Another Day (Every Day 2)

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” I tell her, my voice shaking. “I don’t even know you!”

She can see she’s lost me, and it’s making her more desperate. “Listen to me,” she begs, her voice shedding some calm. “Please. You know it wasn’t Justin with you that day. In your heart, you know. He didn’t act like Justin. He didn’t do things Justin does. That’s because it was me. I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you. But it happened. And I can’t erase it. I can’t ignore it. I have lived my whole life like this, and you’re the thing that has made me wish it could stop.”

I want to stop listening. I want to stop myself from driving over here. From wanting to know what was going on. I should have left it unknown. Because now it’s still unknown, but it’s a much worse unknown.

And the awful part is: She’s right. Justin didn’t act like Justin. I know that. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t Justin. It just means it was a better day than usual. I have to believe that. Because this story can’t be true. I mean, why not just say he was taken over by aliens? Bitten by a vampire? And—wait—then there’s the most unbelievable part of all. According to this story, I am The Girl. I am worth all that.

“But why me?” I ask, as if I’ve finally found the flaw, finally proven her wrong. “That makes no sense.”

But she doesn’t give in. She launches back with, “Because you’re amazing. Because you’re kind to a random girl who just shows up at your school. Because you also want to be on the other side of the window, living life instead of just thinking about it. Because you’re beautiful. Because when I was dancing with you in Steve’s basement on Saturday night, it felt like fireworks. And when I was lying on the beach next to you, it felt like perfect calm. I know you think that Justin loves you deep down, but I love you through and through.”

“Enough!” Oh God, now I’m the girl yelling in the café. Now I’m losing it. “It’s just—enough, okay? I think I understand what you’re saying to me, even though it makes no sense whatsoever.”

“You know it wasn’t him that day, don’t you?”

I want her to stop. I don’t want to know any of this. I don’t want to be thinking about this. I don’t want to be thinking about all the ways Justin has avoided talking about that day. About how my love for him made so much sense then, but hasn’t since. About how I haven’t found any of the him from that day in the him afterward. I don’t want to think about how I felt when I was dancing with Nathan. About how it felt when he sang that song. About the real reason I came here today. About what I really wanted.

“I don’t know anything!” I insist. Again, I’m too loud. People are watching. Whatever story they’re playing out in their minds, it’s not going to be this one. I lower my voice—I don’t want them to hear more. I don’t want to do this. “I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t know.”

Why? Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I stand up and leave? Why am I thinking for even a second that it might not be a lie?

Her. This girl. I look at her. Her heart is breaking. She is looking at me and her heart is breaking. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why. Her hand is moving onto mine. She is holding my hand. She is trying to get me through this. She is trying to take me through.

“I know it’s a lot.” Her voice is hurt. Her voice is comfort. “Believe me, I know.”

I can barely get the words out. “It’s not possible.”

“It is,” she says. “I’m the proof.”

Proof. Proof is a fact. None of this is a fact. This is a feeling. All of this is a feeling.

No. It’s thousands of feelings. So many of them yes. So many of them no.

She wants me to believe—what? That she was Justin. That she was Nathan. That girl in school. Other people.

How can I believe that? Who would ever believe that?

It cannot be a fact.

But it’s still a feeling. The yes. It’s there.

How can I let myself feel that? How?

“Look,” she says, “what if we met here again tomorrow at the same time? I won’t be in the same body, but I’ll be the same person. Would that make it easier to understand?”

Like it’s that simple. Like that couldn’t be a trick.

“But couldn’t you just tell someone else to come here?” I point out. If I can be suckered by one person, why not another?

“Yes, but why would I? This isn’t a prank. This isn’t a joke. It’s my life.”

The way she says it—It’s my life.

Not a feeling. Fact.

“You’re insane,” I tell her. If she actually believes what she’s saying, how could she not be?

But she doesn’t seem at all insane when she tells me, “You’re just saying that. You know I’m not. You can sense that much.”