Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I go over to it, trying not to accidentally stab my thigh with the knife, and watch as the boat’s location shows on the chart. He’s plotted a course out of the inlet and across the open to Winter Harbor.
Fuck.
I eye the VHF, wondering if I can get up on the table, if I can then manage to grab it. Maybe there’s some emergency button to hit. Or if I hold down the depressor on the mouthpiece and shout for Mayday, maybe they’ll hear me.
Kincaid will hear you too, I think. And then what will he do?
I have to take my chances. It’s worth a shot.
I drop the knife, unable to climb with it safely, then get up on my knees on the bench seat. I’m trying to balance, leaning toward the table, when a wave hits the boat from the side. I yelp and go flying against the communication consoles, knocking loose something that had been stuck in there.
Feeling bruised, I stare at the small square piece of white paper that flutters down onto the table.
A Polaroid picture.
The Polaroid picture I’ve seen Kincaid carry with him, seen him staring at with so much longing that I was always too afraid to ask what it was.
But now, it’s staring at me, right in the face.
And it’s my face.
I’m staring at a picture of myself.
Except, I’m…different.
I have long brown hair, black nail polish, wearing my Miss Piggy shirt with my pajama bottoms. Kincaid is sitting on the floor next to me, his arms around me, clad in ugly reindeer pajamas, and there are some unwrapped presents at our feet.
We’re both smiling at the camera, looking happy.
At the bottom of the photo, in my handwriting, it says:
Syd + Wes Xmas at Madrona 2023.
I stare at it, blinking hard, trying to comprehend.
2023?
But it’s 2022.
I know it’s June 2022.
Why does this say 2023? Why am I with Kincaid? Why am I calling him Wes? Why is my hair my natural color? Why don’t I remember any of this?
And then, in the back of my head, puzzle pieces start to fall, not enough for me to put them together, but enough to let me know that I’m missing something.
Something terrible.
Suddenly, I hear Kincaid coming down the steps.
“We’ll go extra slow, but I’ve plotted a course for—”
He stops.
I turn to look at him, shaking my head, my whole world starting to disintegrate. Tears spring to my eyes because I don’t understand.
But you do understand, you do understand.
“What year is it?” I ask him, my words trembling. “Please. Tell me what year it is.”
Kincaid’s face crumbles. He walks over to me slowly and picks up the Polaroid, glancing at it before putting it back into the spot where it was stuck in between the instruments.
“It’s 2025,” he says.
I shake my head, my chin trembling. “No. It can’t be. It’s 2022.”
“It was 2022,” he says patiently, though his eyes are sad. “It’s now 2025. Three years have passed, Syd.”
“Passed since what? What was that, what is that? Why are we…why don’t I remember?”
He reaches down and unties the rope from around me, the boat shaking as the waves slam into it, the autopilot in control but going slow.
I feel like I’m on autopilot too.
None of this is real.
Nothing is real.
What the hell is happening?
He then disappears into his quarters, leaving me reeling.
Reality seems to slip away, leaving me raw and exposed to the elements.
It’s 2025.
I’ve lost three years of my life.
How?
Why?
When he comes back, he’s holding a shoebox. He places it on the chart table and lifts off the top, gesturing for me to look inside.
I hesitate, the fear so acute that I don’t think I can move.
But then I do. I peer over into the box.
It’s full of Polaroid pictures.
I reach inside and start rummaging through them.
There are pictures of me and Kincaid together. Many pictures of us together. Kissing under mistletoe. Dancing. Having beers in the sunshine on the boat. Playing bocce ball in the field. Feeding a seal.
There are also pictures of me and Dr. Wu laughing about something. As I flip through, there are a lot of pictures of me and Dr. Wu. Going for a hike, roasting marshmallows, working in the lab.
Janet, I think. You called her Janet.
There are pictures of Everly too. Some at Christmas where she’s posing with a Santa hat or making a small snowman. One while whale watching, Everly smiling at the camera with the wind in her hair. She and I on the couch in her cabin, drinking pink martinis.
There’s even one of me and Amani, lying in a pile of autumn leaves and throwing them up in the air.
Amani.
Tears start to burn behind my eyes as the truth slowly creeps up on me.
I’m starting to remember.
I look up at Wes, at his familiar, beautiful face. His eyes are brimming with emotion, barely restrained.