GROUNDHOG DAY mixed with SIXTEEN CANDLES and a splash of DOCTOR WHO. A boy forever reincarnated as himself meets his soulmate for the 200th time, but can she solve the puzzle and break the curse to make herself his last?
*****
Martha Beckett's life...
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James folded a twenty dollar bill then handed it to the valet attendant along with his keys. James hadn't told Martha where they would be staying. True to grandiose form, he had driven them to Chicago's Magnificent Mile and the Hyatt Regency. They passed the lobby bar and took an escalator up to the mezzanine where James slipped the hotel clerk a hundred dollar bill along with his credit card to get their key. They took the elevator to the 35th floor and on to the room at the end of the hall.
He paused before opening to say, "So, I didn't get the limo."
"Right."
"Because you didn't like the limo."
"If you say so."
"Because you thought it was too much."
There was something adorable about his stalling. Nevertheless, Martha was growing impatient. "Well, James, you've taken me to a fabulous hallway!"
"Okay, okay," he conceded and opened the door.
They entered the room, or rooms to be exact, and Martha froze and dropped her duffle bag. The space was colossal. Ahead were two couches and two loveseats surrounding a wooden art deco coffee table. To the right of this living space was a free standing, see-through fireplace and past that, a second set of couches. There was a small bar with rows of clear, brown, and green bottles of alcohol on its shelves against one wall and a massive entertainment center embedded in another. Martha could see three doors leading to other rooms and a hallway hiding who knew what else. The wall to their left was lined with windows displaying the Chicago River leading out to a scintillant Navy Pier and past that, Lake Michigan.
"Holy what?!" Martha said. "How... many people are staying here?"
"Just us."
"James."
He picked up her bag, took her hand, and led her further into the suite. "I know. I know. I admit to excess. But what's done is done."
"How... much did this cost?"
"A lot."
"A lot?"
"Yeah, but it's just money." He walked to the fireplace and adjusted the flame with a dial on its side.
"I didn't realize your family was so wealthy."
"They're not. Well... look, we do okay. But more so, this comes courtesy of the Chicago Stock Exchange."
"How's that?"
"I've been defrauding them for the last five years. They won't miss it – and I have more. But..." he returned to Martha and put his arms around her waist. "I would have spent it all."
"Aw, shucks," she said, hiding her blush. "So..."
"So... hungry?"
"Now that you mention it."
"What would you say to a twenty three dollar cheeseburger?"
"Room service?"
"Yes."
"I would say that twenty three dollars for a cheeseburger is highway robbery, but then again, you did steal this money so..."
"Just like Robin Hood! Rob from the rich and give to the... no, actually not like Robin Hood at all. You know what? Eat first – rationalize later." He picked up the phone and dialed the kitchen.
Martha pressed the towel down the length of her face, drying the water that rinsed the soap that cleaned the makeup that covered her face for prom. Her cheeseburger had been delicious – maybe not twenty three dollars worth, but excellent nevertheless. After they finished, James turned on the stereo and they danced to whatever they could find on the dial. Most of the songs were high energy, party music, but they happened upon a couple of slow dance ballads as well. Then they took turns making each other drinks from the bar. James mixed delicious, non-alcoholic cocktails he learned while bartending in Marseille – Oh la la... show off – while Martha fed James random, sadistic combinations of hard alcohol that he downed gamely if painfully. They danced some more until they agreed it was late enough for bed.
With the suite providing two bedrooms, James had offered the option of sleeping separately, but Martha turned him down. She had anticipated the stay and assumed they would be in a one bed hotel room as opposed to the penthouse apartment James procured. This was the plan. One feature they did take advantage of was the extra bathroom.
Presently, Martha regarded her reflection. She wore an extra large Lakers t-shirt over boy shorts. The shirt was a give-away at a Lakers game she attended years earlier. Why the attendant had given a four foot, eleven inch thirteen year old girl an extra large remained a mystery, but it made for an excellent nightshirt.
She took a breath and opened the door. It led directly to the bedroom they had chosen to use. James was already in the bed, sitting up against the headboard, covers pulled to his waist, chest bare. She walked to the bed and slipped under the covers quickly, still catching a glimpse of his black or navy blue boxer shorts.
They sat next to each other in silence. She was desperate for him to speak – to tell her what she was supposed to do, how she was supposed to feel... anything. But he just looked at her contentedly. Finally, she kissed him quickly then said, "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," he responded.
She spun away from him and lay down on her side, top arm over the covers. She told herself she didn't have anything to prove to the boy, but couldn't help but feel amateurish and clumsy. He turned off the bed lamp and the city lights cast yellow on the wall in front of her. She peeked over her shoulder at his silhouette – facing her, also on his side, top arm also above the covers. Her mind traveled back to prom – the dance floor, before everything went wrong, dancing together, aching to be close. Now, there were no distractions – no mass of devotees, no DJ to pay off, no bully in pink. She reached behind her, took his hand, and wrapped it around her, then inched backwards until his knees touched the back of her legs.
But something was off. She felt unsettled, imbalanced – as if trying to steer a car with a deflated tire. Something invisible – something unknown pulled her away from equilibrium. We're not going to have sex, but... She needed more.
She sat up, still facing away from him.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
She didn't respond.
"Martha?"
Again, she gave no response but abruptly took off her shirt and lay back down on her side. Without pausing to lose her nerve, she grabbed his hand, pulled it under the covers to her bare stomach, and inched back to resume their previous position.
She felt his heartbeat on her back as his chest rose and fell. It was considerably slower than hers. She tempered herself to match his breathing – rising, falling, rising... falling...
She gently squeezed his hand, smiled, and felt weightless. This was it. The pull was gone. Slowly, she drifted off and dreamed of Plato.
Author's note:
Aren't authors who expect you to remember things from the beginning of the book just the worst? Anyways, bonus points for whoever remembers Plato's Myth of Aristophanes from Martha's English class.
Like, totally 90's detail: I recently watched an episode of "Dead to Me" and Christina Applegate (Kelly Bundy - sigh) tried to bribe a teenager with $100 and her response was "$100 isn't a lot of money anymore." Applegate's silent fury was all of pre-millennials'.
