Again, But Better(67)

Nothing happens.

“What the hell?” I stare at the phone in disbelief.

A new thought hits me like a clean, sliding glass door to the face. “Oh my god, my interview’s in, like, an hour.” A sickening sense of helplessness joins the emotional tidal wave I’m riding.

“They should be able to reschedule, right?” Pilot asks.

I exhale. “I don’t even know. It’s a really tough program.” My voice comes out slow and defeated.

“Someone’s going to get us out soon. That had to have caused some noise. Don’t worry, we’re gonna be fine,” he says.

I heave a giant sigh, straighten my dress, and slide down to the floor.





28. More Than You Bargained For



It’s been an hour. We’re still here. We’ve been sitting in silence for fifty-four minutes when Pilot decides it’s time to break it.

“Good thing we didn’t finish our drinks, huh?” he opens.

My lips twitch. I look up from the floor and narrow my eyes.

He studies me for a moment before continuing, “You think you still feel whatever you felt before, even now?”

I blow out a breath. “Remember how we talked about what three places we would go back in time to if we could?”

“Vaguely.” He’s thoughtful for a moment. “We were going to hit a Beatles concert?”

“Yeah, and the Constitutional Convention, but I never came up with a third one.” I fixate my gaze a few inches to the right of Pilot’s head. “I think my third would be January 2011.”

He stares, expression too neutral to read.

I stare back. “If you could go back and do London all over again, knowing everything you know now, would you do it?”

He looks up at the ceiling for a few beats before dropping his eyes to meet my gaze. “Maybe.”

Another jolt rocks the elevator and it shifts violently to the right.

“Holy!” I slide across the floor toward Pilot.

“Shit,” he breathes. Loud creaking noises cut at our ears. My arms clutch at the black railing running along the walls. The elevator’s creaking. What is creaking? Why is it creaking? There’s a bang. I close my eyes and scream.





1. Helpless



I wait for impact. When fifteen seconds pass and it doesn’t come, I hesitantly unscrunch my eyes.

I’m sitting at a table in a light blue kitchen with a laptop in front of me. What the—? I jerk out of the seat, disoriented. The chair flips backward and clangs against the ground. I jump, whirling around.

No. I was in an elevator. Where’s the elevator? The elevator was creaking.

My breaths come fast and shallow. I glance back at the computer on the table. On the screen, Pages is open to … a blog post about London? Not possible.

I slam the laptop shut. There’s a white Lost Dharma Initiative MacBook decal on the back.

“Gah!” I jump away from it.

My legs tangle with the fallen chair, and in seconds I’m slamming up against the floor. Pain lances from my ass up my back. That’s going to bruise.

That’s my old computer up on the table. That computer’s dead. Sawyer died at the end of 2011. I had to get a new one—Sayid.

“What the fuck?” I yell to no one. I smack my cheeks and shake my head, trying to clear the room from my vision.

Nothing happens. I scramble off the ground and spread my arms out in front of me, Chris Pratt raptor-style, and slowly back away from the laptop. My eyes fall to the white chair lying on the floor. My heart pounds.

“No,” I insist. A scream crawls up my throat, so I let it out. It bounces around the room. Echoes around my head. I drop to the floor in a squat.

“This can’t be real this can’t be real this can’t be real this can’t be real. Inhale, exhale.” I inhale and exhale. I focus on my feet. Black boots.

I was … I was wearing those little heels. I yelp again, leaping up off the floor. Horror washes through me. I’m also wearing jeans. Jeans! “Did someone change me?”

What happened? We were in the elevator. I was in the elevator with Pilot. In New York. Did I pass out? Did someone kidnap me and change my clothes and fly me to London? Where’d they get my old computer? This can’t be. My head spins. I sink back into my squat.

There’s a bang behind me as the door smashes against the wall. I spin in my squat and end up on my ass facing the door. Pilot’s there looking wide-eyed and furious.

“Shane?”

I look up at him from my sad spot on the floor.

“What the fuck is going on? Did you set this up?” he yells.

I’m lost. I blink. “Set what up?”

His arms flail about. “What is this? Are you insane? Is this like some weird set-up you thought would be cute? Did you knock me out?”

I shake my head. “I— What?”

“Did you pay someone to recreate the flat? What the fuck?” His eyes bulge. He’s scared. He looks up at the ceiling and takes two steps to collapse on the leather couch against the wall with his head in his hands.

“I don’t understand,” is all I manage.

He looks up at me, still wide-eyed. “I can’t believe you called Atticus in on this!”