut, feeling idiotic. And then: "Look, I don't blame you. I wouldn't believe me either. I mean, that's—that's insane. Goes against everything."
She leans her elbows on the table. "It sure does. So this, I presume, is the part where you show me some proof."
Got to hand it to her, she knows her conventions of the genre.
"Yeah." You look around her apartment, grab a pad of sticky notes off the counter—hopefully not her roommate's—and slide it over to her. "Okay, just... just, something—write something."
"Anything?"
"Sure, anything. Legibly, Miss Cursive," you add, and she snorts. You turn around. "My eyes are closed, too."
"Alright, alright."
You hear the scratching of a pen. A few letters, at most.
"Schadenfreude."
The scratching stops.
"... Nice trick," Sarah says, peeling to a new sticky note. The scratch of pen, and—
"Raison d'être."
The scratching stops. Before she can start again—
"Anti—antidisest—fuck—antidisestablishmentarian...ism." You peer at her over your shoulder. "Seriously?"
Sarah puts the pen down, scrutinizing you intently. You shift under her gaze. "Might I ask why you put cameras in my apartment?"
You shake your head. "You'll get a text from Cassie in about ten—er, eight seconds. She'll ask if you want anything from the store."
Sarah glances at her phone, then back to you. And, of course...
It vibrates. She looks at it. She puts it down. "So you and Cassie are in on it together," she says with a shrug.
You don't want to do this. "This part is going to be a little weirder."
She cocks her head slightly. "Weirder, how?"
You breath in, and: "You were born in Wichita, I knew that already, but you don't like telling anyone, ever since someone gave you the nickname 'farmgirl.' Your parents got a divorce when you were seventeen, but it was for the best. You say your middle name is Alexandra, but you don't actually have one. You have a sister and a half-brother, but you always felt closer to your brother for some reason. You got all of your tattoos on Sundays, all on your back. Kids made fun of you in high school until you broke some girl's nose at the flag pole. You used to bite your nails. You like watching reruns of the Brady Bunch for some god-forsaken reason. You got the scar on your elbow from falling out of a tree. You love dogs but you're allergic to them. Your dog's name was Caleb, growing up. Golden retriever. You, uh, have a belly-button piercing."
She just stares.
You spread your hands lamely.
"Tonight, we were going to drink and watch movies, right? Dawn of the Dead and Predator and The Thing—you know, you said it'd be a surprise, and that's what they were. Sorry. Ruined the surprise." You clear your throat. "We did watch them, though. I mean... we will, in the future. And we talked. Will talk. A lot. About—about a lot of different things. You told me that—all of that." Your throat is dry. "But tonight, I thought, you're the one I can tell all this to. So I... I just REGRESSED—"
"What?"
"I turned back time," you say thickly, "about six or seven hours. To tell you this. I couldn't think of a better..." You wave a hand, gesturing uselessly. "Time."
She is silent.
"... We start with vodka," you say quietly, jerking your head toward the kitchen. "You tell me you hate vodka, but Cassie loves it. I suggest getting something better, but you say terrible drinks—"
"... Go with great movies," she finishes.
"Yeah." You actually don't get that logic at all.
The silence grows and presses against the walls and windows. You can feel it pushing you towards the door.
"I'll go," you say softly, avoiding her eyes. "I'll keep this from happening. I can go back—"
"No."
You look up.
"Keep it this way."
You don't want to. It was your first run. You're already thinking of how this could've gone better.
"But one thing."
"Yeah?"
She's pulling the vodka out of the cabinets, giving you a very serious look. "When we watch movies tonight—" She pauses, finding the right words— "Do you tell me about your friend?"
You come close. So close to clenching your teeth and going back, going back and saying, no, sorry, I can't make it tonight.
"Yes."
She nods. "Then let's drink, chronographer."
0-0-0-0-0-0
Weakness.
A moment of weakness.
She's asleep on the couch. You're sitting on the floor, staring at the muted TV, swirling an inch of terrible vodka in a sweating glass.
You weren't ashamed. But you are now.