Chapter 30

After I chose a light day of coffee and karaoke, I was not expecting Grant to choose violence and death for his choice. And yet, here I am, on the brink of dying with naught but a one in twenty chance at living.

But I’m not scared.

I start off every day by facing my own immortality. Hell, I’ve seen the end. I’ve rasped my last breath into the void that separates this life from the next.

Even scarier, I sang an 80s power ballad in front of my coworkers.

No, I’m not scared of anything.

“Roll the damn die,” I say unblinkingly to our Dungeon Master.

Grant’s friends gasp.

“Are you sure?” the Dungeon Master (I forgot his name, so I’ve just been calling him DM all night) asks. “If you choose to run away, you have a five in six chance at surviving.”

“I throw my dagger at the greedy troll’s eye,” I repeat slowly, punctuating each word.

“But—” the DM starts again.

Chanterelle, the girl beside him, a petite mousy girl with oversized bangs and glasses, rests a light hand on his arm as he goes to interject, yet again.

“Let her throw her dagger.” She smiles at me. “I have a good feeling about this.”

I smile back. She’s sweet. Weird, but sweet. Not that this whole group isn’t a little weird. There’s six of us in total and everyone seems to bring a particular flavour to the group. One dude is wearing a real, metal shield strapped across his back, and no one has mentioned it.

Although, the weirdest part has to be the snacks that the DM and his girlfriend brought. I don’t mean to bash him because he clearly put a lot of time into the snacks. It’s just… there’s six different types of eggs. That feels excessive.

Except, apparently, I’m the weirdo. Grant announced that he made me watch those scifi movies for the first time and everyone gaped at me as if he had announced that I enjoyed ventriloquism in a sexy way.

“Okay…” the DM sighs. “So, this newbie, the cook’s assistant with zero armour and zero battle training, throws her paring knife at the eleven-foot troll.” He rolls the die.

Everyone around me is on the edge of their seat. If I understand correctly, if I miss, I’m out of the game. They keep saying it to me like it’s some sort of huge threat and not at all like it’s the desired outcome I believe it to be.

Especially not compared to the guy who has now pulled his shield off his back and is holding it in front of him. No, push comes to shove, I’m more than happy to sit in the corner with a frittata and watch them duke it out.

Everyone holds their breath as the die arcs in the air. Slowly, dramatically, it falls onto the table with a crisp bounce. Chanterelle, the girl with a good feeling about my roll, reaches over to clasp the hand of her boyfriend, the DM, who looks like he’s on the brink of a heart attack.

For my part, I put a deviled egg in my mouth. If I’m not mistaken, it’s black licorice flavoured. So weird.

A hush falls over the room. There’s nothing but the sound of beating hearts, bated breath, and my mushy chewing.

The die teeters on an edge for a gravity-defying amount of time. It wobbles, threatening to fall one way and then the other. Finally, with a flourish, it lands on twenty.

Which I think is the number that we were hoping to come up? That means my throw killed the troll—or something. I just know it’s good. Despite myself, I yelp in excitement.

No one returns the enthusiasm. Instead, they’re all glaring in my direction like I’m serving them papers at a family barbeque.

“Isn’t that good?” I ask.

“Yes,” the DM replies dryly. “Too good.”

Beside me, Grant starts whistling in what has to be the worst whistle of nonchalance I’ve ever bore witness to.

“My girlfriend is very lucky?” Grant offers. It sounds more like a question than an answer.

I join the rest of the room in glaring at him. Suddenly, Grant becomes very absorbed in a figurine on the table.

“I’m not your girlfriend,” I repeat, seriously considering if I should record myself saying that. “And I’m definitely not lucky.”

Definitely not. As someone who has been publicly fired, crushed to death, shamed by a doorman, and surprised into having breakfast with a hookup’s mom all technically today, I would say I’m firmly in the unlucky category.

“My kindred spirit?” Grant offers.

I shake my head. Although, we are both in this time loop together, so maybe? Can people be platonically kindred? Not that Grant and I are platonic. No, I’d rip his clothes off in a heartbeat if I could convince him that it was in a feelingless way. Casually kindred, then?

The DM picks up an egg bite and throws it at him. At the last second, the egg veers away to land in the garbage can at the far end of the room.

“We said none of that Crimson Streak shit here. It’s no fun if you just control the die to be whatever you want.”

“And I said not to call me that! You think I don’t know it’s you guys who spread that name around?” Grant counters.

The DM exchanges a look with a handsome guy, Darwin (not really a name you can forget), who smirks a little half-quirk smile at him. “We can’t help it if a guest called into our show and referred to you as that and it just so happened to catch on.”

Grant scowls. “I know it was your wife calling in. Not funny.”

The way the other two guys look at each other leads me to believe that they very much so think it’s funny. In fact, the way they’re holding back laughter until they’re turning red makes me realize just how accurate the term ‘tickled pink’ is.

“Do you guys all know about the Crimson Streak stuff?” There’s a chance I’m completely blowing his cover, but what else are time loops for?

“Garnet Defender,” Grant huffs beside me to himself. “The Crimson Streak sounds like…” He glances up at me and blushes. “Never mind.”

The rest of the table bursts out in laughter.

“Well, we have a bit of experience with weird,” Darwin says when their laughter dies down, exchanging a look. The DM’s girlfriend blushes a furious red that no one seems to notice. If this were an interrogation, I’d be pressing her hard. Since it’s a friendly board game night, I won’t.

For now.

“What do you mean?”

Darwin sighs and leans back in his chair.

“Here we go,” Grant mutters under his breath.

“Not to brag, but some ghosts conspired to get me and my wife together,” he says.

“Is that a brag?” I ask.

Darwin looks puzzled for a moment, like he’d never considered that it might not be a brag.

“I was his wingman,” DM adds.

“You most certainly were not.”

The DM puts his hands out like he’s shushing the already quiet table. “Okay, okay. Well, I always sort of suspected that Phee had a bit of a thing for me, but I could tell you liked her, so I let you have her. Besides”—he puts an arm around the still blushing girl beside him—“I knew there was someone else out there for me.”

Some bickering breaks out amongst the guys. I can’t help but start to smile. I can’t remember the last time I hung out socially, with no intent of kissing ass or climbing ladders. All table conversation that I’ve had for the adult part of my life has been friendly, polite, superficial. It’s amazing how pleasant the bickering is.

“I can’t weigh in,” Grant says to something the DM asked. “Before my time.” He turns to me. “My mom is friends with Darwin’s girlfriend. That’s how I know these idiots.”

“Idiots?” the DM gasps in fake hurt. He picks up another egg snack and throws it at Grant, who sends it flying right back at him with his whole gravity thing. “He’s just mad because everyone likes his mom more than they like him, the dork.”

The guy with the shield laughs. Considering the fact that multiple people are spattered with egg, while playing a game about knights and trolls, calling someone a dork feels like a bit of a pot and kettle situation. Except… except, I’m fully into it?

“I have to agree on that. His mom is way better than him,” I say. No, I tease. I’m teasing him, and it’s actually a lot of fun. And I’m fun. I tease people.

Grant clasps a hand to his heart like he’s wounded, but his eyes sparkle. The rest of the room erupts with stories about how awesome his mom is. Grant doesn’t look at them or chime in. He only has eyes for me right now.

The feeling of delight grows until I feel hot around the collar and slightly unable to breathe. This isn’t love, I remind myself. This is temporary infatuation that will wear off.

“So you’ve only known these guys for a short time and yet they convinced you to tell them that you’re the Garnet Defender?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from Grant’s sparkling stare.

Darwin smirks again. “The trouble wasn’t with getting him to admit it, it was with trying to get him to shut up about it.”

“Do you think capes are still cool?” mocks DM in a falsetto voice.

“If I fly over top of people, will they all be looking at my junk?” continues Darwin in a similar voice.

“Do I need to start wearing glasses as a disguise?”

“Why are all the good superhero names taken?”

“What’s another synonym for red?”

“Do you think I can start charging people to save their life?”

“If I save Hailey’s life, will she fall in love with me like Lois Lane?” DM mocks before abruptly going silent.

And rightfully so.

As much as everyone was glaring in our direction earlier, now everyone is pointedly looking away. You know, because Grant has been talking about me to his friends since who knows how long.

“You’ve been talking to them about me?” I ask in a whisper that everyone can definitely hear.

Grant runs a hand through his hair and smiles a hopeful, albeit nervous, smile. “Am I allowed to lie again yet?”

“How long have you been following me for?”

“The thing is, there isn’t really what you would call a truthful answer that wouldn’t scare you, since you seem opposed to the whole soulmates thing.”

“I am not your soulmate. That’s a ridiculous notion that only sets two people up to fail!” I hiss.

“Can we compromise on you being my Lois Lane?” he asks, still smiling. Seriously, how does he not know yet that I’m about two seconds away from losing my shit?

For my purported soulmate, he has a lousy read on me.

“First of all, Lois Lane is a ridiculous name. I hate how all the superheroes have those alliteration names. Besides, Lane is a dumb last name. Only someone who severely lacks creativity would think that would make a plausible last name.” There’s a chance that I’m just slightly bitter since I was continually teased during my childhood for having Cox as a last name. “But, secondly, they’re a terrible couple. She doesn’t even like the real him. She just likes the disguise. She likes the flashy, handsome superhero, probably because everyone else is fawning over him. She doesn’t like the geeky guy underneath. Even though he’s a really nice guy. She—”

I stop talking.

No, this is not going anywhere good.

Grant leans towards me, all clumsy smile and looming frame as he rests his arm on the back of my chair. I tremble when he enters my space.

With eyes like the warmest kind of smoke and a voice that sends chills down my spine, he says, “You think—”

“You know,” the DM cuts in. “A lot of people argue that Clark Kent is actually the disguise and Superman is his real identity.”

Darwin smacks his arm. “You see, this is exactly what I was talking about. You’re a terrible wingman.”

“Chanterelle?” the DM asks, looking imploringly at his girlfriend.

She just shrugs and shushes him. Finally getting it, they get up and leave, walking towards the kitchen. I guess to give us a semblance of privacy.

“You think Lois Lane sucks because she doesn’t like the dork in the glasses?” Grant asks.

Between the bickering, Grant’s somehow leaned even closer to me. The heat of him, the smell of him, the him of him, radiates towards me, enveloping me in a haze that makes it hard to think straight.

God, how does he have the effect on me?

“I didn’t say she sucked. I just think they make a terrible couple.”

“Because she doesn’t like the dorky part of him,” he prods, that smile still playing at his lips.

I bet if he were to kiss me right now, that smile would still be there. His hand trails up the side of my arm, whispering promises onto my skin and affirmations into my soul.

“Yes, because she doesn’t like the dork,” I finally admit.

“And you?” he asks, his hand making its way up my arm to the side of my neck. His hand is warm on my skin, yet somehow it makes me shiver all over. His fingers play in my hair, twirling my locks in a way that I somehow feel low in my belly.

“I like the dork,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean I think we’re soulmates.”

“But it’s a start.”

I take a step back from him, my skin instantly missing the contact with his own.

“You’re putting too much on this. With expectations that high, there’s nothing to do but fall short,” I whisper, already feeling how much it’s going to hurt when Grant can’t stand me any longer.

Grant considers it for a moment. Then, with a sweeping motion, he pulls me onto his lap and bends me backwards to kiss me in a way that scorches my lips, causing giddy feelings to bubble up to the surface.

When he finally pulls away and rights me, I’m dazed, touching my lips because they still feel the force of his kiss.

“Fear of falling is for chumps who have to worry about gravity,” he says with a grin that’s echoed on my own face. “Now, what do you say we get out of here. We still have some time before the reset.”

Before I can answer, a dry cough bursts our bubble of emotions.

“Not so fast,” the DM interrupts. He’s flanked on either side by Darwin and Chanterelle. They’re both holding ominously large plates of food.

“I think you forgot about our deal,” Darwin continues.

Grant pauses, like a full deer freeze. “Come on, guys. Not today. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Ha!

“No.” The DM holds out his plate even closer to Grant. “You’ll do it now. Our deal was that if you use your little gravity trick during our games again, you’re going to pay for it.”

Grant groans. His shoulders slump so much that he looks like a defeated shell of a once great hero.

“Pay for it?” I ask.

Darwin and the DM smirk in tandem.

“A little community service penitence,” Darwin says.

The DM slaps his arm. “Officially offended.” He pauses. “But yeah.”

“What does he have to do?”

The three of them stand before us, wearing identical maniacal grins, holding the plates out a little further in front of them.

“I have to test out some of Brady’s experiments for his new cookbook,” he sighs.

Now, it’s my turn to smile. If his licorice devilled eggs are any indication of what experiments Grant gets to try, this night is about to get very interesting.

I guess this means I officially like Games Night.

Interlude

Nothing changes in a day that never ends.

The weeks that both follow and dissolve are a blur of outrageous events, chosen alternatingly by Grant and I, punctuated with pops of colour that burn into my memory, even if they fade everywhere else. There are the main events: the opera saga that started with buying his (not his) doorman opera tickets and culminated with us singing on stage. There was the whole adventure of him trying to woo Marigold. There are parties thrown for Beth with her list serving as a guide. There was our trip to Paris, where between the layovers and delays, we didn’t even make it off the plane before the reset. There’s our quest to find Dr. Debbie and our ensuing argument of if she’s a real person or not.

But those aren’t the pops of colour.

The moments that burn into my memory are ones of me laughing with Grant like I don’t have a care in the world. Sure, the jewelry heist was fun, but it doesn’t compare with the contentment of sitting on his roof and watching the sunrise. It doesn’t compare to Beth telling me that I was her inspiration to apply to law school. It doesn’t compare with Grant’s mom thanking me for bringing a bit of life into her home.

Which isn’t to say all the pops of colour are good.

For every bright spot there is an opposing dark one. For every hug from Shelly, there’s the lack of recognition that follows the next day. For every honest moment with Beth, there’s one where she still thinks I’ve been nothing but cruel to her.

For every brushed hand and near kiss with Grant, there’s him reminding me that we can’t go further until I’ve fallen for him.

And that’s what makes it interesting because nothing changes in a day that never ends.

Nothing, except myself.