“I think you’re right.”
“Let’s see . . . your brother, Miles, though . . .” He winces playfully. “He’s smart, but I’m not sure he’s looked up from his phone in the past two years. If you want to have a conversation with him, you might want to consider strapping his phone to your forehead.” Leaning in, Andrew searches my eyes, and my heart drops through the porch. “Does any of this ring a bell?”
I reach to smack him. “Stop it. I really am fine. I’m sure it’s just the altitude messing with me.”
Andrew looks like he hadn’t considered this, and to be fair I hadn’t, either, before the words came out, so I mentally high-five the handful of remaining neurons that appear to be doing their job up there. Footsteps rumble behind us, and Benny’s shaggy head pokes out onto the porch. He steps out to join us, shivering in only a thin bike shop T-shirt.
“Hey, Noodle,” he says, brows up expectantly. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I grab you for a second?”
• • •
I guess I can’t fault Benny for pulling me aside when I’ve given him at least ten pleading SOS looks since our arrival. We head inside, and I melt in pleasure at the heat of the entryway relative to the brilliant chill of the winter twilight. With the voices of everyone filtering down the hall, and Andrew’s proximity fading, reality descends: somehow, I think I’m here again.
My brain screams, This isn’t normal!
Intent on getting us as far away from everyone else as I can, I head for the stairs leading to the upper floor of the house. Turning to Benny, I put my index finger over my lips, urging him to be quiet as we tiptoe upstairs. In silence, we round the banister, shuffle down the hall, and climb the steep, narrow steps to his attic room. When I was little, I was afraid to come up here alone. The stairs creaked, and the landing was dark. But Benny explained that if the stairs leading up to the attic were as pretty as the rest of the house, everyone would find the treasures hidden up there.
With my heart pounding out a thunderstorm in my throat, I jerk him inside and close the door.
His turquoise bracelets rattle together when he comes to a stumbling stop, brows raised. “You all right?” he asks, genuine concern making his accent bleed the words together.
For the second time today—How long is today?—I wonder what my face looks like.
“No, I don’t think so.” I listen for a few seconds, making sure no one has followed us up here. When I’m satisfied we’re alone, I whisper, “Listen. Some crazy stuff is going on.”
He gives me a knowing wink. “I’ll say. You and Andrew seemed pretty flirty out there. Is that what you wanted to talk about? Has something happened?”
“What? No. I wish.” I point to the chair in the far corner by the windows and flap my hand until he takes the hint and sits down.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and fixes his attention on my face. The calm assurance of Benny’s focus is like a numbing salve to my frazzled nerves.
“Okay,” I begin, pulling up another folding chair and sitting across from him, knee to knee. “Have I ever given you the impression that I am—how should I put this? Mentally impaired?”
“Before today?” he jokes. “No.”
“Emotionally unbalanced?”
“A few moments when you were thirteen to fifteen, but since then? No.”
“Okay, then please believe that when I say what I’m about to say, I am being totally serious.”
He takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “Okay. Hit me.”
“I think it’s possible I’m in the past, repeating the same holiday, and I’m the only one who knows it.”
It sounds even crazier once I say it aloud. His bushy brows push together, and he shoves his too-long hair out of his eyes. “You mean the nightmare your dad mentioned?”
“No, I mean for real.” I look around the room, wishing there was something here that could help me. Lisa’s old Ouija board? Too creepy. Theo’s old Magic 8 Ball? Too desperate. “Things that happened six days ago are happening over again.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a mint, and pops it in his mouth. “Start from the beginning.”
I run a hand down my face. “Okay. So, earlier today for me was December twenty-sixth. Dad, Mom, Miles, and I were in a car headed to the airport—from here. This truck ran a red light—” I pause, piecing the fragments together. “A truck carrying Christmas trees, I think. Everyone was distracted, and it hit us. I woke up on the plane.” I look up, making sure he’s following. “A plane back here, today. December twentieth.”
He lets out a quiet “Whoa.” And then, “I don’t get it.”
I lean closer, trying to sort my words into order. “Maybe I’m not actually talking to you right now. Maybe I’m in a coma in the hospital, or maybe I really am dreaming this. All I know is that I already lived through this Christmas, managed to mess it all up, got creamed by a Christmas tree truck, and now I’m back, and it’s the beginning of the holiday all over again.”