A Call From the Past
Chapter 1
It was near the end of May when I got off my night shift and got a call from my younger self, right before the SAT.
"Eight years from now, am I happy? Am I living abroad, or working at Collins Corporation?
"Charlotte said I don't need the SAT. She's taking me overseas."
He sounded excited, already planning to spend the next few days doing whatever he wanted.
I looked down at the grease on my uniform. Behind me was a cramped factory dorm, a cramped room packed with 12 beds.
"Charlotte's getting married today," I said. "But you're not the groom."
He sucked in a breath. "That's impossible. She said she'd marry me."
Last night, Charlotte Collins texted me.
[Don't come tomorrow. You work at a factory. You'll embarrass me.]
His voice caught. "Who is it? Do I know him?"
I said calmly, "Open the math worksheet in your bag. Finish it, and I'll tell you who she's marrying."
Young Edmund Lockwood didn't believe me.
"No. Charlotte's had this planned forever. She said we'd get married at 25. The groom has to be me."
I lowered my eyes.
I didn't realize how emotional I was at 17. I got excited, I cried, and I clung to things with that stubborn, almost childish kind of resolve.
"Then I'll show you."
We added each other, and I sent him the photos Charlotte Collins had just posted.
She had lost that soft, girlish look. Her smile was more polished and controlled now.
You couldn't see the groom's face, just his back. He wore a fitted dark suit, a rose tattoo behind his ear.
I had never liked tattoos. And I had a birthmark the size of a fist on my neck.
Young Edmund went quiet. Even his breathing faded.
"That's not me. It's really not me. Who is it?"
Right then, my phone buzzed with a text from Charlotte.
[The cars get there at 11 a.m. Go clean the house now. Wear a mask and shoe covers. If anyone asks, say you're the cleaner.]
I typed, [I just got off a night shift. I need to rest.]
Another message came in before I hit send.
[Payment's 1,000 bucks.]
On the other end, young Edmund started naming every guy he knew.
My eyes stung, but I pushed through it and got to my feet.
"Do the worksheet. I'll tell you when you're done."
He paused. "I don't know how. Charlotte's been busy. She hasn't helped me in a long time…"
"Skip what you can't do. I'll walk you through it."
I hung up, pulled on shoe covers, and went into Charlotte's villa.
It seemed like they had a fun night.
Clothes were torn apart right by the door. The bed upstairs was a mess.
Used condoms sat in the trash. Every window was open, but the smell still clung to the air.
This wasn't new to me.
I stripped the bed, bagged everything on the floor, and sprayed enough perfume to cover it.
When I finished, I noticed a framed photo of a staged campus shot on the wall.
Charlotte and the man were both in school uniforms. She stood turned slightly toward him, explaining a physics problem with an easy, patient smile.
She used to look at me like that.
When we were kids, we were always together. In middle school, even more.
I helped her with math, while she helped me with physics.
After our study sessions, she would write out two problems on the topic and make me finish them before she let me go.
In winter, when the classroom got cold, she would press a warm bottle into my hands.
If I tried to give it back, she would unwrap her scarf and loop half of it around my neck.
If someone called me a nerd, she would step in front of me.
"I dare you to say that again," she would tell them.
There was a time Charlotte stood on my side.
Then, freshman year, she met the quiet and sensitive Gideon Thorne.
After that, she had no time for me. But she had time to bring him food and buy him gifts.
She wore me down piece by piece. I couldn't sleep. Every time I opened a book, my stomach turned.
My grades fell apart. Still, I held onto the lie that she would come through for me.
As I was lost in thought, another message came in.
[We're at the gate. Leave through the back balcony.
[If anyone sees you, you don't get paid.]
From somewhere outside, I caught the sound of lively voices and cheers.
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