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For Adam, also always

Part One BEFORE THE REWIND

CHAPTER ONE

The fundamental rule of Rewinds is that each member of the Mulligan family gets only one. The purpose of allowing just a single chance to redo a moment from the last 365 days is meant to encourage careful consideration, though some argue it’s down to stinginess.

—EXCERPT FROM “REWINDS 101” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

Today is the day I’m going to tell Sawyer Cook that I love him.

Something I’ve wanted to do for months.

Something I should’ve done a year—maybe even years—ago.

I’m finally going to do it. I’m going to tell my best friend how I feel.

Today …

 … the day I decided to dye my hair highlighter orange.

I blink at my reflection in the mirror that hangs above the bus station bathroom’s avocado-green sink. “I look,” I say numbly, swallowing, “like a Troll doll.”

I pluck up the empty box of hair dye tipped sideways on the sink’s edge so I can double-check the color for the eightieth time since I finished drying my hair underneath the hand dryer. Yes, the dye is officially named “Tangerine Scream,” but where the girl on the box has hair woven with warm streaks of auburn and gold, mine is an eye-watering shade of candy-corn orange. Dying your hair any color of the rainbow is always going to be a risk, especially when you do it in a bus station bathroom, but it’s not like I haven’t done this before. It’s been my ritual ever since I started spending my summers at my aunt’s place in Cielo Springs, separating myself from my home in New York, marking myself as California Dixie. So how did the thought that I might look like the Cheeto Cheetah not occur to me when I agonized over the boxes of hair dye in Duane Reade for over an hour yesterday? That, even though I dye my hair a different shade of neon every summer, this time it might be smarter to go for something softer, like lavender, or a really pretty, delicate blue? Something that won’t make Sawyer have to shield his eyes from me like I’m a supernova as I pour my heart out to him?

As I throw the hair dye box into the trash, my phone buzzes from my pocket. My heart immediately launches into my throat, but it’s not Sawyer telling me he’s outside, or even that he’s on his way. I haven’t heard from him since I sent him a copy of my bus ticket to Cielo Springs a couple weeks ago, and he responded with a thumbs-up emoji. This time, it’s an email from my grandma. Or, more accurately, it’s my grandma’s newsletter. I know Sawyer will be here soon and I should be getting ready, but I’ll take any distraction from my panic, especially if it means I don’t have to look at my hair.

THE MULLIGAN FAMILY NEWS

Greetings from Puerto Vallarta!

Carol and I are having a fabulous time at the hotel. Two-for-one piña coladas! We lost the limbo contest, but our spirits remain high. Carol thinks it might have something to do with the two-for-one piña coladas. Who can say?!

Due to the recent hack of Frank’s email account, all Rewind-related paperwork will now be sent via fax. Apparently, the hacking has come from somewhere in Australia. I’ve tried to contact their local authorities, but the call waiting times are impossibly long. Five hours!! Due to popular demand, Frank has written a new series of informative blobs for the website about the Rewind, including a list of all the Rewinds our little clan has enacted over time (a little Mulligan family history, if you will!!), so have a look when you get a chance. If you have any questions, just email, call, or comment on the blob post and I will respond ASAP.

Carol and I will be back Stateside in a couple of days. Pat, did the doctor ever call you back? The hotel front desk said you tried to call, but I was taking a nap. In the meantime, I hope you’re all having a great summer so far, or as they say here in Mexico, ¡Que tengan un buen verano!

Love, Lois (Grandma, Mom, Auntie Lolo, Great-Aunt Lo, Sis, etc.)

My grandma’s newsletter is accompanied by a picture of her and my great-aunt Carol sitting by their hotel’s pool in Mexico, each holding two yellow cocktails topped with fat pineapple wedges. Somehow my grandma can write a surprisingly engaging email newsletter but still can’t remember it’s “blog” and not “blob.”

When I glance up again and catch my reflection in the mirror, Grandma’s newsletter still open on my phone, it only now occurs to me that I could technically take my hair color choice back. Use my Rewind to pick cotton-candy pink, or a sleek silver. But just as quickly as the idea enters my head, I toss it out again. Each member of our family only gets one Rewind in their entire lifetime, so enacting it is a really big deal. Plus, do I really want my family to see that I used mine to change my hair color from disgusting orange to pastel purple? Even if it is just on a post on my grandma’s “blob,” sandwiched between pictures of her video store’s Christmas window display and her favorite Spanish-inspired breakfast recipes.

“Good afternoon,” a bored voice says over the bus station’s intercom, the sound ricocheting off the bathroom’s yellowing tiles. “The Cielo Springs bus station will be closing in five minutes. Anyone waiting for the six fifty-eight bus to San Diego is advised—”

Five minutes. Sawyer will be here in five minutes.

With a brush I pluck out of my backpack, I scrape my hair into a high bun, hoping the fact that it’s tight against my head means it won’t catch the light as much. The fact that I didn’t really sleep last night is alive on my face, in the dark circles under my eyes and the grayish tinge to my skin. Staring at myself in the mirror, I scrub my hands down my cheeks to give them some semblance of life, but now I only look like I’ve been slapped.

The lobby of the Cielo Springs bus station isn’t much bigger or busier than the women’s bathroom. The three wooden benches lining the walls are occupied by a sleeping man and a couple eating from the same bag of trail mix. Nobody seems concerned about the bus station’s imminent closure. The walls are decked with 1920s-style tourism posters for Cielo Springs, the “Gem of the Anza Borrego Desert,” speckled with cartoon cacti and adobe-colored hills. In the corner are two half-empty vending machines and a small ticket office, at which sits the owner of the bored intercom voice reading a NASCAR magazine. Like always, I wait for everyone in the lobby to turn to me as one, the people of this city that’s not even big enough to be a speck of dust on a map of California to somehow see straight through my neon mask, their pitying cringes at my ugly hair becoming open-mouthed stares. But when nobody does, relief trickles through me. I’m just a girl who made a poor hair-color choice. Nothing special.

Goose bumps prickle my arms as the air-conditioning vent above me sends down a frigid breeze. But the moment I shove open the glass door leading to the bus station parking lot, the cold evaporates, replaced by a blanket of hot air so heavy, it almost feels like water. Even though the sunlight is fading, heat clings to every inch of my exposed skin. I can already feel the sweat forming along my shoulders, under my armpits, and across my top lip. It has to be at least a hundred degrees, probably more, not a breeze or coastline for miles.

I shut my eyes and breathe in deep, the boiling air heating my lungs. Home.

From the way I see it, I’ve got two options as to when I can tell Sawyer that I am deliriously in love with him:

Immediately. As in, the moment I see him.
With this option, I can use the sort of nervous mania I’ve built up over my day of traveling to propel me into getting it over with. Plus, if he laughs in my face, I’m already at the bus station, which means it won’t take as long for me to flee the state.

In a few hours, after we’ve had time to settle in. Even under normal circumstances, when Sawyer and I have spent the last year in almost constant communication, the first five minutes of seeing each other again IRL are always awkward, both of us so giddy to be reunited that we mostly swing between talking over each other and repeating the same questions before eventually relaxing into our usual, easy banter. Now that we’ve barely spoken since April, I don’t know how things’ll be. This way, I can give us some time to get back into us before threatening to ruin everything. Again. But on the other hand, the longer I wait, the higher the chance that I’ll chicken out.

The unmistakable sound of the Datsun approaching cuts through my thoughts. The engine has this way of sounding like it’s filled with marbles, but that Sawyer’s uncle claims is completely normal for a car made in the ’80s. It noses into the parking lot, its windshield caught in the sun so that I can’t see the driver’s face. All day, I’ve wondered what this moment will look like. Whether Sawyer will be cold, whether or not he’ll pretend nothing happened between us. If I’ll even recognize him. But when the Datsun stops in front of me and the driver’s-side door swings open, I’d know that mop of dirty-blond hair anywhere.

“You’re here,” I say, too quiet for him to hear.

Only now that I can see him, here, in the flesh, do I even let myself admit to the other possibility that’s been circling my head all day—that he wouldn’t show up at all. That no matter how much him picking me up from the Cielo Springs bus station at the start of summer has become a tradition for us, this would be the first year where I had to call my aunt instead, or get an Uber. Sawyer had never even said he would pick me up this time, not technically; I just couldn’t acknowledge the possibility that he wouldn’t. Because that would mean things between us were officially over.

But he’s here. At the sight of him, a knot of tension loosens in my chest.

“Sorry I’m kinda late,” Sawyer calls. He has this way of cutting through the niceties, as though his greetings are just implied. “Bubblemania ran out of passion fruit bubble tea, so I spent, like, twenty minutes trying to decide between mango and honeydew.” He waves his arms, shooing the thought away. “It was all very stressful.”

For reasons I can’t describe, I do a tiny bow. “Hello to you,” I say as he rounds the car. I want to say more, but at the sight of him, my mouth goes dry and I think I might hurl all over the sidewalk.

When he turns and sees me, Sawyer’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, as though he too can’t believe I’m actually here. And after what happened a couple months ago, can I blame him? But when Sawyer reaches me, he opens his arms wide and pulls me into a hug. He’s still an entire head taller than me, so my face buries into his chest and the soft blue fabric of his T-shirt. He smells of some boyish deodorant and buttered popcorn, his chin resting against my scalp. Being this close to him, feeling the sharp boniness of his arms wrapped around me, feels as good as I remember. I can hear the voice at the back of my head whispering for me to choose option one. Just tell him how I feel right now. Get it over with, before I lose the courage to do it at all.

“So, were we going for jack-o’-lantern this summer?” he says before I can say anything, his jaw thudding against my skull. “Or fire? Or, like, jack-o’-lanterns on fire.”

I pull back, pretend to smooth down my hair. “I was actually going for traffic cone.”

Sawyer lets go so he can give me two thumbs up. “Oh my god, you nailed it,” he says as he reaches for my suitcase. “Truly. You’re like a talking roadblock. It’s uncanny.”

He opens the Datsun’s trunk and swings my suitcase inside as I slip into the passenger seat. Option two it is. It’s probably better this way, gauging the temperature of me and him before I hurtle the wrench that is confessing my undying love into the already delicate state of our friendship.

Sitting just below the emergency brake are two plastic cups, straws wide enough to suck up the dark purple, dime-sized tapioca pearls that are clumped underneath a layer of ice like fish eggs. Both drinks are identical, filled with a creamy yellow liquid. Greeting each other with bubble tea has been another of our traditions that started only weeks after Sawyer and I met that first summer in Cielo Springs, broken just once when it was his turn and he missed his alarm, so had to choose between picking me up late or skipping bubble tea duty. He picked wrong.

“Okay, don’t freak out, but I went for mango.” Sawyer drops into the driver’s seat and nods at the bubble tea between us. “It’s nowhere near as good as passion fruit, but I didn’t want to show up without bubble tea again after last time.”

I bite down on my lip, careful to keep my eyes on one of the cup’s lids and the shaky S scribbled across the plastic. Last time? Does Sawyer mean the last time he didn’t show up with bubble tea, or the last time I saw him? At even the idea of the latter, I clench my hands in my lap until my knuckles blanch.

Sawyer doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes trained on the windshield as he eases out of the parking lot. The same tiny figures of people eating ice cream, their little plastic legs dangling over the car’s digital clock, are stuck to the dashboard with Blu Tack where they’ve always been since Sawyer first got the Datsun.

Seeing them, I smile. “Rodney and Tamara are still going strong, I see,” I say, nudging my fingernail against the dark hair of the woman eating chocolate ice cream. She’s no bigger than half my pinkie finger, her features all mottled and melted from the sun.

“Rodney fell off after I hit a pothole a couple weeks ago,” Sawyer says. “His foot is still somewhere on the floor down here, so I had to replace it with one off another little guy.”

When I squint at Rodney’s foot, I can see the almost invisible line where Sawyer has glued on the new boot. He’s always been really good with the tiny figurines he collects for all the stop-motion short movies he films in his garage, Sawyer’s fingers somehow just as nimble as they are delicate.

The bus station sits at the top of town, so once it’s behind us, we’re spilled immediately onto Cielo Avenue, which cuts straight through all the highlights of Cielo Springs. The city first popped up after being a popular campsite in the 1800s. It grew slowly in the beginning, just a few houses, a café, and a general store, but it exploded at the turn of the century when people from nearby cities realized the desert heat was good for their pores. Restaurants and a library opened up. Eventually it became a full-fledged city with a tourism board and everything. San Diego is nearly two hours away and Los Angeles nearly three, so both are close enough for a weekend trip but far enough away so that Cielo Springs isn’t ruined by their inhabitants’ constant presence.

The sun has almost set completely, evening smashing down the last fragments of light behind the mountains on the horizon. Cielo Springs isn’t usually this dark when I first arrive, but my flight from New York was delayed, forcing me to catch the later bus out to the desert. Sawyer gestures animatedly with bubble tea in hand at a new ice-cream place where the old dry cleaners used to be, a coffee shop with farm-style benches lined up below the front window. I nod along, taking slow sips of my drink. This is my fourth summer here, and so I know every inch of this town. But somehow, after barely speaking to Sawyer for the last few months and therefore not inhabiting it via his stories, Cielo Springs feels almost like something I remember from a dream. Familiar, and yet also suddenly foreign, something I need to relearn.

As we drive, a guitar strums quietly from the Datsun’s speakers, a song I could recite in my sleep; it’s from the soundtrack to Sawyer’s and my favorite movie, The Middle, a classic rock song that was made for road trips along wide, dusty roads. I nibble the end of my straw, letting the bubble tea pool in my mouth. He’s right, the mango isn’t as good as passion fruit, the sharp tang of citrus stinging my tongue. I’ve barely said ten words since we got in the car, as though by opening my mouth I risk unleashing every thought that’s been rushing through my head since spring break.

Sawyer, as if realizing this too, turns to me. “How was your flight?” he asks. “Did anyone try to sell you guitar strings?”

He’s referring to last summer, when a middle-aged guy tried to sell me strings that looked suspiciously like fishing wire for a guitar I didn’t have and neither did he. For two hours, he just stretched the fishing wire over an empty Kleenex box and pretended to strum out some Elvis song.

Sawyer stares at me with his eyebrows raised, waiting for my answer. If I want to tell him how I feel, we have to get back in our rhythm first, get over the weirdness of being apart for so long so that I don’t add an extra helping of awkward on top of my already uncomfortable. It’s occurred to me before that I could just surpass all this weirdness by using my Rewind, making it so we never had this weirdness at all, but I know I can still fix this thing with Sawyer. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.

I swallow hard. “It was shockingly boring,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “Which was disappointing, since the only movies the airplane had were Barracuda originals.”

Sawyer pretends to gag. “Barf,” he says. “Tell me you abstained.”

“Obviously I abstained,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “How dare you.”

As employees of the Triple Star Movie Theater—AKA the Trip, AKA Cielo Springs’s only cinema, AKA the single greatest place on earth, not least because it’s owned and managed by my aunt, Kate—Sawyer and I are generally suspicious of using streaming platforms for anything other than series. But now Barracuda, which was relatively small and unthreatening up until about a year ago, has taken things up a notch by essentially buying out directors and making themselves the sole platform for whole cinematic empires. It’s the kind of thing that can wipe movie theaters as we know them, including the Trip, off the map.

“So, what’d you do the whole flight?” Sawyer asks.

Think about you.

“I mostly watched the flight map,” I say. “Did you know there’s a North and a South Dakota?”

He snorts. “Homeschooling failed you.”

As we pull up to a red light near the insurance office Sawyer’s dad works at, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye so as not to make it obvious I’m watching him. He doesn’t immediately look much different from last summer, but the longer I stare at him, the more I can see the months I’ve missed: he’s let his hair grow out a little bit so it curls around his ears, and his cheekbones are sharper, his shoulders wider, muscles he didn’t have before weaving along his arms. His long fingers curl around the steering wheel, and something about the way he flexes them makes my stomach flip. At that exact moment, Sawyer looks over at me. I try to glance away but he’s already caught me, and so I smile weakly, trying to hide my blush. Sawyer returns the smile, and it’s then I see he’s blushing too.

By the time we reach my aunt’s house, night has fully descended. The streetlamps are on, illuminating the empty sidewalk but leaving the rest of the houses along the cul-de-sac cloaked in darkness. When Sawyer turns off the car, the headlights dying, I can still make out the dusty off-white exterior of my aunt’s house, the lawn covered not in grass but layers of stones and squat succulents. In the driveway is my cousin’s homemade skate ramp, the one Sawyer and I helped him build two summers ago.

With the stereo off, the only sound in the car is Sawyer swishing his straw around the quickly evaporating ice at the bottom of his cup. We sit in silence for what has to be a full minute, Sawyer’s eyes glued to his drink. I wipe the condensation from my hands along the tops of my thighs and swallow. It has to be now. I have to tell him now, before we go into my aunt’s house and everything descends into chaos, all the welcome-back hugs and fresh, steaming boxes of pizza I know are waiting on the dinner table.

“Sawyer, I have to—” I start to say, just as he says, “Do you remember—”

We both smile at each other thinly, trailing into nervous laughter. “You go first,” he says.

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head. “You go.”

He sets what’s left of his bubble tea back in the cup holder and drums his hands against his thighs. I know I should be paying attention to whatever it is he’s about to say, but I suddenly can’t stop looking at his mouth, wishing I could just kiss him the way I’ve thought about doing almost every night for the past year. The way I know he wanted to too, because he’d told me. When I glance up, Sawyer is looking at me, his lips parted just a fraction of an inch, and it’s in this moment where I realize, maybe I don’t have to tell him I love him. Not yet. Maybe he’s going to say it first.

“This is the part where you say something,” I say, the air between us so thick I could bite it.

Sawyer shakes his head as though to wake himself from a dream. “Yeah,” he says, laughing quietly, blinking. “Sorry, I just got kind of … distracted.” I can almost trace the nervous swallow as it slips down his throat. “I feel like we should talk,” he says slowly.

Oh god, here it comes. Everything in me is charged, like all my nerve endings are sizzling on the surface of my skin.

“Same.”

“What the hell are you two doing out there?” a voice calls from the front door. Sawyer and I startle in our seats, squinting as the security light on my aunt’s porch springs to life. I can just make out the figure of my aunt Kate standing beneath it, waving. “Get in here before these pizzas get cold!”

Sawyer smiles sheepishly, silence settling over us again.

“Did you,” I say, clearing my throat. “I mean, did you still want to say something?”

He glances out his window at Kate and bites his lip. “I feel like she’s gonna keep standing there if we don’t go in.”

I sigh. He’s probably right. The moment between us is gone anyway, at least for now.

“After dinner?” he says.

“Of course,” I say. He always stays over after dinner on my first night back so we can map out all the movies we’re going to watch over the summer ahead. “I made you a slideshow of this summer’s movie list, starting with Black Widow. There are seventy-two movies in total, six of which are from the Marvel universe, but if you just hear me out—”

“And, this is where I get out of the car,” Sawyer says as he opens his door and pushes himself out of the Datsun.

“You know you can’t avoid Marvel for long,” I shout after him. “Not when I’m here.”

I scramble out of the car as Sawyer retrieves my suitcase from the trunk. He’s got this weird prejudice against Marvel movies, as though they’re all still just about boring white dudes in capes. As I watch him wheel my suitcase toward me, I let go of a breath along with whatever Sawyer and I might’ve said to each other. We still have later tonight. I can feel how close it is, that easiness between us, eating too-buttered popcorn for lunch, cartwheeling across the floors of empty screens at the Trip, watching movies on Sawyer’s laptop until three in the morning on my bed. All I have to do is make it to tonight.

CHAPTER TWO

The first recorded Rewind was enacted in 1846 by Francis Mulligan, who wished so hard he could take back a trade for a new goat that one morning he awoke and it was so. Since then, the Rewind has become more official (i.e., more paperwork!), but the basic premise is still there—regret it enough, and you just might get your wish.

—EXCERPT FROM “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

Sawyer and I met exactly four years ago to the day, that first time I visited Cielo Springs. His dad moved here when Sawyer was in seventh grade, but it wasn’t until he and my cousin Bunny did theater tech together for their middle school’s production of Fiddler on the Roof that they became friends. On my first night in Cielo Springs, my hair freshly dyed radioactive purple, Bunny mentioned that his friend, who would be helping out at the Trip over the summer, was joining us for pizza. Sawyer appeared on the doorstep a few minutes later in a white T-shirt with holes in the collar and brown corduroy pants. I knew instantly we’d be friends from the easy way we began teasing each other, as though we’d been hanging out for years. By the end of that summer, we were inseparable.

Before I can even make it inside the house, Kate is wrapping me into a hug. “There’s my girl,” she says into the side of my head. Her white-blond hair is tied loosely in a braid, jean shorts frayed around her thighs. If you squint and know what to look for, she looks exactly like my mom, same long arms and sharp shoulders. “Please excuse the shit show that is this,” she says as she leans back, gesturing to her torso. Tiny flecks of white paint are scattered across her pale collarbones and faintly lined cheeks. “We’ll get into it later.” She flicks the bun tied on top of my head. “Loving this, by the way. Very Beaker from The Muppets. I’m into it.” Before I can say anything back, she pulls me into the house, shouting down the hallway, “Benjamin, darling, she’s here.”

A door slams at the back of the house, followed by the sound of footsteps pounding against the tiled hall. Within seconds, a blur of white-blond charges toward me, cinching his arms around my neck in a bone-crunching embrace.

My cousin Bunny sucks in a big breath, his shoulder-length hair squished against the side of my face. “You smell like airplane food and nail polish,” he says wistfully, sighing.

Kate’s house is small, packed with a mixture of antique wooden furniture and bright yellow, red, and orange cushions. The living room walls are painted a deep green and covered almost completely in paintings, old movie posters, and pictures. The biggest one sits right in the middle above the TV, a picture of Kate and my uncle Rob standing in front of the Trip just after they bought it. Seeing the theater, the big pink T above the old-school marquee peeking out above their heads, sends into my chest the same swell of happiness I always get when I think about the Trip.

The house is remarkably cool compared to outside thanks to the gray tiles lining the floors of every room in the house, but Kate still has the air-conditioning blasting on high.

“I’m putting your stuff away, Dix,” Sawyer says over his shoulder as he disappears down the hallway leading to the spare room.

Kate gestures to the round wooden table just beside the kitchen. Its top is piled with three giant pizza boxes. “Sit down, sit down,” she says, pulling out a chair. “I just put out the plates.” She sets a hand on my shoulder, leans in close. “Do your parents know you made it?”

At the mention of my parents, my stomach clenches. “Uh, yeah,” I lie. “My mom called when I was getting my bags at the airport.”

That part isn’t a lie. My mom did call; I just didn’t answer. I don’t need to talk about the fight we had last night; that, and the fact that neither of my parents said goodbye to me before I left for the airport this morning. Though if anyone understands my relationship with my parents, it’s Kate. Ever since we moved to New York, she and my parents aren’t exactly close.

Bunny opens the top box of pizza, unleashing a cloud of steam he waves away with his free hand. “We got Nuclear Volcano, especially for our angel,” he says, batting his eyelashes at me. He slides two pieces of the pizza, layered so high with spicy sausage and jalapeños that I can barely see the cheese underneath, onto my plate. Nuclear Volcano, though so spicy it makes my taste buds burn, is my absolute favorite.

“Kate, the bathroom light’s out again,” Sawyer says when he reemerges, falling into the chair beside me.

“Are you serious?” Kate says, appearing in the kitchen doorway with four empty glasses. “I just changed the light bulb, like, last month.”

He shuffles the pizza boxes around to find Margherita—his favorite. “I know, I was here,” he says.

“Don’t even think about trying to take that whole ranch dressing for yourself,” Bunny says, crust from his slice of Super Sausage pizza hanging dangerously from the corner of his mouth. Sawyer blinks up at him just as he starts to tip the entire contents of a tiny pot of ranch onto his plate. “The guy would only give my mom two, so you have to share.”

Kate leans over me to fill Sawyer’s glass with lemonade. “Honey, we’ve got more in the fridge,” she says.

Bunny shoots her a look. “It’s not the same.”

To anyone else walking into this house, it might feel overwhelming: the noise, all the rushing around, the arguing that immediately ensues when Sawyer hands the ranch dressing pot back to Bunny and it’s not exactly half full. But I can feel my shoulders relaxing into my chair at the familiarity of it all, the ease with which I fit back into this table, as though I never left, as though it’s my actual home and not just my summer vacation.

“Okay, wait, wait, wait, before you start eating.” Kate finally takes her seat and levels a glare at Bunny, who has already wolfed down a slice and a half of pizza. “Considering you two”—her gaze flicks between me and Sawyer—“achieved your literal dream a few months ago, and now you’ll both be living in New York this fall, I believe a very cheesy toast is in order.” She’s referring to the fact that Sawyer and I got accepted into the film program at New York University, the dream we’ve both had for the last three years. Kate lifts her cup of lemonade and smiles, her eyes watery around the edges. “While Bunny and I are both deeply disappointed in you for choosing to live three thousand miles away, we’re also incredibly proud,” she says.

“But mostly we hate you,” Bunny adds. He lifts his glass a little higher and says cheerily, “To both of you failing.”

“To failing,” the three of us chorus.

Kate dabs at her eyes with the corner of her napkin, flashing a wink at me as Bunny rubs her back and Sawyer clears his throat, fingers drumming nervously on the table. My throat constricts, but I take slow sips of my lemonade until the feeling disappears.

“So,” my aunt says loudly. “I’ve been thinking about this summer’s movie night.”

The air in the room instantly shifts, the heaviness easing off again.

“Oh god,” Sawyer says, the two of us exchanging glances.

Every summer, on my last day in Cielo Springs, we put on an outdoor movie night in Kate’s backyard, projecting mostly old cult movies Sawyer has watched in his high school’s AV Club onto a cut-up sheet Kate hangs on one of the patio walls. We all get dressed up to a theme, eat food that goes with the film. It’s more or less the highlight of my year.

“I’m thinking we go fully cliché,” Kate continues, “like bad nineties, or a musical. I’m sick of all the weird, niche movies you two pick.” She points between me and Sawyer. “Where is my—”

“If you say Grease, I’m leaving right now,” I say.

My aunt knows every single word to that kitschy monstrosity, and has gone as Olivia Newton-John in her hot-girl phase for Halloween more times than I care to admit.

Kate gives me a look. “You know I’m gonna say Grease.”

“Barf,” Bunny, Sawyer, and I groan in unison.

“What’s wrong with Grease?” Kate huffs.

“Everything,” Sawyer says. “The songs suck, everybody looks like they’re forty, and the characters have the most basic, two-D personalities ever. One girl’s personality is just food. Literally. The only thing we know about her is she likes to eat.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun,” Kate says. “Can’t something just be about joy?”

I blow lightly on my pizza, whose heat radiates up against my chin. “Is it joyful that the literal message of the movie is change who you are or the hot jerk won’t like you?” I say.

“It’s set in the fifties,” Kate says. “Things were backward then.”

“You would know,” Bunny says under his breath.

“The movie you made us watch last year was just so weird,” she says. “Soaking … hot … summertime thing. Whatever the hell it was called.”

“Aren’t you supposed to own a movie theater?” Sawyer says.

Kate swats his arm. “I’ve blocked it out.”

“Wet Hot American Summer is a classic,” Bunny says between chews.

At the mention of the movie, the tips of my ears go hot and I shoot my gaze into my lap. Last year for the entire second half of Wet Hot American Summer, Sawyer held my hand underneath the thin pink blanket he and I shared. For the entire thing, all I could think about was the feeling of his fingers on mine, what it meant. We’d spent the whole summer leading up to that moment, something more brewing between us, something I was almost afraid to identify.

As I look up at Sawyer again, I can tell from the way he’s examining the flecks of oregano speckling his pizza that he’s deliberately trying not to meet my eyes, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the same thing. How close we came. When his eyes flick over to mine for half a heartbeat and his mouth tips up in a small, embarrassed smile, I know he is.

“Okay, fine,” Kate says. “What do you snobby film critics want to watch?”

“Rocky Horror?” Bunny offers.

Sawyer shakes his head. “Overdone,” he says. “Plus, no musicals. The world does not need more singalongs.”

“I disagree,” Kate says.

“What about Jaws?” I say, finally braving a bite of my pizza. It’s spicy and sweet and absolutely perfect.

“No horror,” Kate retorts immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Jaws isn’t actually horror—” I start to say back, but Sawyer splays his hands out on the table and widens his eyes, a look that stops me short.

“Okay, I’m going to say something very controversial, but just hear me out. What if”—he swallows, pausing for emphasis as his gaze sweeps around the table—“we finally watch The Middle.”

The grumbling from Bunny and Kate follows immediately. The Middle is mine and Sawyer’s absolute favorite movie of all time, a teeny-tiny indie that was shot in the late ’90s. It’s about this woman Stella and her husband, Sam, who she finds out over dinner in the very first scene has been cheating on her. On their way back from the restaurant, their car hits a deer, and in the next moment, they’re driving through the desert. They come upon a fast-food restaurant and a farmhouse across the street, but when they investigate and find neither place is actually real, it becomes clear that their car crash was fatal and threw them into limbo. From there, they have to figure out what their unfinished business in life was so they can move on, the story going back and forth between their time in limbo and significant moments from their relationship.

It was one of the first things that drew me and Sawyer together, our love for this quiet, unassuming movie that most people our age had never heard of. Everybody always talked about the action movies and mega-budget psychological thrillers Charlie Roman, writer and director of The Middle, made in the years after, once he’d sold his soul to the studios and decided making money was more important than creating art that meant anything. But not me and Sawyer.

“Come on, me and Dix have been trying to sell you on this for years,” he says, looking to me for backup. I don’t remember ever begging to watch The Middle with my aunt and cousin, but I don’t point this out. Sawyer throws a hand toward Kate. “You said so yourself, me and Dix are starting NYU this fall. This is our last summer movie night, at least like how it’s always been.” Sawyer’s voice is strained with earnestness. “Just because Charlie Roman is a sellout douchebag doesn’t mean he didn’t also create what is unarguably a cinematic masterpiece.” He lets out a sound of exasperation. “You guys, let me and Dix watch our favorite film on our last summer movie night as we know it.”

Bunny’s eyes meet mine over the table, his lips pressed together. Lately I’m not Charlie Roman’s biggest fan either, but Sawyer does have a point. With summer internships and stuff, who knows when we’ll get to do our movie night here again?

“It’s a good guilt trip,” I admit, shrugging.

Kate sighs. “It’s a very good guilt trip.” She and I lock eyes. “As long as you’re okay with it.”

I flash a smile I know is too wide around the table. “Of course,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

Sawyer pounds his fists on the table and whoops. “You guys, this is gonna be so good,” he says excitedly. “We can eat burgers, and wear—” But he stops, cut off when the doorbell rings.

The three of us sit up straighter as Kate stands and drops her napkin onto her chair. “That must be Claire,” she says before anyone can ask.

“Wh—Claire?” I say, frowning. “From the Trip?”

Sawyer’s head swivels around to follow Kate as she moves toward the front door. “Wait, what?” he says. “How? I thought she was babysitting tonight.”

I squint at Bunny, who’s cramming another slice of Super Sausage into his mouth, crust-first this time. How does Sawyer know what Claire’s supposed to be doing tonight?

“Yeah, down the street,” Kate says to him. “I ran into her when I was picking up the pizza, told her to swing by before she goes over there.”

For the last two years, Claire has been the Trip’s ticket attendant; Kate says it’s because she needs me and Sawyer to keep an eye on the projectors and make sure the screenings are running smoothly, but we all know it’s because Claire is nauseatingly sweet and puts on a better face for customers. Even though we’ve worked together for the last couple summers, I can’t ever bring myself to engage in small talk with her. The last time I did, I found out she went to Los Angeles for the midnight premiere of the Cats movie, a fact Sawyer and I would use to make each other laugh whenever a jerk customer put us in a bad mood.

The front door swings open, followed by the light tinkling of Claire’s laugh. The rest of us rise as one from around the table, Sawyer smoothing his hands down the front of his black jeans.

Kate leads Claire to the table. “You just missed the summer movie night argument, so your timing is perfect,” she says to her.

“Dixie!” Claire’s strawberry-blond hair spills across her shoulders as she leans over to give me a hug, but it just feels like I’m cradling a mouse. “Welcome back,” she practically squeals.

I try to return her smile, but I know it looks forced. My first dinner back is only supposed to be me, Kate, Bunny, and Sawyer. Claire’s presence feels all wrong, like an actor entering before their cue.

I glance over at Sawyer, anticipating his surreptitious eye roll. But when I do, Claire is there too. She sets her hands on Sawyer’s chest and smiles up into his face. “Hey you,” she says before she stands on her tiptoes and kisses him.

CHAPTER THREE

Short of bringing people back from the dead, there’s no limit to why, when, and on what people can use their Rewind. Remember when Cheryl used hers to get a new DJ for her wedding? No offense, Cheryl.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY”

The world stops.

I swear to god, everything in the room freezes: Claire’s cheesy smile as she looks up at Sawyer; his hand, which has somehow appeared on her waist like they’re some lovestruck human centipede.

“… finally convinced us to watch The Middle,” Kate is saying to Claire.

“… never actually seen it. Sawyer’s always talking about…”

“… a complete downer, trust me. The first time…”

“… not a downer just because it’s about death. It’s about…”

“… personally wanted to watch Grease, but these—”

“… my god, I love Grease!”

I can tell they’re still talking, Kate’s voice rising and falling as she says something about Claire finally making her summer movie night debut, but with Sawyer and Claire still standing so close, I can’t hear anything other than the sound of my brain slamming some internal panic button.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve run through a thousand scenarios of how today could go once I told Sawyer how I felt. In them, I prepared for everything from him laughing in my face to screaming at me. I even ran through what I’d do if he unzipped his skin and revealed he was actually an alien impersonating a human, and would I please accompany him back to his home planet? In that case, I would inquire about his planet’s cinematic history before making any final judgments.

But Claire? I did not prepare for Claire. Nothing could have prepared me for Claire.

“Sit down,” Kate says to her, gesturing toward the table. “Have some pizza.”

“I just ate, thank you though,” Claire says. The cotton tote bag on her shoulder says BE KIND in blocky pink letters. “I’ve gotta get over to babysitting now anyway, but I just wanted…”

Claire is still talking, but my brain filters the sound out like white noise. I nod, try to smile, make it look like I’m actually listening, but there are too many questions crowding my head. When did this thing with Sawyer and Claire first start? How long have they been together? Are they even together? The way she kissed him in front of me, so normal and nonchalant, suggests they’ve been doing whatever they’re doing long enough that that kind of PDA is no big deal. But nothing on Sawyer’s Instagram would suggest they’re together; his grid is mostly group shots or pictures of the latest sets he’s building in his garage. Unless all the pictures of them are on Claire’s profile, which, the last time I checked about a thousand years ago, is private. Judging by the way Bunny is acting completely normal, somehow cramming even more pizza into his mouth, he must’ve known about them too. And if that’s the case, how could he not tell me? How could none of them tell me?

“Dixie?” Claire is staring at me. Everyone is staring at me, except for Sawyer. He suddenly seems incredibly interested in the lines on his hands, which are at least not touching Claire anymore. “Are you free?”

I blink. “Free?”

“I’m having a party next week. It’ll mostly be drama kids, but—”

“Someone got their hands on a copy of Borrego High’s production of Beauty and the Beast from last year,” Bunny says with a smirk. I know from his and Sawyer’s stories that Borrego High is Cielo Springs High School’s musical theater rival, if that’s even a thing. My cousin lifts a cup of lemonade to his mouth and says over the rim, “Kelly Fraser couldn’t carry a tune if she had a fucking backpack.”

Kate narrows her eyes at him. “Son,” she barks. “Language.”

“Do we seriously have to watch it?” Claire says, shooting a glance at Sawyer. “Isn’t it enough to know that her voice cracked three times in ‘Belle’ on opening night?”

Bunny looks at me as though I’m the one that needs convincing. “Kelly Fraser led a flash mob to ‘Boom Clap’ during closing night of our production of The Crucible,” he says, then turns to Claire, fists clenched in front of him. “You’re the Drama Department president. Believe in something.”

“I know, I know,” Claire grumbles to Bunny. “It just feels kind of … extra.”

And that’s Claire. The same girl who once told a man who’d deliberately showered the Trip’s lobby in popcorn (because we wouldn’t give him a ticket refund for a movie he decided he hated only after sitting through the entire thing) to have a nice day.

Claire adjusts the tote bag on her shoulder. “I should go,” she says. “I’ve gotta be at the Roberts’s house in, like, five minutes. But it was really good to see you, Dixie! I’ll check about summer movie night, but hopefully I’ll see you at the party.” She waves with both hands. “Sorry to crash your guys’ dinner.”

There’s another flurry of noise as Kate ushers Claire back out the door. She was only here for about five minutes, but the room feels like a steaming crater, Claire an asteroid that’s just leveled an entire civilization. I sink back into my chair, unable to even turn around in case I see what goodbye looks like for her and Sawyer, if they’ll kiss again. All I can think about is how nervous he looked on our drive here; I, being a giant narcissist, just assumed it was because he too was replaying the moments leading up to spring break, where everything between us changed permanently. That he’d been obsessing about it as much as I had. Not that he actually didn’t care because he was now making out with Claire, the girl Sawyer himself once described as “somehow more uninteresting than Kylie Jenner.” He probably sensed how awkward I was being and felt bad for me. Maybe he could tell what I was going to do and was contemplating how to let me down.

How could I be such an idiot? Again?

At the sound of the front door closing, the room comes to life again, except the walls feel closer, the air so thick, I’m not sure I can breathe.

“I have to go,” I blurt suddenly. The chair’s legs scrape against the tiles, grating against my ears. When everyone turns to me, I swallow. “To bed,” I clarify. “Right now.”

“I thought we were gonna go over this summer’s movie list,” Sawyer says.

At this, I almost bark a laugh. Does he really think I’m capable of sitting on my bed with him right now, mapping out all the movies we’re going to watch together over the next few months? When my entire universe is so obviously falling apart? But then it hits me. Maybe he really thinks everything’s okay. That we can just keep going as normal, as though we’re still best friends, as though spring break and everything leading up to it never happened. And only now, after the last ten minutes, is when I finally realize that it’s not just the knowledge, the image, of Sawyer kissing Claire, that is making my heart physically collapse in my chest. It’s what it means: Sawyer has moved on.

“I’m just really tired,” I manage to choke out. Then mumble, “Time differences and whatever.”

I don’t bother to wait and see if anyone believes me, ignore the way my aunt shouts down the hall that she’ll put the pizza in the fridge in case I get hungry later. It’s only when I shut the door behind me and press my back into the cool wood that a tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it with the back of my hand, sniffling until there’s nothing left and my eyes are dry again. Everything is suddenly so clear to me, as though someone has cleaned the glass in my brain. I’m annoyed I didn’t accept it sooner, that I wasted an entire day. Sawyer and I as I knew it are done. There is no picking things up where we left off. We need a do-over. Starting from spring break, when things between us exploded. I need it all gone. Erased. And I know how to do it.

I’m going to use my Rewind.

CHAPTER FOUR

Once the Rewind application has been submitted, four stages follow: 1. The fact-finding interview (to take place within 48 hours after the application is received), 2. The Movie (sent once the fact-finding interview is complete), 3. The Impact Report (sent the night before the Rewind is enacted), and finally, 4. Rewind enacted.

—EXCERPT FROM “THE REWIND: WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The Mulligan family website looks like it was made around the dawn of the internet, blocky text and a pink background so bright, staring at it for too long makes my eyes water. Little rainbow-colored clock graphics rain down from the top of the website like confetti, disappearing into a pixelated void once they reach the bottom of the screen. Grandma had my mom’s cousin Frank make it a couple years ago after one of my cousin’s Rewind requests got lost in the mail and she ended up missing the 365-day deadline to redo her wedding at Six Flags. There was concern at first that other people outside our family might find the website, but surprisingly, Frank’s been able to keep it hidden in spite of his lack of design skills and inability to protect his Yahoo! account from Australian hackers.

There are only a couple pages listed at the top of the website: one for my grandma’s blog, which contains a mixture of Rewind information and chronicles of my grandma’s daily exploits as the owner and operator of a small video rental store in Los Angeles; another for all the Impact Reports. Because Rewinds can be so far-reaching, it’s basically impossible to know every single way it’ll change our reality, but Impact Reports try to list out the big ones and prepare the family. Not that any of the Rewinds people in my family have enacted have actually really affected me before. With my family being in New York and most of the other Mulligans still in California, it’s meant our lives are pretty untangled from theirs.

At first, the whole idea of us getting an Impact Report seemed kind of unfair to me; why should we get to see what the repercussions of a Rewind would be but the rest of the world didn’t? But Mulligan family members are the only ones who can actually somewhat remember life before Rewinds are enacted, whereas the rest of the world forgets, as though the previous reality never existed. It’s still not exactly fair, but I get it. Mostly.

The final page is for making Rewind requests. I click on it, and am met with a list of questions in white and gray chat boxes stacked on top of each other. After scanning them quickly, I circle back up to the top and start filling in my answers:

1. Please list the date, time, and location of the incident you would like to Rewind. Describe what happened.

April 2, 2023. Around noon. New York City. Something happened in Central Park with Sawyer Cook that shouldn’t have, and I need to make it right.

Thinking about that day over Sawyer’s spring break still brings a pain in my chest that ordinarily takes weeks to shake, so I keep my description as vague as possible. If my grandma needs more specifics, she’ll ask in my interview. And there’s obviously a lot of stuff that came after Central Park that I’d like to change too, but this is the root of the problem. The moment everything went upside-down.

2. Did the incident take place within the last 365 days?

Yes

It was only within the last ten years that this rule came in, after Frank tried to make it so that he had actually invented Apple computers a decade after they came out. My grandma, our family’s matriarch and the sole decider of all things Rewind, shot that request down immediately.

3. Were you directly involved in the incident?

Yes

Again, this rule was made for Frank. You can’t Rewind a specific moment unless you were actually, physically present for it. There are loopholes around this, of course. People have figured out how to sabotage certain future situations by controlling what they can, but it’s rare.

4. Have you ever made a Rewind request before?

No

There are a bunch of follow-up questions to this one. Was your request rejected, if so, why, et cetera. I’ve thought about using my Rewind before, especially the time I walked in on my mom’s personal trainer going to the bathroom at our house and found out firsthand that Siobhan likes to use the toilet backward so she can rest her arms on the tank as she scrolls through Instagram. But nothing felt big enough, like if I didn’t take the moment back, my life would be permanently worse. Nothing like screwing up my chances with my best friend and having to watch him move on because of something I did.

5. Do you foresee any negative consequences as a result of your Rewind?

No

At least nothing other than pretty Claire having to choose from literally anybody else she wants to be her boyfriend.

And that’s it. I scroll back up, not sure if I’ve missed something, but the only thing after question five is the Submit button. I figured there would be more to requesting a change to the framework of time, but apparently not. Then again, this is only the first step. My grandma has to approve it, and then the Movie gets made.

At the thought of the Movie, my stomach twists. The whole Rewind concept has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, so though it would sound insanely complicated to most people, it’s just my reality. The Movie portion is what I’ve never been able to wrap my head around. Because in order to give the person who’s requested the Rewind an idea of what their new reality might look like, a Movie is generated. And it’s not just Frank and my grandma putting on some kind of low-budget production in my grandma’s video store; from what my mom has heard, it’s actually a glimpse of the alternate reality. So, I’ll get to see a movie of what my life will look like if I hadn’t essentially told Sawyer to move on and start hooking up with people infinitely prettier and less sarcastic than me. I don’t know if it’s AI or some trick of the universe coming from the same pocket of weird that makes the Rewind possible in the first place, but the whole thing sounds both creepy and fascinating, like watching secret CCTV footage of yourself except in this case, you’ve got no memory of actually doing any of the things on-screen because you haven’t actually done them yet.

When I press Submit on my application, the question boxes are replaced by a gif of my grandma waving. It’s the same one from her e-Christmas card a few years ago, her fluffy white hair in a wispy bob and the glare from the camera flash reflected in her round, silver glasses. Underneath her picture it says, “Thank you for submitting your Rewind request. I’ll be in touch within 48 hours!”

Shutting my laptop, I lean back on my bed and rest my head against the wall. The house is dark and silent, Kate having gone to sleep hours ago and Bunny nowhere to be found when I eventually reemerged into the kitchen for leftover pizza. It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning, but my brain is wide awake, the way Sawyer wouldn’t even look at me once Claire entered the room still etched in my mind. Now that I’ve submitted my Rewind request, it feels ridiculous that I didn’t do it sooner. There was still a part of me that, when I arrived in Cielo Springs, genuinely thought I could fix things with Sawyer on my own. Even now, with my Rewind application in, it’s still not guaranteed that I can. The Rewind isn’t necessarily a cure-all; just because the universe gives you a second chance doesn’t mean things go exactly according to plan. People still have free will, the future is still unpredictable. My aunt Kate is proof of that; hers is one of the more darker Rewind stories passed around at family events like cautionary campfire tales.

I curl my legs into my chest and rest my chin on my knees. My room in Kate’s house is about one-fifth the size of my bedroom in New York City, occupied by a single bed that’s pushed against one wall and topped with a handmade quilt covered in navy blue and white triangles. Opposite the bed is a desk with filing cabinets and an ancient fax machine on top. The only sound in the room is the occasional squeak of the bed springs when I shift my legs. Hearing it echo off the tiled floors is like the exclamation mark to the lamentation currently in my head, the one screaming that everything is wrong. Sawyer is supposed to be here, both of us talking so fast, we barely have time to breathe. We should be filling up a spreadsheet with the movies we’re going to watch this summer, carefully scheduling how many we can fit into each day around our shifts at the Trip. My room is too quiet without him. Too empty. I miss the sound of his voice and the look he gives me when I make fun of him, like he’s trying to be outraged but is also fighting off a laugh. I miss my best friend.

I stretch out flat on my bed, one arm slung over my eyes, and groan. It’s not supposed to be like this, not here. Cielo Springs is where I have a life. If I wanted to be alone, I would’ve stayed in New York.

The edges of the shoebox are crinkled from where I’ve held them so many times, pressing my face into the opening to examine the tiny scene inside. The box itself is small, only about eight inches tall and thirteen wide. Tipped sideways, the inside has been fashioned to look like a movie theater, a row of tiny plastic seats lining one of the edges and turned backward to face the screen, which would otherwise be the bottom of the box. The screen itself is lined with miniature red velvet curtains, parted almost completely to reveal a still from The Middle, frozen at the part where Stella lies flat in the swimming pool outside her condo complex, smiling up at the sun. And then, sitting in the very center of the seats, is a single person, a little figurine no taller than an inch. You can see how captivated she is by the screen, her chin tipped up and her eyes wide, hair splayed over the back of the chair. Sawyer painted it purple to match my hair color from that first summer I spent in Cielo Springs, when he gave me the scene on my last night. He’d spent weeks making it, hand-sewing the curtains, meticulously gluing tiny cushions to each individual seat. I was too afraid to take it back on the plane to New York with me in case anything should happen to it, so I’ve kept it here on the desk in my room, next to the fax machine.

Every few months Sawyer would send me new things to add to it: a bitty box of popcorn, gold-colored tassels for the curtains, a soda cup just a fraction of the size of my pinkie nail. On my first night back in Cielo Springs, we’d sit on my bed and glue in whatever additions I’d stocked up over the year while we talked about our summer movie plans. Once, when I asked why Sawyer kept spending money on sending everything to New York, why he didn’t wait to give it to me in person, he’d just screwed up his face in confusion.

“Because everyone loves getting stuff in the mail,” he’d said simply.

My pile from the last year is small, since Sawyer hasn’t sent anything since before spring break. All I have is a little purple backpack and a baggie full of yellow, almost microscopic flakes I’m guessing are supposed to be popcorn; with the latter, Sawyer was making fun of me for the time I sneezed too hard and spilled an entire box of popcorn watching the new Space Jam.

The miniature backpack and popcorn sit in their bags on my nightstand. I took them out of my suitcase thinking I could super-glue them in without Sawyer, but now that they’re here, encircled by the orange ring of light from my table lamp, I suddenly feel so exhausted I could collapse.

My bedroom door creaks open, Bunny’s face appearing in the gap. The sudden break in silence makes my whole body tense.

“Jesus,” I exclaim, heart pounding in my ears. “You scared me.”

I was too busy staring at a freaking shoebox to hear him get home.

“What’re you doing up?” he asks.

In his hands is a Ziploc bag filled with leftover pizza; he peels a cold slice out and shovels it into his mouth.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say. I set the shoebox down on my nightstand behind the little popcorn and backpack. “Where have you been?”

“Skate park.”

He plops down on the edge of my bed and offers me the opened Ziploc. I shake my head. His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, the top squashed down by what was probably a helmet. An angry red gash peeks out from underneath the sleeve of his oversized shirt, the blood crusty and dry.

“At two in the morning?”

“It’s too hot to skate during the day,” he says. “That’s a recipe for heatstroke, and I’ve gotta practice. End of this summer is the under-eighteen division of the Anza Borrego Skate Tournament, and this is my last chance. I’ll be eighteen by this time next year.” His fingers glisten with pizza grease as he licks them one by one and gives me a sly grin. “It’s the real deal, baby. One G if you win, five hundred for second, plus tickets to next year’s X Games.”

“What does third place get?” I ask.

Bunny’s smile drops. “Shame and dishonor.”

My cousin might be in the year below me and Sawyer, but we’re only a few months apart in age. It’s never felt that way, though. When I was seven, my parents and I moved to New York after my parents’ jobs got serious upgrades, but before that we lived in Los Angeles, where Kate, Bunny, and my uncle Rob were living too. We only lived a couple blocks away from each other and so Bunny and I were always together, our parents taking turns looking after us when the others had to work. I was the one who gave him his nickname; everyone called him “Benny” for Benjamin, but I only heard “Bunny,” and the name stuck. Kate says they had to avoid our street for months after we moved, because if Bunny so much as saw our house, he would scream for hours, wailing for me to come back.

He watches me from the corner of his eye, scanning me from head to toe as though assessing for broken bones.

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re bummed, or are you going to make me guess?” he says, taking another bite of pizza. “Because while you know I love a good guessing game, I should probably sleep at least an hour tonight if I don’t want to chip my tooth again at the skate park tomorrow.”

Bunny sucks at phones, and so we don’t usually talk much in between summers, but it doesn’t really matter; when we’re together again, he can still read every emotion on my face, anticipate every word before it drops into my mind. Which is why it feels so weird that he wouldn’t tell me about Claire. I’ve never talked to him about me and Sawyer—at least not like that—but anyone with a brain could see something was going on between us last summer.

“I’m just curious as to why you wouldn’t tell me about Claire,” I say, aiming for light nonchalance but knowing it probably sounds strained. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a really fun surprise seeing her and Sawyer basically make out in front of me, but—”

Bunny’s shoulders curl as he chokes on his pizza. “Excuse me?” he says, eyes watering as he hacks. “You didn’t know about Claire?”

I squint at him. “No?” I say. “My telepathy has been really second-rate recently.”

“But Sawyer—he told me he told you,” Bunny insists.

“What?” I say. “When?”

“We were at the cast party for Mean Girls last month and it was very obvious there was something going on with him and Claire, because they kept disappearing into—” Bunny shakes his head and if he keeps going, I swear to god I think I might pass out. “You know what? Never mind. And I said to him after, Does Dixie know and he said to me, I’m going to tell…” Bunny trails off, his eyes widening. “Oh shit, he said he was gonna tell you. Did he seriously not tell you?”

A long breath escapes my nose. The quilt underneath me is stitched with white thread that’s gone yellow; I run my nails along it, trying to ignore the way my eyes are filling with tears. That’s probably what Sawyer wanted to talk to me about in the car, not to say that he’s hopelessly in love with me. That he not only is not hopelessly in love with me, but is hopelessly in love with Claire.

“I think he tried to,” I admit.

His words from the car flash back to me. Do you remember …

Claire. That must’ve been what he was going to say.

“I just can’t believe he didn’t say anything.” Bunny blinks up at the ceiling. “You guys talk all the time.”

“Not since spring break,” I say quietly.

Bunny’s gaze snaps to mine. “Why?” he says. “What happened?”

I swallow hard and glance away. Bunny may be more like a brother to me than a cousin, but not even I can bear to see the look on his face when he finds out what I did. Probably sensing this, Bunny sets a gentle hand on my arm.

“Dix, I’m really sorry. I should’ve checked that you knew.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, realizing as I’m saying it that it’s not. “How long have they even been together?”

“Oh, they’re not together,” Bunny says matter-of-factly. “I think it’s more of a, like, they hang out and hook up sometimes, but they’re both going to college on opposite sides of the country soon, so I guess they figured it wasn’t worth it.”

At the mention of college, a new wave of panic washes through me. Somewhere in my shock, I completely forgot about NYU. That not only would going to NYU with Sawyer next year mean I have to see him every day and relive my mistake, but relive my mistake and see him every day with someone else. Except, he and Claire aren’t dating. I know I should be relieved by this information, but I’m not. Because it still doesn’t add up.

“But Claire just kissed him in front of us,” I say. “You don’t do full-blown PDA when you’re casual.”

Bunny scrunches his nose. “I think that’s just Claire,” he says. “She’s always been super touchy-feely. She used to do the morning announcements at school, and every time she went into the main office she and our receptionist Ms. McKinley would hug like they were besties.”

I open my mouth to disagree, but nothing comes out. Would Claire actually agree to that? Would Sawyer? And if he’s not exclusive with Claire, how many other people is he hooking up with? I blink the thought spiral away before it can pull me under.

Bunny is watching me with the bag of pizza in his lap, the cheese and tomato sauce smushed together beyond recognition.

“Dude,” he says quietly, “what the hell is going on with you guys?”

Bunny is my best friend behind Sawyer, but I still don’t know how he’d take the idea of me using my Rewind. Especially on Sawyer. I know that after what happened with Kate, Supreme Hater of All Things Rewind, my cousin has been raised to distrust, disapprove of—even oppose the Rewind. And though he’ll eventually figure it out when he gets sent the Impact Report along with the rest of the family, I can’t deal with him trying to talk me out of it now.

“When the seniors from Sawyer’s drama class came to visit New York for spring break a few months ago, I— Something happened.”

Even saying this much is making my insides curdle. Basically, Sawyer and I decided to kiss each other in Central Park at spring break and I know that sounds really stupid and juvenile but it was actually really perfect and I just, I don’t know, I ruined it. Everything, I don’t say. The room feels too small all of a sudden, like I’m trapped inside a cardboard box that just keeps shrinking. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and try to breathe, memories from that day involuntarily popping into my head. The crisp April air, the rush of people around us, the ripples denting the water’s surface at the Bethesda Fountain. Sawyer perched on the edge, wearing a flannel shirt I didn’t recognize, a bubble tea in each hand. At the thought of them, embarrassment burns hot under my skin.

“I—I,” I stammer. “I had a chance with Sawyer and I ruined it, and now we haven’t talked in months.” Saying it out loud feels like admitting my deepest, most shameful secret to a room full of nuns. I bury my face in my hands and groan. “I thought when I got back here, I could fix things, but I can’t.”

“Why not?” Bunny says as he rests a hand on my shoulder. “Whatever happened—it can’t be that bad. Just talk to him.”

“I can’t,” I say, peeking up at him. “It was so bad, Bun. And now he’s moved on and he’ll never know how I feel.”

Bunny runs his tongue across his top teeth. “And how do you feel?”

How do I feel? Like Sawyer is my best friend. Like he’s the one person I could see every single day and never get sick of. Like I’d obliterate anyone that hurt him. Like every time I think about him, my chest fizzes as though someone just poured Diet Coke in my rib cage. Like when we’re together, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“I like him, okay,” I grumble, opting for the less-intense answer. “More than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I could just imagine telling Sawyer now, after Central Park. After Claire. The look of horror and discomfort on his face. It would be so awkward. It would be so humiliating.

Bunny clasps his hands together at his heart. I nudge him with my elbow and roll my eyes, but my admission is true. I do like Sawyer more than anyone I’ve ever met. More than I ever thought it would be possible to like someone.

A lump the size of a baseball forms in my throat. “He told me he felt the same way, before everything happened, and I basically forced him to move on,” I say. “It—it was horrible. What I did was so horrible.”

I blink up at Bunny, willing him to get it. That I have to do this. I have to use my Rewind to make this right. But all he does is stare back sadly, his lips pursed together. Even if he could read my mind, he probably wouldn’t give me his blessing anyway. It doesn’t matter though, because I know this has to happen. Even if things between me and Sawyer don’t work out in spite of the Rewind. Even if I use the one card only members of my family have and I still can’t fix everything. They’re possibilities I have to acknowledge. That maybe, after everything, Sawyer and I aren’t meant to be together. Maybe he and Claire are supposed to be a thing. And if that’s the case, they will be.

But if I don’t go back to Central Park, I’ll never know.

CHAPTER FIVE

No, no, no, Rewinds are automatically enacted FOUR FULL DAYS after you watch your Movie unless you’ve canceled it or asked for it to be enacted sooner. If you watch it on Monday at 10 A.M., your Rewind automatically goes into effect Friday at 10 A.M. Got it?

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “THE REWIND: WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?”

Even though I only fell asleep four hours before, the next morning I’m up at eight. My body is somehow wired, a combination of still being on East Coast time and the shell shock from having actually submitted my Rewind application, something that’s been talked about in my house for as long as I can remember, crackling in my veins.

I roll over and grope around my nightstand for my phone. When I turn it off sleep mode, only one big notification pops up on my screen:

MOM

(3 Missed Calls)

“Shit,” I murmur under my breath.

With everything about Sawyer and Claire, I’ve mostly been able to avoid thinking about all things New York since I arrived in Cielo Springs. I know my mom calling has something (AKA everything) to do with the fight I had with my parents the night before I left, but she knows better than to call me in Cielo Springs; we have an unspoken rule that while I’m here, everything about my life in New York stays separate. A rule Kate and Bunny follow too, also unspoken. Even thinking about my parents is something I’ve mastered avoiding, pretending that whole half of my life doesn’t exist. But sometimes they make it impossible.

Clearing the notification from my screen, I click through to home. There aren’t any texts or emails from my grandma about the Rewind, so I go through my morning phone routine, scrolling through Instagram for a few minutes—my own grid is empty, so it’s mostly just me creeping on other people—before opening Entertainment Weekly on Safari. I flick through the articles at the top, a story about the new season of Bridgerton, a quiz about which member of the Friends cast you are, and then third, there’s a headline that sucks the breath out of my lungs.

VIDEO: DIRECTOR CHARLIE ROMAN GIVES PRESS CONFERENCE ON NEW DEAL WITH BARRACUDA

Alarm bells scream in my head, warning me not to click on the article, but as if my thumbs are moving on instinct, I press the headline. A video appears at the top of the screen, and before I can talk myself out of it, I click Play. Even with my phone tipped sideways, the video is small, but I can still make out the faces on it, the camera zooming in as a man walks through the double doors of a shiny high-rise toward a tall podium with twenty thousand microphones and cell phones piled on top. The man, Charlie Roman, straightens the lapel of his expensive black suit, tailored perfectly to fit his angular frame. His sandy brown hair is coiffed neatly, the shaggy bangs he sported at the beginning of his career, back when he was making The Middle, long gone. The only thing reminiscent of those times is the sparkle in his bright blue eyes, looking the same way they did in that Rolling Stone feature, the one where they called him “the heartthrob you’ll never see in front of the camera.” By then his production company, Roman Numeral, had made at least four movies, each more popular and soulless than the last.

“Thank you all for coming,” he says, flashing the crowd his trademark crooked smile. “Today, I’d like to announce that I’ve officially signed with Barracuda Media, making them the sole streaming service of all Roman Numeral films, past and future.” He pauses for emphasis, his face drowned in camera flashes. “From this day forward, every new movie made by Roman Numeral will skip theaters and go straight to Barracuda in what I believe is the future for the film industry.”

Behind him stands his wife, Mich Roman. She’s smiling brightly in a beige suit, her shiny blond shoulder-length hair so needle-straight you could knit with it. Her eyes are glued to him, adoring, as though every word that drops out of his mouth is laced with gold. No one would ever guess she was the same pink-haired indie sweetheart that got her big break starring as Stella in The Middle.

“Let’s face it, folks,” Charlie Roman says, “the movie theater is dead.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you, asshole,” I say to the emptiness of my room.

My lungs squeeze shut, as though a fist is clenched around my chest. Of course Charlie Roman would sign with Barracuda; after some studio paid him millions of dollars to make The One Who Wasn’t—an actual piece-of-trash movie—the fact that he’d sink this low shouldn’t surprise me. He hasn’t been mine or Sawyer’s hero in a long time. But still, seeing it written out like this makes my throat tighten. Charlie Roman is one of the best-known filmmakers in the industry right now. In the last ten years, every movie he’s released has been in the top-five box office hits of the year. If even he’s signing deals with streamers like Barracuda, who’s to say more directors and production companies won’t follow? And what will this mean for places like the Trip? Places that made him.

Movie theaters had been critical in Charlie Roman’s career, and not just because of the obvious. His first three movies had major cult followings that would host midnight screenings all over the country years after they’d come out. People would dress up, dye their hair pink à la Mich in The Middle. Charlie would make surprise appearances at these screenings to the point where it started becoming a thing. Someone made an Instagram account called “Where in the World Is Charlie Roman?” tracking his movements so they could try to anticipate where in the country he’d show up. People even started hosting screenings just hoping he would.

Phone in hand, I grip the plastic case tightly, eyes glued to the video as tiny words scroll across the bottom of the clip on a constant loop: CHARLIE ROMAN ANNOUNCES LANDMARK $300M DEAL WITH BARRACUDA MEDIA.

“He actually did it,” I whisper.

There have been rumblings about him and Barracuda for months now, but it’s another thing seeing it confirmed like this. Even just a few days ago—

“Dix,” Kate says from the other side of my door. “I’m heading to the Trip in a few minutes. You wanna come?”

I click the screen off and toss my phone across my bed, as if just by watching the clip, I’m betraying my aunt. But at the mention of the Trip, I can feel the panic soften in my chest. Those old red seat cushions squished down with time, the popcorn so soaked in butter, it drips. The Trip is the one place in this world where everything makes sense to me. Where I can relax. Where I’m home. People like Charlie Roman might be trying to kill movie theaters, but they haven’t managed it yet.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready,” I say, wrenching my pajama shirt up and over my head.

Everything is perfect at the Trip.

The Trip is a mess. Inside the lobby, white sheets are draped across nearly every surface, the floors stripped back to bare concrete. Everything is covered in a thin layer of dust, flecks swirling in the light coming through the glass doors. The air is sharp with the smell of new wood.

“And this, folks, is what the aftermath of a fire looks like.”

Kate sets her iced coffee down on a plastic table that’s been propped up in the middle of the room. She puts her hands on her hips and stares up at the ceiling and the new pale, salmon pink plaster.

“I didn’t think it’d be this bad,” I say.

Back in February, the Trip’s popcorn machine caught fire overnight, decimating the entire candy counter, all the lobby’s fridges and plumbing, and the slushy maker. Sawyer had sent me a few pictures of the damage early on, but only really of the popcorn machine itself.

“You should’ve seen it once the firefighters left,” Bunny says, leaning against the table.

“It was like how I’d imagine Gotham looks after Batman finishes fighting the bad guys,” Kate says. “Scorch marks on the ceiling, smoke damage all over the walls. The fire completely torched all the cabinets, all the machinery. The emergency sprinklers ruined the carpet, we had to get all new pipes and sinks put in.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Do you have any idea how much new plumbing alone costs?” Kate turns away again, eyes scanning the layers and layers of sheets spanning the room. “Now we just need to get her open again.”

The Trip has been a movie theater in Cielo Springs for more than a hundred years, first opening in 1913 as a community theater. Even before now, it’s closed a bunch of times. Next week will be its 110th birthday, and in that time, it shut once during World War II, again in the ’70s, then another time in 2008. The neon marquee was built for its first reopening in 1947, and then it went from having one big theater to three smaller ones when it reopened in 1975. The original marquee is still here, along with the single ticket booth that sits in the middle of the building and borders the sidewalk, two glass doors on either side.

When Kate moved to Cielo Springs and bought the Trip in 2012, it’d been closed for the last four years. There was a family of owls living in one of the projector rooms and we’re pretty sure the lobby had been the site of a few secret raves, but Kate and my uncle Rob spent an entire year restoring the theater to its former 1940s glory. Rob was born and raised not far from Cielo Springs and he’d always been super into local history, so he spent hours at the library and historical society researching pictures of the Trip in its heyday. Together, he and Kate painstakingly restored everything from the red velvet seats to the intricate mural on the outside base of the ticket booth. Rob even found the manufacturer of the original ugly carpets—who was still operating in a tiny warehouse in New Jersey—and redid the place with the same ones from 1947. So, when the Trip had the fire earlier this year, it was only one in a series of catastrophes it’d faced before, and frankly, it wasn’t the worst. The fact that Kate didn’t have property insurance made things slightly more complicated.

As she’d explained to me on the drive over, Bunny sprawled out across the back seats napping, she had enough in savings from my uncle Rob’s life insurance policy to cover the damage from the fire and buy most of the new equipment, but on a serious budget. The bank loaned her some cash for the rest of it, but otherwise, she’d been completely cleaned out. There was nothing for her to fall back on if the Trip didn’t make money. The only option was success, something with which people like Charlie Roman clearly didn’t want to help. But luckily, Kate had said with a mixture of enthusiasm and panic, she had a plan.

Listening to her nervous chatter had been enough to distract me from thoughts about the fact that I was actively on my way to see Sawyer, thoughts that now surface easily as he walks in through the front doors. His eyes dart around the lobby until they land on me, where I give him a smile I know looks as nervous as I feel. In each of my hands are matching passion fruit bubble teas.

Kate shouts hello before disappearing down the hallway and into the door that leads to Projector Room One.

“Passion fruit is back,” I say, holding out a bubble tea to Sawyer. “Apparently they had a tour group from Kansas visit yesterday and passion fruit bubble tea is very popular in the Plains States.” I sweep my arm through the air. “Completely cleaned them out.”

Sawyer raises his eyebrows and takes his cup. “Who knew?” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyes suddenly on everything but me. He shoots one last look at Bunny, who is drumming a chaotic beat on the tabletop with his hands. “Hey,” he says to me, voice dropping gravelly and low. “You’re not like … mad at me, are you?”

The instinct to snap back at him, to say, For what? Not telling me you’re hooking up with Claire? is suddenly overwhelming, but I bite it back. The bubble tea is supposed to be a peace offering, and when combined with snark, it’s anything but peaceful. Because last night, I decided that even though I’m using my Rewind and technically all of this will have never happened, I need to play nice with Sawyer until everything is right again. Because first of all, there’s no guarantee my grandma will even approve my application. Second of all, it takes four days for the Rewind to be enacted, and that’s only once the Movie has been made and watched. And though my grandma’s website said she’d be in touch in the next forty-eight hours, with all those two-for-one piña coladas she’s probably chugging in Mexico right now, who knows if she’ll stick to that timeline. Even if everything goes according to plan, I have to be around Sawyer in this reality for the next four days, and if I have to choose between those days being awkward or normal—even fake normal—it’s not even a question which one I’ll pick. It’s also crossed my mind that I could just go back to New York and wait for my Rewind to be enacted, but it’s either be miserable here or be miserable there, with my parents.

So, it’s really no contest.

“Mad at you?” I say, doing what I think is a really good impression of someone that genuinely could not be more confused. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Sawyer’s eyes widen for a split second before he shrugs. The laugh that comes out of him is breathy. “I don’t know, last night, you didn’t want to do the movie list for this summer, so I just thought maybe, like—” He swallows, eyes flicking around the room as though he’s choosing his words carefully. “I mean, when Dixie Mulligan doesn’t want to spend hours trying to convince you to watch the entire Marvel back catalog, something is usually wrong. But lucky for you, I took the liberty of starting my own list. Plus, I’ve mocked up a dinner menu for summer movie night, not that I’m even sure we should watch The Middle anymore.” Sawyer’s eyes narrow. “Did you see that douchebag’s big announcement?”

I grimace. “Unfortunately.”

“But at least it’s better than Grease. And it’s like with The One Who Wasn’t. We have to separate the monster from the magic.”

The One Who Wasn’t was Charlie Roman’s big break, the film that catapulted him into mainstream stardom. It was the first of a trilogy based on a book series about a woman—played by Mich, Roman’s “muse”—who uses her ability to travel back in time to stop famous serial killers from ever getting started. It was like Se7en meets The Da Vinci Code, with a weird little splash of Mission Impossible, AKA the trifecta of absolute fucking terribleness.

“That’s kind of impossible when he’s trying to ruin basically everything I love,” I say.

“Oh, no, I totally get it,” Sawyer says. “It’s gonna take a pinch of delusion, for sure.”

Kate reemerges from the hallway with a notebook pressed against her chest. “Okay, gang,” she says. With the concrete floors and lack of furniture, her voice booms. “I had an epiphany last night.”

Sawyer and I exchange glances.

“As you know,” she continues, setting her notebook down on the table, “the Trip turns one hundred and ten on Friday, and I thought that with all the renovations coming to an end, it would be the perfect day to have a grand reopening!” Kate claps her hands and then fans them out, her fingers wiggling as though she expects applause.

Though I don’t look, I know Sawyer’s frowning. “In what world are the renovations coming to an end?” he says. “We still have to paint everything, the carpet’s not in, we have no furniture—”

“The carpet’s coming on Wednesday,” Kate says. “I’ve been thinking about it, and we don’t need fancy new furniture. In fact, I think it would be truer to the Trip to go antiquing and find some great old pieces for the lobby. We could get all dressed up for the reopening, have raffles and prizes and invite everyone in the community.”

“But what about”—Sawyer lowers his voice and looks around the room at the rest of us—“the top-secret project.”

“Excuse me, what?” I say, turning on him.

“I thought you said you were almost done,” Kate says, ignoring me.

“Well, yeah,” Sawyer says. “But all the stuff is still at the apartment and installation alone is going to take hours. If the ceilings aren’t even painted—”

“We’ll get it done.” Kate’s eyes sweep across the lobby in a way I can’t help but think is deliberately trying to be brief and exclusive. Almost all the walls are bare plaster, giving off the feeling that we’re trapped inside someone’s very large rectangular stomach. “There are four of us,” she says. “Between us, I think we can manage in a couple days.”

Four of us?

“What about Claire?” I say, the words falling out of my mouth before I can swallow them down. From the corner of my eye, I swear I catch Sawyer flinch. “How did she manage to get out of this project from hell?”

Not that I’m complaining. But still, I’d rather be prepared this time for her oncoming arrival.

“Claire had to get a new job after the Trip closed, and I don’t blame her,” Kate says. “This place was a mess. We didn’t know if we’d get it open again.”

“Traitor,” Bunny coughs into his hand.

“Can’t you just have the reopening next month?” Sawyer says quickly. “No one’s gonna care if we have a birthday celebration that’s not on the Trip’s actual birthday.”

Kate props her hands on her hips. “I’d love more time,” she says. “But I can’t afford to not open next week. The electricity, the property taxes, water—even without actually being open, it’s all too much.” She throws her arms out and gives me a sad smile. “I’ve got nothing left. This is it, guys.”

The four of us fall silent, the only noise in the lobby the sound of cars rushing past the Trip. At the thought of a grand reopening in which all eyes are on us, my palms actually go slick. I hate being the center of attention. Even on my birthday, my family knows not to sing to me under pain of death. I tighten my hands into fists and glance around the circle, everyone wearing matching wary expressions. Sawyer and I meet gazes, his mouth parted in question. But no matter how awful I think it sounds, no matter how impossible it’s going to be to get this place, which currently looks like a haunted airport hangar, looking presentable, Kate needs this. I can see it on her face.

Holding eyes with Sawyer, all I do back is nod, a movement so small, I’m not even sure it’s there. But Sawyer gets it. Because he nods back, his face suddenly hardened with determination.

“Okay,” he says to Kate. “I guess we’re doing this.”

CHAPTER SIX

I don’t care how many Red Lobster dinners he’s bought you, only legal spouses can know Rewinds exist, and absolutely NO ONE but yours truly can know the exact moment you plan to Rewind. Otherwise how else will I know nobody’s put pressure on you?

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “REWINDS 101” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The four of us are huddled around the table in the lobby, so engrossed in listing out all the supplies we’ll need, Kate hastily scribbling plans in her notebook, that I almost miss my phone ringing. I peel it out of my shorts pocket and squint down at the screen. It’s an unknown number. My mom isn’t so shady that she’d try to trick me by calling from a third-party phone, which means I’m only really anticipating a call from one other person: my grandma.

I scramble out of my chair, shouting something about needing the bathroom, before tearing down the hallway toward Screens One and Two. Before the call can go to voicemail, I answer it and whisper into my phone, “I’m here, just a second,” as I clamor up the stairs to Projector Room One. Because so much of the Trip’s storage space was taken up when the old owners added two additional screens, the small projector room is multifunctional, doubling as a storage closet, break room, and general overflow space when there’s no more room for extra bags of M&M’s in the utility room behind the candy counter. The room is dominated by two boxy projectors that sit on either end, one pointed into Screen One and the other Screen Two. Each projector is slightly shorter than I am, but a couple feet wide, their ordinarily hot, humming vents eerily quiet. Between them is a computer monitor where each of the day’s screenings are usually listed in a timeline, the films’ blue-colored boxes printed with their names and running times. The desk on which the monitor is propped is buried underneath binders, stray papers, Post-it notes, and old issues of Entertainment Weekly from when Kate and the rest of us would meet up here to plan the screening schedule for the week ahead. We rarely get to watch movies from up here—there are too many other things going on, like manning the candy counter, cleaning the bathrooms, scraping squished popcorn off the floors—so when we do, there’s something so peaceful about it, the slightly dulled dialogue filtering up over the projector’s steady thrum.

I wait until the door is shut behind me before pressing the phone back to my ear. There’s a hum of activity from the other line; my grandma is probably calling from her hotel in Mexico, which is why I don’t have the number saved in my phone.

“Hey, Grandma,” I say breathlessly. “Sorry, I’m in Cielo Springs, and I just had to—”

“Oh, uh, this isn’t your grandma,” the voice on the other line says. They swallow, the gulp so loud it echoes in my ears. “It’s Harvey.”

Harvey? As in, my dad’s assistant?

I blink into the darkness of PR One, gaze landing on the boxes of candy stacked so high along the back wall, only Sawyer can reach the top without the stepladder. Bunny nicknamed it the Tower of Doom, due to the fact that it’ll probably topple over one day and kill us.

“You—” I stammer. “Why would— What?”

I can count the number of times Harvey has called me on the phone, because the number is zero. As the assistant to one of the most powerful businessmen in his industry, Harvey is always busy running errands for my dad across Manhattan, sitting in on board meetings, and scheduling Ubers when my parents have somewhere to be.

“Oh, well, um, some, uh, some stuff came for you. From NYU. Today. About orientation.” He coughs. “And I wanted to get your address out in, you know, California, so I could forward it to you.”

Even without all the ums and uhs, this is the most I’ve ever heard Harvey speak at once; even the few times we’ve been seated next to each other at dinner parties my mom hosts for my dad and his colleagues, usually the only words he directs at me involve passing him the bread.

“Oh,” I say back. “You know my dad could just give it to you, right?”

Harvey laughs nervously. “Well, yeah, but he’s been really busy lately, you know, with everything, so I figured I’d cut out the messenger. You know, go straight to the source.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. My dad not having time to do something as simple as looking up an address for me is something with which I’m very familiar. The fact that we even had time for a blow-up argument before I left is, quite frankly, a miracle.

“Here,” I say. “I’ll text you.” Copying Harvey’s number from our call, I type out a message to him with Kate’s address. “There,” I say once I’ve sent it.

“Got it.”

There are a few more beats of awkward silence before I clear my throat and say, “Okay, well—” but Harvey cuts me off.

“Before you go,” he practically shouts, but pauses, chuckling nervously. “Before you go. I, uh, I was wondering. My dad, he’s throwing me a small graduation, uh, thing. It’s at the end of the summer, so you’ll be back in New York. Not that I, like, monitor your schedule, or anything. I don’t.” He swallows down what sounds like a strangled groan. “Anyway. I was wondering if you, you know, if you wanted to come. Maybe?”

Warm air fills my lungs as my mouth drops open. My dad is frustrating, but Harvey’s dad is this side of unbearable, always talking at least twelve decibels louder than everyone at a table, toting a new wife to every Christmas party. He and my dad have worked together on big, multimillion-dollar projects in the past, and so he’s a familiar enough face at our house. It’s how Harvey got the job as my dad’s assistant this summer and last, in spite of the fact that he’s so painfully shy he once blushed at the suggestion of sitting next to me on a couch.

So, the idea of willingly going to a party thrown by Harvey’s dad, much less Harvey, even if it is just a “small graduation thing” isn’t just random, it’s confusing. Why would he—I stop myself short, scowling. Unless.

“Did my mom put you up to this?” I blurt without thinking. That would one thousand percent be her move; her favorite hobby behind her book club and Pilates is nagging me about getting out of our house more, especially these last few months when I didn’t have Sawyer to at least talk to on the phone. “Oh my god,” I practically growl. “I’m gonna kill her—”

“No, no,” Harvey interjects quickly. “It was my idea. And my dad’s, kind of. I mean, he suggested it, but I agreed.”

I glance around the room, waiting for someone to pop out and tell me this is all a joke. But the only thing vaguely lifelike in here besides me is a cardboard cutout of Keanu Reeves from The Matrix in the back corner. Because I can’t even remember the last time I got invited to anything in New York other than my parents’ stupid parties, much less by Harvey, who, with his coiffed dark brown hair, tailored clothes, and pale chiseled jaw, is what the internet would refer to as “Instagram hot.”

“Aren’t you having, like, all your other friends?” I say.

I know the private school he went to was the kind that churned out future politicians and CEOs on a constant loop. It was the one my parents had enrolled me in when we first moved to New York, before I begged them to let me be homeschooled.

“What other friends?” he says with a dark laugh. The honesty of it makes me blink. “You and me, with our dads and all—I don’t know if it is for you, I mean, probably not, but for me it can be kind of weird. Hard, even. To make friends. I guess?”

I don’t know why he’s trying to make it seem like I might not know exactly what he’s talking about. He’s been in my house before. He knows my dad. He knows I don’t have people over. It’s why Sawyer only knows the basics, that my dad is obsessed with work and rarely around. But the answer to this comes slowly at first, then the shock of it hitting me all at once. Maybe Harvey is just trying to be nice.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. Because I know exactly what he means.

“If you’re busy, that’s totally fine,” Harvey says. “I can text you the details and you can tell me later. If you want. I’ll put the NYU stuff in the mail today too.”

We mumble goodbye before hanging up. The stillness of the room has a weight to it, like I can feel the air actually pushing down on me. This morning has involved far too much discussion about my parents; usually I don’t talk about them all summer, my time in Cielo Springs exactly that: mine. But the sound of voices downstairs, music from what I realize is the Grease soundtrack blaring from a speaker, bring me back. I suck in a deep breath. I’m in the Trip. I’m in Cielo Springs. There will be no more talk about my parents, of New York, of that version of me that’s not actually me.

When I swing open the door to the stairway, Sawyer is there. He jumps at the sudden whoosh of air, at my startled yelp.

“What’re you doing?” I say. Panic tingles across my scalp. “Were you spying?”

“What?” Sawyer says, holding out his hands. “No! I just got up here. I wanted to make sure you were okay. You kind of ran out all of a sudden saying you were going to the bathroom and then didn’t actually go to the bathroom. Unless”—he cranes his neck to see over my shoulder—“are you going to the bathroom in here?”

“Gross,” I say, shoving him off. “It was my grandma on the phone.” Our conversation from downstairs comes back to me, the panicked look he threw Kate. “Now, about this top-secret project—” I start to say.

Sawyer pivots away. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s above your pay grade,” he says.

“Um, excuse me,” I say, chasing after him. “I’ll have you know, nothing around here is above my pay grade.”

Sawyer quickly changes the subject to the argument he and Bunny have already been having about what films we should show on reopening night. As I speak, the lightness in my voice is convincing enough that I don’t think Sawyer realizes my heart is still trapped in my throat at the thought of him almost having overheard me on the phone with Harvey. It’s not like Sawyer doesn’t know that me and my dad don’t get along. It’s everything else. Because Harvey’s right. Making friends, keeping people around when they see our lives—it can be impossible. That’s why Sawyer only knows Cielo Springs Dixie. The me that’s uncomplicated, outgoing, free. If he saw the other version of me, I still don’t know what would happen. All I do know is that, in spite of the fact that I know one day it’ll happen, that it has to happen, everything in me screams that when it does, it won’t be good.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mulligan matriarchs are chosen by previous matriarchs for their wisdom and tenacity, though there’s little doubt organizational ability plays a part as well. It’s said they’re instilled with an innate ability to understand, approve, and enact Rewinds when the title is passed to them.

—EXCERPT FROM “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The rest of the day is a blur of activity. We drive to Home Depot and pick up everything we need, filling two carts with more paint, extra paint rollers and goggles, paint rollers on long sticks, brushes, trays, and even a few buckets. By the time we’re done it’s nearly four o’clock, so we’re back at nine the next morning, suited up in old T-shirts and goggles. Kate passes around bubble teas we picked up on the way and lays out the plan again.

Ideally, we need to finish painting before the carpet gets installed, to avoid any potential accidents once it’s down. The carpet is being laid on Wednesday, which gives us three days to get the painting done. It sounds like a lot of time for painting, but we have to do about eight thousand coats on three huge walls with loads of plug sockets and doors to navigate, plus the ceiling. By deciding she’d cover one wall with wallpaper and transform it into a gallery, filled with pictures of the Trip over the last one hundred and ten years, Kate lessened our work somewhat, so that’s something. Even so, we’ll undoubtedly be working from morning until night, but it’s clear from the way everyone listens to Kate map this out, serious and hard-faced, as though we’re going to war, that we’re all prepared to do whatever it takes to make this work.

Sawyer and Kate take the ceilings, because they’re tallest, while Bunny and I begin with the wall behind where the new popcorn machine will go. Before we can even start painting properly, we have to do a mist coat on the plaster, a mixture that the internet says consists of one-part paint and two-parts water. It’s drippy and sprays everywhere when we pull our rollers down the wall, hence the goggles.

We’re about halfway through the back wall when my phone chimes from the table across the room. I yank my goggles off and jog across the lobby. From a distance, I can tell it’s just a text, and at the sight of it, my stomach dips. Harvey texted me a few times last night with info about his graduation party, which is to take place at a rooftop bar and includes a set from a DJ whose recent collab with Dua Lipa is currently being used in commercials for Target and Starbucks. Clearly Harvey and I have very different ideas of what a “small graduation thing” entails, which is why I decided almost immediately that I wouldn’t go. Even though Harvey was right, we probably do have a lot in common, the way we deal with it is clearly different. While I’m trying to run in the exact opposite direction of my current life in New York, Harvey is throwing rooftop concerts with B-list celebrities.

But when I reach my phone, it’s not a text from Harvey waiting on the screen. It’s a message from my grandma.

Grandma

Just landed back n the USA. Got ur app. I hear ur n CS. Got any time 4 a trip 2 LA?;)

My mouth drops open. Usually my grandma comes to New York or Cielo Springs. I haven’t been back to see her in LA in years, not since I was a kid. From what I’ve read, there’s nothing in the rules that says my grandma has to meet with me in person to process my application, but maybe she’s not impressed with what I wrote on my form. Maybe she has questions, maybe she’s suspicious. Or worse, maybe she wants to let me down in person. In that case, I’ve got to go out there and plead my case.

But there’s one more complication with that plan—I’d need a ride.

I chew the inside of my cheek. Everyone who could drive me is in this room. Kate’s name is immediately off my mental list; I can already feel her quiet disappointment at the news that I’m using my Rewind. Then there’s Bunny; I know he doesn’t exactly approve of the Rewind from the way he’s always gone quiet whenever Grandma or Kate have talked about it around him. And when your own parent hates something so passionately, has had such a bad experience with it, I can’t imagine he’d be super supportive. Telling him about my Rewind now would be a huge risk.

Sawyer is standing in the middle of the lobby on a ladder, long arms stretched up toward the ceiling as he swipes the extended paint roller back and forth in clean, even strokes.

“Okay, so, quick question,” I say, gripping both sides of the ladder. There’s a hole in the heel of his faded sneakers, so I can see his red socks. They’re dotted with cartoon lemons. “What would you say to a spontaneous LA road trip tonight? I promise to buy you bubble tea approximately three times along the way, at the establishments of your choice, and you can pick all the music.”

He snorts, eyes still on the ceiling. “You and I both know you’d never stick to that.”

I frown. He’s right. “Okay, you can pick all the music on the way there.”

At this, he pulls his goggles up so they rest on his forehead. He looks down at me. “Why do you wanna go to LA?”

In the five seconds it’d taken me to decide on Sawyer and cross the lobby, a messy plan had worked itself out in my head.

“My grandma found some of my old stuff, from when we used to live in California, and she wants to give it to me. I haven’t seen her in a while, so I thought maybe…” I swallow. “You wouldn’t even have to come in. You can just drink bubble tea in the parking lot and I’ll run in really quick.”

It wouldn’t take longer than fifteen minutes to convince my grandma I had a worthy enough reason to bend time. Twenty minutes, max.

Sawyer lowers the pole of his paint roller and climbs down the ladder until both his feet are back on the carpet. Even if I were standing on the ladder’s bottom step, I’d only barely meet him at eye level, but at least he wouldn’t have to stoop as low to kiss me. The thought makes me clench my jaw so hard, my teeth ache.

“I mean, you know how much I love driving three hours to only sit in a parking lot,” he says, and while on the surface his words are sarcastic, I know he’s being serious. One summer we drove overnight through Arizona only to take a picture of us in the wooden go-kart underneath a big Fred Flintstone cutout. “But Claire’s babysitting until late and I’ve gotta grab some stuff from her house after.”

“Oh,” I say.

A flush creeps up my neck at the thought of what stuff might be there. That he’s got stuff at her house, and meanwhile, I’m picturing kissing him from the bottom step of a ladder like we’re some couple from one of those DIY shows my mom loves. Sawyer and Claire might not be “together,” but he still has stuff at her house?

“We could go to LA tomorrow, if you want,” Sawyer says, completely oblivious to my thought spiral. His voice picks up into a singsong as he says the next part: “Or, we could go to LA next week and then go bowling tomorrow.”

His eyebrows shoot up in question. Since yesterday, Sawyer has been trying to convince me to go with him to the new bowling alley that’s just opened up off Cielo Avenue, despite the fact that we both hate The Big Lebowski.

“I, I sort—it sort of has to be tonight,” I stammer. “That I go to LA, I mean.”

Technically I don’t have to go to LA tonight—the rules say my grandma has to get in touch in forty-eight hours for my interview, not that I necessarily have to do it by then. But the longer I wait, the longer this will go on. And as the list gets longer of what stuff might mean to Sawyer—some Tupperware that once held homemade cookies; a toothbrush; his underwear—I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

It’s nearly ten o’clock by the time Bunny parks in front of Mulligan Video, the window’s 24-HOUR VIDEO RENTAL sign drowning our faces in a neon-orange glow. For the entire drive here, my cousin has been surprisingly low-key about the whole Rewind thing or, at least, low-key enough so as not to make the journey unbearable. Unlike with Sawyer, there’s no way I could’ve asked him to stay in the car; not when we were going to visit our own grandma. But after confessing that I needed to go to LA to talk to our grandma because I planned to use my Rewind on Sawyer, Bunny had simply given me a look. From there, he’d spent most of the drive counting how many Taco Bells we passed on the way to LA (twelve), and scratching off the stubborn flakes of white paint still speckling his arms with his fingernails.

A loud beep sounds from somewhere overhead as Bunny and I step into the store, his skateboard slung over one shoulder. He agreed to drive me to LA, but only if I was cool with him practicing in the parking lot; I didn’t know if it was because he really didn’t want to forgo one night of prepping for his competition, or if he wanted to be as far away from potential Rewind action as possible, but I didn’t ask.

The walls of Mulligan Video have been painted a burnt orange and are lined with giant framed movie posters. Black wire racks showcase rows and rows of DVDs, wrapping around the two longest walls, up the middle of the room, and over half the back wall. The other half is devoted to a counter, on which sits a cash register and an opened notebook, its pages lined with a swirly handwriting. The store looks exactly like it did the last time I came here, when I was seven and Bunny was six. It even smells the same, like pine cleaner and plastic. Bunny and I spent countless weekends here eating Reese’s Pieces and watching movies in the back from the beanbag chairs Grandma bought so we could have our own private den while she helped customers up front. Behind Kate’s place and my own, it was my third home, somewhere I could feel comfortable and carefree before everyone scattered across the country.

As Bunny and I walk down the aisles toward the counter, I thumb through some of the movies; there’s a pretty good mixture of old and new, most of which I’ve heard of, if not seen, but not because I rented them. Mulligan Video is only one of a few video rental stores left in the whole country, most of which are visited by hipsters and the elderly. Sawyer once asked how my grandma kept Mulligan Video in business, and I just told him it was because she had a local community following. The more likely option is that it’s where the Movies are made, and therefore is probably protected by whatever gives my grandma the power to enact Rewinds—that, and the fact that she owns the strip mall in which Mulligan Video is located.

When Bunny and I make it to the counter, he dings the little silver bell that’s taped down beside the cash register. Hanging directly above us is the movie poster for The Chair, Charlie Roman’s third movie. This one came just before he sold out, so it’s on the line of acceptable and awful. It’s about some weird dystopia in which jobs are so hard to come by that rich people start hiring people desperate for work to be their furniture as some freaky display of extreme wealth. Mich played the single mother recently employed as a decorative chair in some art collector’s house. I squint up at the movie poster, where Mich sits in a chair pose, her legs bent at perfect ninety-degree angles thanks to the metal rods fit into all the furniture people’s legs.

“Dixie Cup!” My grandma emerges from the open doorway leading back to her office, arms stretched wide. At the sight of Bunny, her eyes widen. “And you brought my Bunny Bear.”

Grandma envelops both of us in a hug, her fluffy white hair smelling of coconuts. She looks like she’s just come off the beach, her soft skin, ordinarily pale, at least three shades tanner, and she’s wearing a flowy red dress that drifts down across her sandaled feet.

“Oh, sweethearts, I’m just so happy to see you,” she says, giving us one final squeeze before letting go. “Next time I’m gonna take you down to Mexico with me. You both would love it. Dancing all night, sitting by the beach all day. Your great-aunt Carol met a lovely man at the swim-up bar.”

“Wow,” Bunny says, his eyebrows raised. “Go Great-Aunt Carol.”

“Are you kids hungry?” our grandma says. “I bought some Mexican fudge but I ate it on the airplane. I think I’ve got some cereal around here…” She disappears before either of us can tell her we’ve already eaten, having stopped at Taco Bell seven out of twelve on our way here.

I love my grandma. As the matriarch of what is mostly a functionally dysfunctional family, she’s strong, no-nonsense, and yet somehow still incredibly warm. She not only remembers everything anyone tells her about what’s going on in their lives, but remembers to check in about it days, weeks, or months later, and then conveys the gist to the rest of the family. It’s how I know her postwoman’s dog has diabetes. My grandpa died when my mom and Kate were still little, so my grandma stepped in and started running his small video rental business, eventually expanding it into three branches across Los Angeles until finally narrowing it down to just the original shop in Santa Monica.

My grandma reappears with an opened box of Lucky Charms she deposits on the counter. Bunny dives straight in, digging out a handful of cereal and picking out the sticky marshmallows one by one.

“I’m so glad you two could make it all the way out here to see me,” Grandma gushes, her arms propped up on the counter. “I’m hoping to be at the reopening in Cielo Springs on Friday. That is, if you think you’ll finish all those renovations on time.”

We launch into details about the renovations, how many coats of paint it’s likely to take to get the Trip looking somewhat presentable. Grandma tells us the story of how she, Kate, and my mom stayed up for three nights straight to get the Hollywood branch of Mulligan Video up and running in time for the release of Titanic on VHS. I try not to wince at the idea of my mom and aunt working together, or even imagining a time in which things between them weren’t so strained and uncomfortable.

Bunny is on his third handful of Lucky Charms when my grandma pulls in a deep breath and says to me, “Well, Dixie, I believe we have a lot to discuss. Give us a few minutes, will you, Benny Buns?”

Goose bumps prickle along the back of my neck, but I nod, give Bunny a stretched smile. I follow my grandma behind the counter and into the back office, where a man sits at a desk typing into a boxy computer that looks way too old to still be working. He’s wearing a khaki jacket and matching pants, his thinning brown hair gelled back and his thick-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. He’s at least forty-five, but his skin is like porcelain, which I’m guessing is what happens when you only go outside for, like, two hours every week.

“Frank, can you cover the front while I chat with Dixie?” Grandma says. Frank stands without a word, only nodding at me as he passes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak, not once in my entire life. “You wouldn’t think it, but the hours between ten at night and two in the morning are some of our busiest,” Grandma says to me as she takes Frank’s seat on the high-backed office chair. She shakes her head. “Lotta weirdos out there.”

Her desk is piled high with papers, mostly spreadsheets and yellow notepads, their edges stained with coffee droplets. Grandma folds her hands in her lap and stares at me, her watery blue eyes shining.

“So,” she says. “Before we—”

“I know my Rewind probably sounds stupid,” I rush, cutting her off. The thoughts that have been in my head for the last three hours in the car are suddenly spilling out of me. “And that changing things for a boy is like, Patriarchy 101, but he’s not just any boy, this is my best friend. Losing Sawyer feels like losing my future, and before you reject my application, just let me explain—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Grandma holds up her hands. “What do you mean, before I reject your application? Who said I’m gonna reject your application?”

I bite the edge of my tongue, not sure how to respond. “Why else would you ask me to come out to LA?” I say eventually.

My grandma squints at me. “Because I wanted to see you?” She leans over and pats my leg. “Honey, people have used their Rewinds on far sillier things than love. I assume we’re talking about love here?”

My cheeks heat but I nod anyway.

Grandma smiles. “Thought so. I’m not here to judge what you use your Rewind on.” She pauses, gaze flicking up to the ceiling as though rethinking this. “Well, okay, I am here to judge your application, but not in that way. I just have to make sure you’re not trying to hurt anyone, that it follows the rules. Not that what you’re using it on is important enough. Which brings me to my next point.” She plucks a pen out of the jar on her desk and poises it above the first line on her notepad. “Tell me about what you want to Rewind.”

This is it. The moment I’ve been dreading. The moment where someone other than Sawyer knows just how shitty I am. How selfish. Everything in me wants to lie, downplay what I did so I don’t have to watch my grandma’s expression turn from one that’s so loving and understanding to one of disgust. But I know I have to be specific here, or else I risk the Rewind going wrong. And I don’t deserve to hide behind lies after what I’ve done. My grandma doesn’t deserve for me to lie to her.

I let my thoughts drift back to that day, the butterflies in my stomach as I rode the subway to Central Park West. They were good butterflies. Excited ones. This was going to be the moment where everything that’d been building between me and Sawyer would hit its breaking point. We’d both admitted we wanted more from each other. Had been thinking about it for years. But once I reach the point in my memory in which I’m walking past Strawberry Fields, my voice gets far away. I can tell I’m still explaining the story to my grandma from the way she’s nodding, but I can’t actually hear myself, as though my brain is trying to protect the rest of me from having to relive too much of that day. I can see the memories, feel the throbbing in my lungs as I ran out of Central Park. When I finally finish the story, it’s like I’m actually there again, gasping for air as my body shook with sobs, until I realize it’s not just happening in my head. My face, here, now, in the back office of my grandma’s store, is wet with tears. Silence falls around us except for the sound of my breath catching every time I try to pull in a new one.

As my grandma watches me, panic builds in my throat. She might’ve said before that she’s not here to judge me, but how can she not after what I’ve just told her? I press my eyes shut, waiting for her to throw me out, but only another beat passes before I feel her arms wrap around me. It takes me a couple seconds to realize what’s happening, but when I do, I settle my head onto her shoulder and sob. Horrible, disgusting, snot-filled sobs as my grandma rubs my back and makes soft hushing sounds.

When she finally leans back, her eyes are wet too. “Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “I see no reason not to approve your application.” She scribbles something on her notepad. “Do you understand what happens next?”

I blink through my tears at her, my lips parting. Instinct tells me to argue, to tell her she’s making the wrong decision. Did she not just hear my story? But the intelligent part of my brain seals my lips shut and makes me shake my head instead.

“Okay then.” Grandma clasps her hands together again. “This next part is when you get your Movie. Once you’ve watched it, your Rewind will be enacted automatically in four days. And then once it has, you’ll be dropped straight back at the time you were in before, but the past will’ve changed. Does that make sense?”

I nod. “But what happens if the Movie sucks?” I say, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. My cheeks are drying fast, the tears leaving behind a sticky sheen. Then I add quickly, “No offense. I just mean, what if I don’t like what I see?”

“You’ve got those four days to tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

“Wait, seriously?” I say. “Doesn’t that mean I could technically just keep requesting Rewinds to see what version I like best?”

Grandma narrows her eyes at me, though a smile still plays on her lips. I know that look; it’s the same one she’d leveled at me and Bunny that time we snuck some of her favorite movies out of the shop and she caught us watching them in a pillow fort in my cousin’s bedroom. It’s a look that says, I’m disappointed in you, but I still love you.

“If you really think I’m gonna keep processing your applications so you can play spin the wheel with the past, you are sorely mistaken, sweet cheeks.”

I raise my eyebrows, gaze flicking down to the graying carpet at my feet. “Got it.”

Black metal shelves line the wall above my grandma’s desk, overcrowded with books, small boxes, and more papers. She runs her fingers along a row of plastic DVD cases, her nails clicking against their square edges.

“The only thing left to do now is get you your Movie,” she says. “How do you want it? I can give it to you on DVD, VHS, Blu-ray—” She continues listing more and more ancient movie forms, stopping just short of a shadow puppet rendition performed on the office’s back wall by her and Frank. Grandma pulls down one of the plastic cases and flashes me the cover. On it is a plain black sheet of paper with just my name and the date April 2, 2023. The day of Central Park.

“Holy sh—” I swallow down the words, cough awkwardly. “Is that my actual Movie? How is that possible? You approved my application, like, four seconds ago.”

My grandma chuckles. “Really?” she says. “Of all the questions about this whole process, that’s the one you’re most interested in?”

I laugh through my nose.

“I can also have the Movie sent to you somewhere,” my grandma says. “Email … I’ve got a few of those UPS … USP drive, stick things around here somewhere.”

As she swivels around on her chair to rummage through one of the piles on her desk, I stretch my legs in front of me and run a hand through my hair. It could be nice to watch the movie on my laptop, in the quiet darkness of my bedroom at Kate’s house. But just as I’m about to tell my grandma this, something stops me. Because this Movie is more than just some reality dating show I binge on Netflix at one in the morning. This is my past with Sawyer, giving us the chance we always should have had. It feels huge, cinematic level, something for which my tiny laptop screen could never do justice.

And for that reason, only one option really makes sense.

CHAPTER EIGHT

One popular misconception about the Movie is it’ll show the rest of your life post-Rewind. However, the Movie only displays your life immediately following the moment you’ve chosen to Rewind, up to the current moment in which you’re watching the Movie.

—EXCERPT FROM “YOUR MOVIE AND YOU” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

No matter what Sawyer says, seat fourteen, row D in Screen Three is the best seat in the Trip. It’s close enough to the front for the gigantic screen to swallow you, but not so low that you permanently dislocate your neck trying to watch a movie. Screen Three is the biggest in the whole theater, so it’s where we show most of the blockbusters; the audio gets so deep and echoey, you can feel every engine rev and car explosion in your teeth.

It was my dad that always said movies should consume you, not the other way around. He and I used to spend every Sunday together at the Regal in downtown LA, watching movies from the moment we got up to just before dinner, eating hot dogs and popcorn for lunch. Back then he insisted we sit in the front row so our fields of vision only consisted of the screen; eventually my mom convinced him to sit slightly farther back, but only because I was at risk of developing serious long-term spine and eye problems, and even so, Dad only conceded four rows. Once the lights went down, there was nothing in the world beyond the film, no problems, no work. Just the story. Even when we moved to New York and Sunday movies with my dad stopped as suddenly as a car crash, that feeling of calm I always got sitting in a theater stayed. I didn’t have to worry about what version of myself everyone was seeing, if I was projecting the wrong thing to the wrong people. Alone in a theater, with nothing but the darkness, I didn’t exist.

The lights in Screen Three begin to dim. Even though it’s three o’clock in the morning, Bunny agreed to a final stop at the Trip after we returned from Los Angeles so I could watch my Movie. I told him I was okay with waiting until tomorrow (although I guess technically, it’s still today, just later), but he’d rolled his eyes and said he knew I wouldn’t sleep until I could watch it, and he was right. Plus, I remembered, the sooner I watched my Movie, the sooner my Rewind would be enacted. And if I watched it now, on Monday at three in the morning, that would mean it’d be enacted on Friday in the middle of the night, which feels like a better option than having to wait all day for it to go into effect, especially if that’s when the Trip is reopening.

While I took my seat in Screen Three, Bunny went up to the projector room to make sure everything had loaded correctly. Even though my Movie shouldn’t explicitly reveal my Rewind moment, my cousin is under strict orders to get the Movie playing and then flee, so as to make sure he doesn’t catch anything he’s not supposed to, just in case. My grandma was very specific about the consequences as I left with Bunny, the opened box of Lucky Charms tucked under his arm.

“And remember,” she said to me under her breath, “mum’s the word on your specific moment. It’s an instant void of your Rewind if you blab, and you won’t get another.”

I nodded, remembering the time I asked my mother how Grandma would know if I told anyone what moment I wanted to Rewind. Oh, Grandma has her ways, my mom had said ominously. Believe me. And I did.

There’s a brief moment of blackness before the screen brightens, opening on an expanse of red-brick terrace I’d know anywhere. A line of green, broccoli-fluffy trees covers the horizon behind it, giving way to a stretch of lake dotted with rowboats. In the middle of the terrace is a tall, grayish fountain topped with a bronze angel whose wings are fanned out protectively, a crowd of statue-kids on the level underneath her. It’s the Bethesda Fountain. Seeing it, I instinctively wince, my hands clenching so tightly around my armrests, the plastic creaks. But this time, standing at the foot of the fountain as hundreds of people aimlessly mill around him, Sawyer isn’t alone. He’s holding hands with a girl, and together, the two of them look out over the lake. It’s obvious from the way he points with the hand holding his bubble tea and leans over to whisper something to the girl, who laughs, that he’s making some kind of joke about the two of them renting a rowboat. They talk for a few more seconds before he closes the gap between them and kisses her, his hand unlacing from hers to reach up to the back of her head, where his fingers tangle in her blond hair.

I squint up at the screen, not sure I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing. But when the two of them break away and turn back toward the theoretical camera, both their faces red and their smiles so wide they can only be described as deliriously giddy, it’s obvious that the person with Sawyer is somehow, actually, impossibly … me.

I watch breathlessly as Sawyer and I walk slowly together, side by side, clutching each other’s hands so tightly it’s as though we’re worried the other will let go. When the screen zooms in on our faces, there’s not even a hint of blurriness around our features that sometimes comes with CGI; it’s as though this is really us, captured in some forgotten moment. Sawyer and I never actually made it beyond the edge of the Bethesda Fountain, which means this Movie is picking up immediately after my Rewind moment. Everything is new and, I realize with a jolt, possible.

The scene cuts abruptly to my living room, the images on-screen making me choke. Because in it, Sawyer and I are sitting across the dinner table from my mom, white and red boxes of Chinese takeout scattered across the surface. Something like elevator music plays over the whole thing and while I can tell we’re all talking, the actual details of our conversation are too muffled to understand. In the last few months my dad has barely been home, flying from business meeting to business meeting, and so it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s not here in this version of reality, but somehow, it still does. My mom is smiling while she tells what is clearly an elaborate story, her hands waving around in circles. Sawyer looks mildly shell-shocked, not a single grain of the egg-fried rice on his plate out of place. It’s this scene more than anything that makes my pulse slow; because the stuff with Sawyer, I’d let myself imagine it could happen one day. But bringing him to my house—that’s always been on my personal list of impossibilities somewhere between Kevin Hart winning an Academy Award and Charlie Roman making a new movie that doesn’t make me want to throw up.

The scene cuts again and then it’s a montage of things throughout New York, where Sawyer has clearly snuck off from his senior trip: us going to the Film Forum in Greenwich Village, riding on the subway with one AirPod for each of us, my head resting on his shoulder. Him in my bedroom, the two of us sprawled out across my bed underneath the red glow of the chili pepper lights I bought in Chinatown. It’s this last part where he pulls something out of his backpack and carefully unwraps its tissue paper casing. The camera zooms in to show what’s sitting in the middle of his upturned palm: a tiny figurine of two people mid-kiss, the girl with pink hair and the boy with blond. As I watch Rewind-me tackle Rewind-Sawyer with a hug, I can feel my actual eyes well with tears. I don’t even need context to know that the tiny figures are supposed to be us.

The screen splits, Sawyer in what I recognize as his bedroom on one side and me in mine on the other. Part of me wants to sit and ponder the production quality of this Movie, but I don’t want to get distracted and miss something. I can tell time is moving quickly by the way the light moves outside my window. The shots are primarily of me and Sawyer talking on the phone, except in most, we’re FaceTiming, because I’ve got no reason not to anymore, not when Sawyer has already seen everything.

When the screen goes back to a single shot, my breath hitches in my throat. Because I recognize this scene—it’s the night before I leave for Cielo Springs for the summer. Me, my mom, and my dad all gather around the kitchen island, a sushi feast splayed out across the white marble countertop. My face is red from screaming and my dad has his head in his hands before he looks up at me and flashes a smile that’s nothing but disappointment and disgust. His lips form the words I can still hear in my head from that night: You are an ungrateful brat. As Rewind-me storms into my room, the shot lingers long enough for real-me to see something I didn’t before: my mother’s face, her sad expression at she looks at my dad and shakes her head.

And then Rewind-me is on a plane, but instead of hopping on a bus to Cielo Springs, Sawyer is there at the airport; when he spots me coming out toward baggage claim, he scoops me up in his arms and kisses me like it’s been years since we saw each other and not months. Bubble tea is waiting in the car and we listen to The Middle soundtrack on repeat for the entire drive into the desert, the windows rolled down so I can feel the warm, dry air on my face. That night at Kate’s, we sit next to each other for pizza that Sawyer and I each eat one-handed so we can hold hands under the table. Kate and Bunny pretend not to notice but they do and we don’t care. We spend all night in my bedroom with my head in Sawyer’s lap while he glues each tiny flake of popcorn to the shoebox floor and I tell him about the fight with my dad. When I cry, he patiently strokes the hair from my face and tells me we’ll figure something out. That everything will be okay. I can tell from the smile I give him, though it’s small and wobbly, that I believe him.

CHAPTER NINE

Mulligans must be sixteen or over to enact their Rewinds. This is down to ensuring they possess the proper maturity for such a decision. As Lois Mulligan once said, “If you can’t hold a driver’s license, you can’t change the fabric of time.”

—EXCERPT FROM “REWINDS 101” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The AV Alley is a warehouse-looking building from the outside, its small parking lot mostly empty on a Monday night. The boom of bowling pins crashing is audible from outside, a sound that only amplifies when Sawyer sweeps open the alley’s front door. After three nights of basically no sleep, I’m not sure how I’m even standing right now. Instead of going back to Kate’s house last night, I watched my Movie at least seven more times. Every time, I spotted something new: the way Sawyer’s eyes never left me when I spoke, even if it wasn’t to him; the way his hands shook when he kissed me that time by the fountain. Sitting up in the projector room, I paused the Movie what felt like every ten seconds so I could spend as long as it took committing the picture on-screen to memory, as though I could ever actually forget.

The only thing that didn’t make complete sense was the little figurine of me and Sawyer; all the ones he’s bought me before have been for my shoebox scene of little Dixie watching The Middle. This one is clearly of me and Sawyer in Central Park, but he painted my hair pink presumably for when it was pink last summer, when it became clear that we wanted to kiss each other. But it could just be an inside-joke that the Rewind version of me and Sawyer have, something I don’t understand yet, so I know thinking about it too hard is pointless.

Inside and directly to the right of the bowling alley doors is a long wooden counter, behind which tower cubbyholes that are stacked from floor to ceiling and packed with shoes. A man dressed in a red polo shirt and thick-rimmed glasses, his smooth, dark face half-covered by a bushy black beard, stands behind it, reading a beaten-up paperback. Sawyer beelines for him, but I take my time, eyes swiveling around the bowling alley, its bright colors, statues, mismatched furniture, and posters almost too much to process at once.

Each bowling lane is modeled after a famous film, its furniture matching scene sets and its official movie poster hanging beside the digital scoreboard. I pause at the balcony sitting slightly above it all, which leads down to each lane via a couple of small stairs, my arms resting against the black iron railing. There’s Jaws, whose bowling ball dispenser is a giant shark’s head, and Get Out, with the trademark leather armchair at the head of the lane. The Forrest Gump lane has bus benches instead of chairs, while the Beetlejuice lane is striped black and white all the way to the pins. Seeing it all, I suddenly, mortifyingly, feel like I’m going to cry.

“It’s the best, right?”

Over my shoulder, Sawyer’s voice has the quiet amusement of someone who knows they’ve just proven a point. He nudges me with his hip, and the feeling of him, even if it’s just the rough scratch of his jeans, makes my face go fire hot. I know technically this Sawyer hasn’t done anything Rewind-Sawyer has, but the Movie looked so real; it’s hard to believe they’re technically two different people, that by this time Friday, this version of Sawyer will be gone, replaced by the one that makes out with me on subway platforms.

I swallow. “It’s like a mini-golf course, but for bowling. And better.”

Off to the far right, a group of men in matching mustard-colored polos on The Grand Budapest Hotel lane cheer loudly, exchanging high fives. Sawyer leads me over to the counter and the man with the beard. At the sight of me, he brightens, his shoulders straightening as he leans over the counter and smiles.

“This must be the famous Dixie,” he says, stretching out his hand. “I’m Aaron.” He looks like he’s in his late thirties, tattoos snaking up both arms and his fingernails painted black.

“The one and only,” I say, shaking his hand. “Well, I’m not the only Dixie. There are probably a couple of us. Not of me, specifically, though. I’m not a clone.”

“Mr. Richards was our supervisor for AV Club,” Sawyer says.

“I told you, Sawyer, you graduated high school,” he says. “You can call me Aaron now.”

“And I told you that’s never gonna happen,” Sawyer says back. He turns to me. “Mr. Richards opened this place in the winter.”

“Sawyer and the AV gang helped pick out the movies,” Aaron says. “There were a lot of fierce debates. A lot of threatening to die on various cinematic hills.” He points at Sawyer. “Size eleven?” He reaches for a pair of frayed gray bowling shoes with a faded red stripe down the middle. Once he slides them across the counter to Sawyer, he leans over, staring down at my feet. “Dixie, I’m gonna guess you’re a … seven?”

“Technically seven and a half, but close enough,” Sawyer says.

I frown at him. “You know my shoe size?”

“I am the Dixie Mulligan oracle,” he says, holding a hand to his chest. “Plus, remember that time I ripped your Rick and Morty slippers and had to buy you new ones?”

“I think you mean you shredded them,” I say.

Technically he ran them over with the Datsun.

Aaron hands me a matching gray pair of size-seven-and-a-half bowling shoes, but before he lets go, his eyes narrow as he examines my face. My scalp prickles as I recognize that expression. “Aren’t you—” he starts to say, but I pull the shoes out of his grasp, cutting him off.

“Kate’s niece?” I say, dipping my head closer to the shoes. My hair falls across my face, draping along the crisscrossing laces. “Yeah.”

Sawyer leans in, his voice low. “Mr. Richards has a crush on Kate. He’s always asking about the Trip and how the two of them can collaborate.”

“Oh, ‘collaborate,’ huh?” I say, my eyebrows rising as I throw up air quotes.

“Yeah,” Sawyer says, snorting. “Collaborate with their butts.”

Aaron props an arm up on the counter and squints at Sawyer. “Do you have any concept of how the hell human relationships work?” he says.

Sawyer gasps. “Mr. Richards, that language is inappropriate.”

I hug my shoes to my chest. “Yelp will be hearing about this.”

We turn around so our backs rest against the counter, Aaron mumbling something about wishing he’d listened to his grandma and taught kindergarten.

“So,” I say to Sawyer, “which one’s ours?”

He elbows me gently, his mouth suddenly so close to the side of my face that his breath tickles my ear. “It’s the one I helped design,” he says, arms folded over his chest. “Can you guess which one it is?”

My eyes sweep across the bowling lanes again and land on the one between Remember the Titans and Die Hard. It’s a little more understated than the rest of them; one side of its chairs are made to look like a fast-food booth, while the other side is a ratty couch. The average person might not guess what it is, but if you know it, you know it.

“Holy shit,” I breathe as I move toward it.

Between the two sets of seats is the ball dispenser, which is sculpted to look like a ladder coming out of a swimming pool. The movie poster hanging above it has two people sitting on a couch, the man staring off to the side and the woman who’s lying with her head in his lap peering straight into the camera with her trademark fuck-you stare. It’s Mich, looking down over a bowling lane for The Middle.

I skip down the steps leading to the seats and run my fingers across the smooth red leather of the fast-food booth, Sunshine Burger embroidered on the back in curly white writing.

“I had to work my ass off for this lane,” Sawyer says as he collapses onto the sofa. “Mr. Richards does not like Charlie Roman.”

“Yeah, join the club,” I say.

The couch is even the same green-and-gray plaid as the one from the movie, made to look identical to the one from the apartment the two main characters, Stella and Sam, share. If I didn’t already know the actual couch from The Middle is in the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures in Los Angeles, I’d swear this one was the real deal.

“I kind of want to smell it,” I say to Sawyer. “It would be weird if I smelled it, right?”

He nods. “It would be weird if you smelled it.”

I drop down onto the couch next to him, bowling shoes in my lap.

“This is kind of amazing,” I say, blinking.

Sawyer’s face breaks into a grin. “I knew you’d love it,” he says. “Which is why I fought Michael Cho to the death for The Middle instead of E.T. Although at least Steven Spielberg isn’t a dick.”

As I lace up my shoes, Sawyer moves toward the desk at the front of our lane. Something chimes from his empty seat beside me. Sawyer’s phone is lying there, a notification lighting up his screen. The name at the top. CLAIRE. I force myself to look away before I can read the text, train my eyes on the toe of my shoe. They text too?

“You ready?” Sawyer calls to me.

I shake my panic and look up at Sawyer. He’s already written our names in the computer, and when I see what he’s put for mine, I spring up and shove him out of the way.

“Absolutely not,” I say, slamming the delete button and watching as the words MRS. CHALAMET disappear.

“What?” he says, daring to look surprised. “I only thought it would be right for you to bowl under your full name.”

“I told you I liked Timothée Chalamet one time and you’re still talking about it?”

“Because you said you liked him in Little Women and that was easily the worst casting of the twenty-first century, so I know you genuinely meant it.” Sawyer throws his arms out. “I’m trying to support you!”

In the newly empty space, I type my name, but where Sawyer’s should go, I type the name his fourth-grade teacher used to call him, the one I know makes him cringe every time he hears it: SOY BOY. When Sawyer sees it, he locks incredulous eyes on mine.

“Are you serious right now?” he says.

“What?” I say, feigning innocence. “In Mrs. Harris’s class, that was your name.”

“If you don’t have to use your legal name, then I’m not using mine.”

Sawyer lunges for the keyboard, but before he can delete anything, I stretch out my arms, blocking him. He tries elbowing me out of the way, but my arms are like steel beams, anchored atop the desk.

“You’re not deleting it, so you should probably give up,” I say, almost breathless with laughter.

Sawyer wraps his arms around my waist and yanks me backward. I shriek with surprise as my feet leave the ground. “I am not a quitter,” he says through clenched teeth. I squirm against his arms, but he’s surprisingly strong, pinning me to his chest. “You think you’re so funny,” he says. He’s trying to sound frustrated, but I can hear the laugh in his voice. The side of his face is so close to mine as he leans forward, trying to keep his hold on me, and I’m suddenly very aware that if I were to turn my head even a fraction of an inch, our mouths would basically meet. At this thought, my body goes slack for a half-second, and as it does, something from Sawyer’s pants catches on mine. There’s the distinct sound of ripping.

“Shit,” we both say in unison, but as I try to wriggle away, there’s more ripping.

“Hold on, you’re making it worse,” Sawyer says. “I think my button is caught on something.”

If it were possible to die of embarrassment, it would be happening now. Here, as I hang limply in Sawyer’s arms as he tries to disconnect the front of his pants from the back of mine.

“It’s your stupid belt loop,” he mutters under his breath, voice low with concentration. A few more seconds of him swearing quietly pass before my feet touch the ground again. I step forward, but there’s a pronounced chill just above my butt where Sawyer and I were attached. “Jesus Christ,” he says, yanking me back against him. “My button may or may not have ripped off your belt loop, resulting in a somewhat tiny hole in your jeans.”

“A what?” I whisper-shriek. “How tiny?”

“Like, an inch. Maybe two inches, tops.”

“That is not tiny!”

I reach around to find the hole but only end up accidentally swiping the front of Sawyer’s pants and now I wish I had died of embarrassment. He takes a small step away from me and guides my hand to my back, where I find the hole in my jeans; it’s big enough to fit two fingers through, exposing the cotton fabric of my underwear.

“We have to go home,” I say through the side of my mouth. Fortunately, everyone around us is focused on their games, all in various stages of loitering or high-fiving. No one seems to notice I’m mid-personal crisis.

“We just got here,” Sawyer says.

“Everyone can see my Iron Man underwear,” I say.

“You are not wearing Iron Man—” There’s a pause before Sawyer lets out a sound of incredulity. “Okay wow, you’re wearing Iron Man underwear. Are you secretly an eleven-year-old boy?”

“Don’t look at it!”

Behind me, Sawyer shimmies out of the long-sleeved button-up he’d put on before we left the Trip, the same one I’d made fun of him for wearing in ninety-degree heat.

“Here, just tie this around your waist,” he says. Before I can grab it from him, he laces the arms of the shirt around my stomach, his mouth just millimeters from my neck. When he pulls away again, I can barely breathe. “There,” he says. “You can’t even see it. We can go to my house after and I’ll sew it up for you. It’ll be fine.”

Chewing my lip, I glance around our bowling lane. The Sunshine Burger booth, the perfect replica of the couch. Even though I know Sawyer and I will come back here again after the Rewind goes through, it seems like a shame not to stay, when we finally have a chance to hang out alone.

“If I stay, will you show me the top-secret project you’re working on when we get to your house?” I say.

Sawyer rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “But you have to help me transport all the stuff to the Trip once everything’s ready.”

“Deal.” I cinch the arms of Sawyer’s shirt tighter around my waist. The cotton sleeves are worn, but so soft. “Are you sure the hole isn’t that bad?”

“Just maybe don’t, like, do the splits when you’re trying to bowl.” He mimes bowling but with his legs only moving in small, jerky strides. “You know, like, restrict your movements, kinda.”

I scowl. “You would want me to do that,” I say. “That’s the only way you’ll win.”

Sawyer slings an arm over my shoulder and I wonder if he can feel how well it fits there. “Dixie, Dixie, Dixie,” he chides, his face so close to mine that his curls skim the top of my head. “I was always going to win.”

CHAPTER TEN

When Rewinds are enacted, only Mulligans are aware reality has changed. Others, even legal spouses, only know the new reality and will not have memories of previous ones. Over time, a Mulligan’s memories from the previous reality will fade until eventually those memories feel something similar to dreams.

—EXCERPT FROM “REWINDS 101” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

Sawyer’s dad almost always works late during the week, which means Sawyer’s house is empty when we get back. It’s technically an apartment but it feels weird to call it that, especially because it’s two stories. The top level is technically the main part, just two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living-room-slash-kitchen, but as far as Sawyer goes, he basically lives in the garage underneath. It has the same floor space as the level above, with the longest wall on the far edge covered in built-in shelving. In the middle of it is a giant desk that’s topped with a high-powered spotlight and a thousand circular magnifying glasses that go over it. Next to it is a sage-green sewing machine, some red fabric with flowers on it folded neatly to the side. Sawyer flips the garage light on, illuminating the shelves; at first, it looks like they’re filled with tiny pods, as though the garage is a hive for oversized bees. But they’re actually shoeboxes lining every shelf, each one filled with a miniature scene. The middle of the garage is taken up by a humongous table that’s really the size of four average dinner tables pushed together and covered with a bunch of sheets, but I maneuver around it, beelining instead for the shelves behind.

Most of the shoeboxes I recognize, but a couple of them are new: there’s a carnival scene I remember from Sawyer’s Instagram, with a tiny Ferris wheel that actually spins when I nudge it with my finger, a ticket booth to the right of it, and a kid wailing up at the sky as his overturned ice cream melts at his feet. My favorite box is toward the bottom right corner of the wall. It’s a big box, probably made for boots or something; Sawyer has tipped it so one of the shorter sides acts as the bottom, and inserted slats of cardboard to break the box up into smaller compartments. Each one is a room that together make up a haunted house, complete with old-timey furniture, creepy paintings on the walls, and thin layers of cobwebs covering nearly every corner. In the attic is a slightly open coffin with just a single pale hand poking out, while in the kitchen, four skeletons sit around a table eating pizza.

“I still get this when you die, right?” I ask.

Sawyer is rooting around through a pile of clothes folded on top of a dryer. “You are the sole beneficiary of the haunted house shoebox,” he says without looking up. “Here,” he says, once he finds what he’s looking for. He tosses it over the table separating us. “You can wear these while I fix your pants.”

They’re a pair of red board shorts with zippers on the pockets. At the sight of them, I splutter a laugh. “What the actual eff am I looking at?” I say. “I’ve never seen you wear shorts in your entire life.” Even in pictures from when he was a little kid, he’s always wearing pants. Sawyer says knees freak him out.

“They were a Christmas present from my mom,” he says, smiling tightly. “She just kinda gets me, you know?”

I shake my head, eye roll implied. If it’s even possible, Sawyer and his mom probably talk less than me and my dad. Sawyer was in the fourth grade when she split up with his dad and moved to Oregon. He only really sees her once a year, usually over Thanksgiving break.

Sawyer turns back around and faces the dryer, hands drumming on the white metal.

“What’re you doing?” I say.

His shoulders tense. I can imagine the theatrical look of confusion on his face. “What, did you want me to watch while you change?” he says.

My eyes go so wide, they throb. “Oh,” I say, hands clenched tightly around his now balled-up shorts. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, no, I don’t want you to watch. Just—just don’t turn around.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

I slide my jeans down quickly, careful not to trip as I wiggle my feet out. Once I pull on Sawyer’s shorts and give him the all-clear, he rounds the big table and scoops my jeans and his button-up off the floor. In spite of the fact that Sawyer’s body-type can only be described as “broomstick,” the shorts are a little baggy around the waist, the legs extending down to the middle of my calves.

An empty tripod is propped up next to the big table, its camera probably stored in one of the boxes at Sawyer’s feet. I pretend to casually edge along the table, left hand playing with one of the sheets that’re draped on top. Whatever’s underneath is lumpy, but inconsistent; there are clearly tall, spire-looking parts on one side, while another is domed. The table is usually where Sawyer keeps the sets he’s built for the stop-motion he’s working on, but whatever’s under these sheets is too big. This must be the top-secret project.

“So,” I say slowly, drawing out the word. “Are you gonna show me the top-secret project now, or do I have to go through some kind of initiation first?”

Sawyer sets my jeans down on his desk. “Do you promise you’re not gonna tell anyone?” he says.

I lift my right hand, little finger out. “Pinkie promise,” I say. “Plus, who am I gonna tell? Everybody I’d tell already knows.”

“Not Bunny,” Sawyer says, cinching his pinkie with mine. “He leaked the cast list for Hello, Dolly! two years ago because somebody dared him to. He has no shame.”

“Bunny will never know,” I promise. Then add, “Until he does.”

Sawyer shoots me a look but yanks the sheets off anyway, revealing a scene that leaves me breathless. A hand instinctively flies up to cover my now-opened mouth, a gasp escaping my lungs.

“Holy. Shit,” I say slowly.

Sprawled out in front of me is a miniature replica of New York City.

My feet sidestep so that I circle the table like a shark. On it I see at least fifteen landmarks I recognize, all made from various pieces of trash: the Empire State Building made out of cardboard, a shoebox Met, the Brooklyn Bridge strung from paper clips as tiny toy cars race across its painted-on lanes.

“How long has this taken you?” I finally manage once I’ve completed my second full lap.

“I started it in, like, February, I think?” he says. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, trying to look nonchalant, but I can see the self-consciousness in his eyes, in the way he chews his bottom lip. “The Trip caught on fire and I suddenly had a lot of free time.”

“Where’s it gonna go? Are we gonna be able to fit these tables in the lobby?” I ask. “And we’ll probably need, like, a glass case or something to go on top, because I swear to god if some annoying kid tries to steal anything, I’ll—”

“It’s going on the ceiling,” Sawyer says. “Kate wants to have binoculars that people can use to see all the details.”

“It…” I say, trailing off.

It’s genius. It’ll hang over the lobby like a flying piece of art. It’ll be the centerpiece of the entire Trip, something people will come from miles away to see. It also must’ve been why Sawyer looked so panicked at the thought of having to install it in only a couple days. Each building is so intricate, the posters in shoebox–Times Square glued on from magazines, the colors on the traffic lights drawn by hand. Every time I look, I find something new: a papier-mâché Guggenheim, the Central Park Zoo, the stack of neon letters outside Radio City Music Hall.

“Everything’s in pieces so I can transport it easily to the Trip,” Sawyer explains, smoothing down his hair. He rifles through a box at the end of the table, pulling out thin strips of cardboard that have been painted with yellow dashes to look like roads. There’s a crinkly, blue-green film for what I’m guessing will be the rivers ringing Manhattan, Astroturf for the sporadic squares of green parks. “Plus, it’s a work in progress. I’m gonna add to it over time.” He sits at his desk and lays my jeans out flat along the surface. “I figure once I actually live in New York, I’ll be able to get a better sense of the buildings’ details and stuff anyway.”

He’s still only wearing his plain white T-shirt; I can see the muscles in his shoulder bend and bow as he weaves the sewing needle in and out of my jeans. Sewing has always been one of his favorite hobbies, used mostly on stitching up tiny outfits for the characters he pokes into shape from big, amorphous blobs of wool; I asked him once if people ever gave him shit for it at school, but he’d just shrugged. It was a necessary part of what he loved to do, which was tell stories through characters like frogs dressed as clowns or, once, a cat that wanted to be a bungee jumper, but was afraid of heights. And one day when he won an Oscar for it, he’d tour Cielo Springs making the annoying people from his high school kiss his statue’s tiny bald head.

I’m halfway through my third lap of mini NYC when I pause over Central Park and the puffy trees Sawyer has made with cotton balls painted green.

“Careful,” Sawyer says as I skim my fingers over one of the treetops. “Those are still”—he laughs as I pull my fingers away, the pads streaked with green paint—“wet.”

He’s put in Belvedere Castle, its squarish turrets made from tissue boxes lording over Turtle Pond. Tiny people sprawled out on picnic blankets and throwing Frisbees to each other speckle the Great Lawn. But my stomach sinks when I catch the lake just south of the castle, its red-brick terrace and the rowboats docked at the boathouse. A fountain made from what looks like a small teacup saucer painted bronze and topped with a statue of an angel sits on the opposite side of the lake, little people perched on its edges. Images from my Movie flicker to life in my brain: Sawyer and me at Bethesda Fountain, just like we said. The tiny figurine of us kissing.

This must’ve been what it was for. It was supposed to be for the Trip’s ceiling.

Because if Sawyer had brought the figurine of us to New York, that means he would’ve had it regardless of whether or not I enact my Rewind, which means he must still have it now. He never had the chance to give it to me. I lean over the scene and scan the Astroturf grass, Bethesda Terrace, all the walkways crisscrossing mini Central Park, but there’s nothing. My eyes snap to Sawyer, whose back is now to me. It seems impossible that he couldn’t feel my sudden panic, as though the air was literally sucked from the entire room and not just my own lungs. But he’s completely oblivious to the fact that my brain is currently caving in on itself with questions, the only sound in the garage the brittle pop of his needle poking through the thick fabric of my jeans.

Where did the little figures of us go?

What if he threw them away?

What if he’s planning to repaint them as him and Claire?

What if he already has?

The last thought makes my head spin so suddenly, I have to grab onto the side of the massive table to stay standing. I know that by enacting my Rewind all of this will go away, but that also means so will any answers to these questions. I can’t let him know that I know about the figurines, but I can ask about Claire. I know from Frank’s blogs that my memories of this former reality—AKA now—will fade eventually until maybe I won’t even know them anymore. Even still, it seems completely absurd—why would I want to torture myself by actually hearing Sawyer talk about him and Claire? But suddenly, it also feels like the only thing worse than knowing is not knowing.

At even the thought, my hands start to shake. “So,” I say with what I hope is nonchalance. “What does Claire think about all this stuff?”

This gets his attention. Claire’s name. From my mouth. In his garage. Sawyer’s needle stops midair; I can almost hear the corners of his mouth turn down.

“What stuff?” he says carefully.

My feet pick up their slow lap around the table again, my back to Sawyer in case he were to turn around and see the panic written in every line of my face.

I swallow hard. “All your scenes. I mean, does your girlfriend even know you’re kind of a hoarder?”

I know Bunny said they weren’t together, but maybe he got it wrong. Maybe something’s changed. And I have to know. I have to.

But Sawyer just says back, “She’s not my girlfriend; we just hang out sometimes.” Maybe I imagine it, but I swear there’s an edge to his voice. Does he want Claire to be his girlfriend? “And she’s the one that gave me all the cotton balls for the trees yesterday. Her mom’s, like, some extreme coupon lady, so she had forty bags in her garage.”

The stuff. It wasn’t Sawyer’s clothes from all the times he’s slept over at Claire’s house. It’s cotton balls for the top-secret project. I know I should be relieved that it’s not his underwear, but somehow, the fact that it also means Claire’s known about the top-secret project all this time and I haven’t, is worse.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “She comes over to your house, knows about your secret exploits, and you make out in front of your friends and boss”—and text, and give each other stuff, even if it’s just excess bags of cotton balls—“but she’s not your girlfriend.”

“We didn’t make out—” Sawyer starts, then swivels around to face me. I reluctantly lift my eyes to meet his. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I’m sorry, was I supposed to read your mind? You’re the one that didn’t tell me literally anything about the fact that you’re hanging out with Claire.”

“Why do you care?”

There’s a challenge in his voice. He wants me to say it, I can tell.

“Because it’s Claire,” I say instead. “Remember the time she thought Jaws was a movie about dentists? Remember Cats?”

“We like different movies, so what?” he says.

“When did it even start?”

“Us liking different movies?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be annoying.”

“I’m being annoying right now?”

“Why can’t you just answer the question?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

“We’re supposed to be best friends.” I gesture down to the table. “I had to practically flash my underwear to the entire Cielo Springs Bowling League for you to tell me about any of this.”

Sawyer smiles, but there’s nothing happy about it. “Sure, we’re best friends,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He thumbs through it before standing and holding up the screen for me to see. On it is my name in his phone, followed by our texts since spring break, which consist only of a solid block of blue bubbles. He scrolls up, showing more and more blue bubbles, ten, twenty, maybe even fifty of them. All his texts to me, and not a single response. “I’m the weird one here for not telling you about Claire. Because clearly, you were super stoked to talk to me over the last few months.” He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “What did you want me to do, hire a plane and write it in the sky?”

At the reminder of his texts, everything in me wants to flinch. I bite the edge of my tongue, holding it off. Swallow, instead. “You could’ve said something when you picked me up at the bus station,” I say.

“I—” he starts to say, but clears his throat. “I was nervous enough, seeing you again, and it just didn’t—it didn’t feel like the right time.”

“So, what, I had to see you kiss her instead? Was that the right time?”

“Oh my god.” His smile goes wider, an incredulous laugh bubbling out of him. “That’s what this is about?” he says. “You’re mad I’m hanging out with Claire? Are you serious right now?”

“I—I’m not mad,” I insist. “I just don’t like being left in the dark.”

“Yeah?” Sawyer fires back. “Me neither.”

“Then when did it start with Claire?” I say. “Was it after Central Park?”

At the mention of Central Park, everything about Sawyer stills. We’ve never spoken about it out loud before, and by doing it now, it’s as though we’re confirming it wasn’t a dream. That it did, somehow, actually happen.

“Of course it was after Central Park,” he says quietly. “Do you really think I’m that much of a dick?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug lamely. “You’re the one who said we’re not best friends.”

“Yeah, since Central Park,” he says. “After you fucking ghosted me.”

I tilt my face away so he can’t see me close my eyes against the memory. All this will fade eventually, I remind myself. All this will fade, all this will fade, all this will fade.

“This shit with Claire”—Sawyer’s hands fly to the back of his head, fingers grabbing his hair in angry fistfuls—“you don’t get to judge me. Not after we make all these stupid plans to meet up in New York, plans I was dumb enough to get excited about, and then you don’t show. Did you know I waited two hours for you? Like an idiot, two fucking hours. And nothing. You couldn’t text me to say where you were, or why, or that you’re sorry, or that you’re even alive. Nothing. I hear nothing from you until you tell me you’re coming out to Cielo Springs, where you casually act like nothing happened. Central Park wrecked me, dude. And now I’m supposedly a dick for getting over it?” Sawyer points a finger in my direction. “Fuck. You.”

And there it is. Everything laid out like a body on a table, skin cut open and ribs splayed, all the gory details and curdled shame exposed, where I can’t push them down anymore. I blink into the space between us, finally out of questions, out of things to say.

Because Sawyer is right. I didn’t just ghost him after our date in Central Park.

I never showed up at all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It’s been speculated that our family’s ability to Rewind has something to do with our last name. In golf, a “Mulligan” is a chance to redo a stroke without affecting your scorecard. In fact, it was originally called the “Mulligan” before being changed to the “Rewind” in 1940.

—EXCERPT FROM “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

We’d been doing it all last summer, me and Sawyer: this slow dance around each other, occasionally colliding in shy, unspoken ways. Standing so close in the morning Trip meetings that his chest pressed against my back. Our knees touching when we sat in the back seat of Kate’s car, even though there was plenty of space for us both. All of it felt like it was quietly moving somewhere, slowly progressing up a hill. And then, there, in Kate’s backyard for summer movie night—we’d finally reached the top.

Sawyer and I were sharing the bench. We had a blanket draped over us, and at some point, when he went to adjust it to give me more, his hand dropped and landed on my leg. Even though I couldn’t see it, I could feel it was face up, almost like a question. I knew if I didn’t want it there, I had about three seconds before he took it back. But I didn’t even think; I just slipped my hand into his and we sat like that for the rest of the night, never even looking at each other. It was like we were too nervous to acknowledge it, but too comfortable to take it away. Only when the movie finished and Kate and Bunny both went inside did we unlace our fingers. Sawyer and I just looked at each other and I swear he wanted to kiss me; his eyes darted nervously around my face and he kept chewing his lip in this way that made my hands clench into fists, but then he was saying something about my bus leaving in eight hours and that he didn’t want to keep me up. I remember wanting to shout, I don’t give a single shit about my bus, just kiss me, but before I could, he was standing, and then the moment was gone. So quickly, I convinced myself I’d made the whole thing up, that just because Sawyer held my hand didn’t mean he wanted anything more. Maybe he was just cold. Maybe the part where Christopher Meloni’s character in Wet Hot American Summer starts talking to a can of vegetables genuinely freaked him out, and he was scared.

After I went back to New York, we didn’t talk about it. Until just before Thanksgiving.

It was the night of the cast party for Cielo Springs High School’s fall production of The Crucible. Sawyer was supposed to be on a plane to Oregon, but his mom had just canceled his annual trip up for Thanksgiving the day before because she was now going to spend it in Bermuda with her new boyfriend. I knew someone had bought a lot of liquor for the party, both because of Sawyer’s increasingly incoherent texts and the fact that he kept trying to FaceTime me, something we both knew was, according to the proverbial Dixie handbook, very much off-limits.

“Why won’t you FaceTime me?” he wailed into the phone once he finally called the normal way. “I just want to see your face.”

I could hear Bunny shouting at him in the background, “Oh my god, leave her alone.”

Even though my mom was asleep and my dad was in England, I whispered into the phone, the feeling of my hot breath reflecting from the screen and leaving my cheek clammy. “You are so needy,” I joked, then pulled the phone away to take a selfie. It was long past midnight and I still hadn’t slept. My hair was flattened under a pillow I’d wedged around my head to muffle the noise of our conversation, and my skin looked pale and sticky in the camera flash, but I sent it anyway. “There,” I said. “Are you happy?”

There was a pause as Sawyer examined his phone. Finally, he laughed softly, just a puff of air from his nose. “I like that picture,” he said.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled stupidly into the darkness of my bedroom.

The party was still loud behind him; from the pictures Bunny had been sending me of Sawyer doing various poses around the house, there were at least twenty people there, all cast and crew from the show. They were at the house of someone named Zoey, whose parents were apparently super into angels. I knew this from the ten thousand photos Sawyer had texted me of him balancing tiny porcelain angel statues on his head. Just the idea of even sitting at the party of someone I didn’t know made me want to gouge my eyes out with unsharpened pencils, but every time I got a new picture, something in my chest ached. Something like longing. I didn’t want to be at a random party necessarily; I just wanted to be near Sawyer.

“Dixie, I hate my mom,” Sawyer said sadly.

The aching intensified. “I know, buddy.”

“And you hate your dad,” he said back.

“I know, buddy.”

Sawyer and I talked about our parents occasionally, but mostly we steered away from things we knew made the other one sad. His bluntness here, though undoubtedly soaked in whatever liquor this Zoey person had supplied, made me blink.

“Can we forget about parents when we’re in New York?”

My smile then was watery. “I’d like that very, very much.”

“We can take care of each other. We don’t even need them. I’ll be your—” He paused, coughing awkwardly. “You know what? Nope. I was gonna make a daddy joke and then I was like, nah, not today.”

I barked a loud laugh. “Not ever.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sawyer groaned. “Bunny says it’s time for me to go home now. He’s probably right. Bunny!” There was shuffling, voices in the background rising and then fading as Sawyer moved around the house. “Is it time to go home now?”

“Yeah,” I could hear Bunny say. “Give me your keys.”

Then, Sawyer’s voice back into the phone: “Dixie, I’m gonna go home now, okay? I’m sorry for keeping you up and saying weird stuff.”

“You’re always saying weird stuff.”

“True. You love it, though.”

There was a long pause as his words hung between us, Sawyer probably waiting for my retort, something sarcastic. But it wasn’t coming this time. He was right; I did love it.

“I miss you.”

Sawyer’s voice was soft. It had none of the blurriness from before, none of the background noise, as though he’d slipped into a quiet room to make sure I’d heard him clearly. I blinked into the shadows of my room again, just barely making out the shape of the desk on the other side of my bed, the velvet desk chair swiveled backward.

I swallowed hard enough that my throat made a sound. “I miss you too.”

It was like we were back on the bench again at summer movie night. The next few words would be it, where we’d acknowledge whatever this thing was between us. But like last time, Sawyer merely let the pause linger before rushing to say goodbye and shouting to someone in a different room, “Where the hell is my stupid shirt—” before hanging up.

Once my phone screen went black again, I lifted one of my pillows over my head and screamed into the mass of feathers. How many times was something like this going to happen? Why couldn’t we just say it? Was I imagining things? Or did he also read into every too-long pause, every brush of fingers, every time we acted like the thought of being around anyone but the two of us and Bunny would make the walls come crashing down?

I let these thoughts circle my head for what felt like hours, until finally sleep edged nearer. Just as I was about to give in, my phone buzzed, sending my eyes springing open so fast, I wondered if sleep was ever really that close at all.

It was a text this time, not that it mattered. Even the sight of Sawyer’s name on my phone made my blood freeze.

Sawyer

Are you still awake?

Sawyer

LOL I’m being so annoying rn

Something in my chest crackled, as though sparklers were going off in my rib cage. We were now going on four o’clock in the morning East Coast time, but the adrenaline surging through my veins made it feel like I’d just woken up, refreshed, from twelve hours of sleep.

Dixie

Hahahaha yeah I’m up

Dixie

Are you home yet?

Sawyer

Safe in bed!!!

Sawyer

Hence me texting. I’d call but you know the walls are paper thin and I would 10000000% wake my dad up

Sawyer

Bunny got me fries and I feel like a new person

Dixie

Yeah your texts are making a lot more sense now

Sawyer

Sorry for being a mess:/

Sawyer

I think I was more bummed about my mom than I thought loooooooool

Dixie

It’s ok!! You don’t have to explain yourself, defs not to me

Sawyer

Thanks

Sawyer

Can I tell you something really really weird?

Dixie

When do you not?

Sawyer

LOL ok fair but this is REALLY weird and you have to promise not to hate me

Dixie

I tried to hate you after you made me watch Mad Max Fury Road and it was too time consuming

Sawyer

That’s bc you know that movie is actually AMAZING and you just don’t want to admit it

Dixie

False

Sawyer

Sawyer

Ok whatever. Argument tbc. Back to WEIRD THING

Sawyer

Do you remember summer movie night????

At the mention of summer movie night, my breathing stopped. I stared at the three dots that appeared underneath Sawyer’s texts, my lungs burning.

Sawyer

After the movie finished and it was just me and you, I felt like I kinda wanted to … I don’t know like

Sawyer

 … maybe kiss you?

Sawyer

IS THAT REALLY WEIRD

Everything in my bedroom evaporated. The only thing I could see were those few little words. Sawyer. Wanted to kiss me.

At first, I wanted to laugh it off, something that didn’t give away how badly I’d wanted it too. But this was Sawyer. My best friend. Was it weird that he’d wanted to kiss me?

Dixie

No?????????????

Sawyer

No as in …

Dixie

No as in that isn’t weird

Sawyer

Wait seriously?

Sawyer

Does that mean you would’ve been into it?

Dixie

I mean yeah??

Sawyer

 … iiiiiiiiiiiiinteresting

Dixie

Would you?

Sawyer

Well duh

Sawyer

I’m the one who brought it up

Dixie

Oh yeah

Sawyer

Well

Sawyer

I’m coming to NY for spring break

Sawyer

What would you do if I kissed you there?

Dixie

Depends where

Sawyer

The top of your lil head

Dixie

?????

Sawyer

You asked where I’d kiss you and I said the top of your lil head

Dixie

Omg freak I meant where in NEW YORK would you kiss me

Sawyer

Oh

Sawyer

The top of the Empire State Building!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dixie

HAHAHAHA ew no

Dixie

Cheeseball

Sawyer

Times Square?

Dixie

Pass

Dixie

When you go to Times Square you will realize that you do not ever want to return to Times Square

Sawyer

Lol ok fine

Sawyer

What about Central Park? Next to a cute fountain or some shit

I let the thought sink in. Kissing Sawyer in Central Park. It would be April, so it would likely be sunny but not hot, the unbearable swamp that New York becomes in summer still months away. We could go to the Bethesda Fountain, see if we could hurtle coins all the way up onto the second level like I used to do with my parents when we first moved to the East Coast.

Dixie

Central Park I can do

Sawyer

Alright then

Sawyer

This spring break I will kiss you in Central Park

Dixie

Cool I’ll be there

Sawyer

Cool it’s a date

At first, I worried he’d just been drunk, that he wouldn’t even remember our conversation in the morning, or worse, that he’d read his texts and feel mortified. But when I woke up later that day, he’d sent me a link to a Halloween costume that was all fake tattooed muscles and simply titled “buff guy.”

Sawyer

Would you still be into it if I was wearing this when I kissed you? I feel like it sets the right ~vibe~

We talked like that for the next five months, planning every minute of our date in Central Park down to where we’d have lunch (my favorite waffle cart), what we’d do after (wander around the Natural History Museum), and how we’d explain it all to Sawyer’s teacher (he fell into a portal to another dimension and had gotten lost in the version of reality where we’re all Legos). There would possibly be more kissing. A lot more.

And I was into it. I swear to God, I was into it. The whole idea. Everything. Maybe too into it. Because that day when I crossed through Strawberry Fields toward the terrace and saw Sawyer sitting there with a cup of bubble tea in each hand, my whole world went sideways. Here was this boy that I’d spent the last four years thinking about, the last five months of which had been almost nonstop, sitting in this place I’d been to a thousand times. Excitement simmered in me, but underneath it was something else—something that, I realized as I hovered on the edge of the terrace, Sawyer’s back turned away from me just far enough that he couldn’t see me yet, felt a lot like fear. Up until that point, I hadn’t considered just what it would be like to see him there, merging those two halves of my life into one. All I’d thought about was what it would be like to be with him. But now that he was there, in front of me, with the tree line behind him and the building tops of the skyline looming over my back, it suddenly hit me, how once he saw me here, I wouldn’t be able to keep my life in New York from him. He would become part of my life in New York.

Nausea swirled in my stomach then, so sharp and overwhelming I thought I was going to be sick. It was mixed with anger, too—how could I not have thought about this sooner? I’d been too preoccupied with what it would feel like to have Sawyer’s hands on my face, in my hair, his mouth on mine. I knew him seeing my life in New York would have to happen eventually, especially when he moved here, but that day? Did it have to happen that day? I realized with sudden, cold, overwhelming horror that I wasn’t ready for it, for Sawyer to see everything, for me to be anything other than the Dixie he wanted to kiss. And I knew that once he saw me standing there, he would. Everything would be different, out of my control. There would be no more me in Cielo Springs—the one part of my life that was actually mine.

So, as every one of my atoms pulled me toward him, as though we were magnets slowly inching back together, I did the one thing my body begged me not to do: I turned around and left.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I don’t care if he’s changed his name!! Yes, you must bear the Mulligan family name to get a Rewind, but you also must be a direct blood descendant of Francis Mulligan.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY”

The next day at the Trip, Sawyer and I avoid each other in a carefully choreographed dance, painting opposite walls of the lobby, him eating lunch on the sidewalk out front while I cram more boxes of Cookie Dough Bites onto the Tower of Doom in PR One. When Kate sends me home early to start preparing for summer movie night, I’m so relieved I could cry. Last night after our argument, I didn’t wait until Sawyer had finished sewing my pants before I left. I walked all the way down Cielo Avenue and up toward Kate’s house in his red shorts, alternating between crying and wanting to rush back to his house. By the time I fell asleep, I still hadn’t heard from him, a fact about which I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. It was my own fault for asking about Claire, a conversation I clearly knew wouldn’t end well, considering I hadn’t brought her up to him sooner. And it did exactly what I suspected it would—it only made me feel worse.

Summer movie night doesn’t usually happen until the end of summer, but Kate makes the case that we’ve all been working so hard these past two days, she wants to do something nice for us, and for once I don’t argue in favor of tradition. All I want is to get out of the Trip, away from Sawyer’s deliberate attempts at not meeting my eyes, at the feeling of hurt I get when I move within ten feet of him and he leaves, just as fast.

The summer movie night box is stuffed with the mini projector and a single cut-up sheet we use as a screen. Scraping the wrought-iron table and chairs around the concrete patio, I assemble everything where it usually goes: the projector propped up on the table, the bench directly behind it and two single chairs on either side. It’s at this point where my phone rings.

MOM. It’s the fourth time she’s called today.

“Oh, look,” she says flatly to my hurried hello. “She can answer a phone.”

I fall into one of the chairs, the warm iron rigid against my back. There’s never a good time to talk to my mom while I’m in Cielo Springs, but at least in this moment, I can be sure Sawyer or Kate won’t walk in. That, and I’m pretty sure I can’t get any lower than I feel right now.

“Why do you keep calling me?” I say.

“Gee,” she says back. “You mean, other than the fact that you’re my teenage daughter who traveled by herself cross-country, and I’d like to make sure you’re alive?”

Though we’re by no means besties, my mom and I are much closer than me and my dad, probably due to the fact that she’s actually around most days of the year. After her early retirement a couple years ago, she and I still have dinner together most nights; we watch reruns of The Office over bowls of mud pie ice cream. But after the fight, I’m not ready to play nice, not after everything my dad said. After everything my mom didn’t say.

“I’ve been doing this every summer for the last four years,” I say, the bark in my voice plain. “I’m fine.”

“Still nice to know,” my mom says.

Though I know Kate’s house is empty, I glance around the backyard. Combining New York and my mom while in Cielo Springs always feels wrong. I need to get her off the phone, cram her back into the box in my brain where I hide all the other New York stuff while I’m here.

“If this is about the Rewind,” I start, the possibility of my mom having spoken to my grandma suddenly, startlingly, entering my head.

“What?” my mom cuts in. “How do you know about that?”

I frown. “The Rewind?” I say. “Grandma said—”

“You’ve talked to Grandma?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Bunny and I went to LA.”

“Oh.” The word comes out of my mother as an exclamation, her surprise palpable. “I had this whole speech prepared and then, just—you already know. This is kind of anticlimactic.”

“About the Rewind?” I say. “You’ve only been talking about it my entire…” My words trail off as I squint into the brightness of the sky. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“My Rewind,” she says. “Grandma approved my application.”

Her application?

“Your what?” I say.

Though my mom has talked to me about the Rewind my whole life, the idea of her using it has never actually occurred to me. Because, what would she even need it for? Did our housekeeper spill wine on the five-thousand-dollar couch in our living room? Was one of my dad’s business partners secretly a psycho clown killer and my parents had to take back their connections with him before everything came out and shit hit the proverbial fan? And what will that mean for my moment? Does using two Rewinds around the same time mean they could counteract each other? Would my grandma let that happen? Regardless, mine was approved a few days ago, so I should have precedence, right?

“These last few days,” my mom says. “Everything just feels like such a mess.”

At this, I sit up straight, my breath suddenly going still. What if something serious actually has happened? What if something is really wrong?

“What’s wrong?” I say suddenly. “Are you okay? Is Dad okay?”

Guilt prickles along the back of my arms. What if one of them is dying? Things between the three of us haven’t been right in a long time, but they’re still my parents. We used to spend time together without it involving charity galas or cocktail parties for my dad’s colleagues. And that was almost the problem—the fact that I knew there was an alternative to what we have now. That I’d had it before, then lost it.

“Bodily speaking, yes,” my mom says, reading my mind. “Everything else will be okay too. Have you talked to Dad at all, since you’ve been out there?”

“He’d have to call in order for us to talk,” I say, sarcasm practically dripping from my mouth.

Plus, she would know if my dad and I had talked; in spite of the fact that he’s away practically nine months of any given year, the two of them are still attached at the hip, speaking at least four times a day, flying the seven hours to meet halfway in Iceland when my dad has business in Europe just to share an expensive hot dog in the airport.

My mother sighs. “He’s scared, sweetheart,” she says. “He feels terrible about everything that’s happened and I know he wants to talk about it. Maybe you could call—”

“Why should I have to call?” I say, wishing I didn’t sound so defensive. Because being defensive means you actually care. “He’s the one who lied to us.”

“He didn’t lie,” my mom says. “He thought he was just—”

As usual, my mom’s attempt at peacekeeping sparks a flash of annoyance in me. Just once, could she not act like our family therapist, trying to keep the delicate scales between me and my dad tipped exactly even? Is it that impossible for her to take a side? But then, that thought isn’t exactly comforting either. Because, a cruel little voice in the back of my head whispers, if she did take a side, how likely would it be that that side is mine?

“Why can’t you just admit it?” I say.

Her face in my Movie was proof. She was upset too.

“What do you want me to say, Dixie?” she says. “If you want me to sit here and talk shit about your father to you, you’re gonna be waiting a long time. That’s not how families are supposed to work, hon. We talk to each other, not about each other.”

“He’d have to hang around long enough for me to talk to him,” I grumble.

“I know you’re upset,” my mom says. “I get it. And I’m trying to fix things. I just need you to give him a chance, okay? He’s still your dad.”

Just as quickly as the annoyance had surfaced inside me, guilt follows closely behind. Because I know my mom would take my side if I needed it. She and I have been the team since my dad basically married his job; but where I let that hurt fester into anger, my mom translated it into something more positive, something like support.

“Is he still in New York?” I say.

My mother takes my question and its lack of an overt insult as acquiescence. I can practically feel her perk up through the phone line.

“For now,” she says. “Harvey’s been at the house a lot, too. He asks about you. He mentioned he invited you to his graduation party, which I thought sounded kind of—”

“Oh god,” I groan. “I am not going to Harvey’s party.”

Though she’s never said it out loud, I know my mom would love nothing more than for me and Harvey to hang out. For me to hang out with anyone.

“What?” my mother says, feigning surprise. “He’s a nice boy!”

“Then you hang out with him.”

My mom makes a sound as though she’s considering this. “Maybe I will,” she says after a few seconds. “Dad might have something to say about that though.”

I smirk against my will, a laugh that’s all air escaping through my nose. “Probably.”

She gives me an update on the master bathroom renovation she’s been working on for the last four months, informs me that our neighbors to the right have moved out to a house in the south of France. I tell her a little about summer movie night, the renovations here, the reopening. Nothing about my Rewind or Sawyer. We don’t mention my dad again either, until the very end.

“Well,” my mom says, “I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you.” She clears her throat, her voice hesitant. “We miss you a lot. Dad especially.”

“Did he actually say that?”

She sighs again. “Dixie, he’s been staying up late researching glass-bottom boats and turtle scuba-diving tours in the Galapagos,” she says. I tilt my head down into my chest. That night before I left for Cielo Springs, my dad surprised us by suggesting a family vacation before I started NYU in the fall. I’d said I wanted to go to the Galapagos. That was before the conversation devolved into the worst, most vicious argument of my life. “Every time I walk into his office at one in the morning to get him to come to bed, he looks at me with this guilty expression, pictures of all these giant turtles on his computer, like I’ve caught him having an affair. I’d almost prefer if he were; it would be a lot less weird.”

This image of my dad looking at pictures of turtles on my behalf is cute. I want to believe that he misses me. Genuinely, I do. My life would be so much easier if I did. But how can you believe someone you don’t actually know anymore?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Movie was introduced as part of the Rewind process to literally show Rewinders what they could expect from their new reality. In many ways, with our family’s historic involvement in the film industry, “movie” has become synonymous with “Mulligan.”

—EXCERPT FROM “YOUR MOVIE AND YOU” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The pillar candles lining the patio’s perimeter are all no more than six inches tall. On their own, they don’t give off much light, but together, each candle glowing with a tiny orange flame, they wash the backyard in a surprisingly bright haze. Combined with the white Christmas lights I wrapped around the cacti this morning, it might be too bright to actually see the movie, but I decide I’ll deal with that later.

Kate scrabbles around the outside table behind me, distributing burgers and fries she picked up on the way home, along with paper plates and cutlery, while Bunny drags over an extra patio chair and deposits it behind the projector.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” my cousin says when he catches Kate, who’s still wearing the same jean shorts and tie-dye T-shirt she’s been wearing to paint the Trip all day.

“Give me a break, will you?” she says to him. “I don’t have any flannel, mostly because we live in, um, let me check”—she throws an arm out toward one of the cacti in the backyard— “oh, that’s right! We live in the desert.”

Bunny rolls his eyes as I chuckle. “I have an extra,” I say, jogging back into the house.

All my clothes are carefully filed away in the chest by the fax machine. In the bottom drawer is the only other flannel shirt I brought besides the oversized red-and-black one I’m wearing; it’s light gray and has a hole in the sleeve, but Kate will deal. We always have dress codes for our summer movie nights that are themed around the film. For tonight, we all agreed to wear flannel after Stella’s trademark outfit, which, at the time, resulted in a minor underground craze for flannel just as the ’90s were ending and everyone was trying to claw their way out of the grunge pit. I went for pale jean shorts that are swallowed by my giant flannel shirt, which I found in the men’s section of the Salvation Army. My hair is up in a bun, my lips a deep maroon, and my eyeliner flicked in a delicate cat eye that took me no less than a half hour to perfect and even still, one side is almost definitely longer than the other.

As I tuck the shirt for Kate under my arm, my gaze snags on the torn manila envelope sitting on the desk, a collection of glossy, brightly colored papers on top. It’s my NYU orientation pack, arrived today while I was at the Trip. A Post-it is stuck to the front, a quick note scrawled across in neat handwriting:

HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A GOOD TIME!—HARVEY

I think back to what my mom said, about Harvey asking about me, and a flicker of shame needles at the back of my neck. Maybe he was being genuine when he told me he didn’t have many other friends. Quiet or not, he’s only ever been nice to me. But then at the same time, I can’t help but wonder if he’s nice to me because that’s how he is, or if he’s just trying to get closer to my dad. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened to me.

A knock sounds from the other side of my door, and when I crack it open, Sawyer is standing there in an orange-and-brown flannel shirt with a white tee underneath.

“Hey,” he says at the sight of me. “Can we talk for a second?”

I press my lips together. “Sure.”

The sound of Kate chattering in the backyard filters in as I open the door to let him through. But it’s not Bunny’s voice that answers my aunt, the tone far too chirpy.

“Who’s out there?” I ask.

“Claire,” Sawyer says. Then adds quickly, “Kate invited her, remember?”

I try to keep my face neutral as I shut the door behind him. Something in me vaguely recalls snippets of conversation from the night Claire came over, when I first got to Cielo Springs. I’d tuned most of it out, but now that Sawyer mentions it, I remember Kate saying this would be Claire’s first-ever summer movie night.

As Sawyer perches at the foot of my bed, hands wedged between his knees, I sidestep toward the desk, crumpling up the note from Harvey in my fist and shoving it deep into my shorts pocket before Sawyer can see. When he looks up at me, I gesture to the red bundle folded on top of the fax machine.

“Your shorts are here,” I say. “I know you were really worried about getting them back.”

“I should’ve told you about Claire,” he blurts suddenly. “I was going to, before we went into Kate’s when you first got—”

I drop down on the bed beside him and twist so one leg is tucked underneath me. “I know,” I say. “I shouldn’t have been so weird about it. Her, I mean.”

“No, it’s—” Sawyer runs a hand through his hair and yanks hard on his curls so they straighten out under the pull of his fingers. “I get it. I just—after everything in New York, I was really bummed, and Claire, she … she’s actually a lot cooler than we—”

“No, no,” I rush, cutting him off. I cannot hear any more details about Claire, not if I want to stay conscious. “You don’t owe me an explanation. And I’m sorry for making it seem like you did. I’m the one who made things how they are.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Sawyer says. “Seriously. I know I kind of went off on you last night, but I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry. You’re allowed to feel how you feel. Or don’t feel.” He flashes me a tight smile. “It was just the not talking to me about it part that kind of sucked.”

I let out a long breath through my nose. “You’re right,” I say again. “I’m really sorry for that and for last night. For all the things. I should’ve told you I wasn’t coming to Central Park. I got in my head, and then I—”

“I know,” he says. “But, like, I didn’t say anything about it before because it happened and it’s done and I really am over it. I just want to hang out this summer and have everything be cool for when we go to NYU.”

My hands clench into fists in my lap, but I wedge them under my legs so Sawyer can’t see. I really am over it.

“Me too,” I say.

Sawyer reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out what looks like a wad of tissues. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “I meant to give this to you last night, but I got kind of distracted with all the … you know, screaming.”

It’s not tissues, I realize as I take it from him. It’s tissue paper. About enough to fill my fist. Images from my Movie immediately come into focus, the scene on my bed as Sawyer gave me the little version of us kissing. My heartbeat slows as I peel the layers of tissue back, the sounds from the backyard fading until the only thing I can hear is my own breathing, loud and fuzzy in my ears. Did Sawyer keep it as the two of us?

I lift the last layer of tissue, revealing a small plastic bag. I have to squint down to see what’s inside, biting back my frown. It’s not the figures of me and Sawyer, but a teeny-tiny pair of sunglasses.

“They’re so little Dixie can watch The Middle in three-D,” I can hear Sawyer saying, but his voice sounds far away, as though we’re speaking through tin cans connected by string. “I mean, this is assuming Charlie Roman continues with his streak of god-awful decisions and makes a three-D version of The Middle.”

I clear my throat. “It’s perfect,” I say.

Sawyer doesn’t seem to notice my disappointment, the way my smile doesn’t reach my eyes. A pit of defeat opens up in my stomach, wide and jagged around the edges. He has to have thrown out the figurine of us in Central Park. And can I blame him? But the fact that he even brought the little sunglasses—anything—after last night, without anything in between, still means something.

“You brought me this even after—” I start to say, but stop myself. Neither of us needs the reminder of our fight. “How’d you know we’d make up tonight?”

“Because,” Sawyer says matter-of-factly. “You’re my best friend.”

“Okay, we’re just about ready,” Kate says as Sawyer and I return to the backyard. She rubs her palms together. “I need to make the milkshakes and then we’re good to go.”

She disappears back into the house, leaving the four of us standing there as the last fragments of daytime dip below the Joshua tree at the yard’s back wall. The shift in the air is so palpable, there’s practically a blinking sign above me, Bunny, and Sawyer that says UNCOMFORTABLE. Only Claire doesn’t rock from foot to foot nervously as she reaches into the bowl of tortilla chips on the wrought-iron table.

“How’s everything going with the Trip?” she says as she crunches down on a chip. She’s wearing a short-sleeved black shirt tucked into a tight, bright red plaid skirt. “Do you think you’ll get it all done for Friday? I told Mr. Roberts I can’t babysit so I can be at the reopening.”

This last part comes out as a squeal. Perfect.

“We finished the painting today, so the flooring and wallpaper are going in tomorrow,” Sawyer says. From somewhere in the kitchen, a blender whirs to life. “Then Dixie’s thrifting for the café furniture tomorrow, so we have to set that up.”

“What café?” Claire asks.

“The café that’s going in the Trip’s lobby,” Sawyer says. “Kate got a fancy coffee machine so people can get drinks and hang out at the Trip. It gives them a reason to spend money with us even if they don’t like any of the movies that’re playing.”

“Oh my god, that’s such a good idea,” Claire says. “And you’re thrifting for all the furniture?”

I nod. Like any dust-covered desert town, Cielo Springs is lined with antiques stores, each crammed from floor to ceiling with old cowboy memorabilia, tin milk jugs, and the occasional sofa not covered in stains whose origins are completely unidentifiable. For some reason, Kate thought it would be a good idea for me to be the one to go antiquing for the Trip’s new café furniture. When I asked why Sawyer and Bunny didn’t get stuck with having to do it, they both mysteriously disappeared, leaving Kate to explain that she trusted my judgment and, most importantly, trusted me to not come home with furniture that was exclusively inflatable, which was something Bunny would almost certainly do.

“Can I help?” Claire says. “Thrifting is basically my superpower. Me and my mom go to Palm Springs all the time just to go to rich people’s garage sales.”

Sawyer shoots me a look that’s so brief, I almost miss it. “Don’t you have to get ready for the party?” he says to her.

“I have to hang a disco ball and make a playlist,” she says, pulling a face at him. “I think I can make time.”

The sarcasm in her voice makes me bark a startled laugh. I’ve never heard anything other than cherry-flavored sincerity from Perfect Claire.

This time when Sawyer and I meet eyes, I don’t miss it. He bites his lip and lifts his eyebrows in question. Everything in me wants to say no to Claire. What if she tries to be my friend, and in doing so confides in me about Sawyer’s and her thing? Or worse, their sex life? But short of telling her I straight-up don’t want to hang out, I can’t think of anything else to say that would mean she couldn’t come.

“Okay,” I say slowly, the word leaking out of my mouth like air from a balloon.

Claire claps her hands. “I can drive us,” she exclaims.

And, she’s back.

“Order up.” Kate returns with five chocolate milkshakes balanced on a plastic tray, each glass topped with a mountain of whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. She distributes them one by one before dropping the tray somewhere under the table and slipping the straw from her milkshake between her teeth.

“Is all this going to make sense once I watch the movie?” Claire says as she lifts her milkshake and sweeps her other arm out toward the rest of the patio.

“Yes,” Kate says. “We like to take a holistic approach when it comes to summer movie night. The dress code, the food, the music—it’s all on brand with the film.”

“The burgers and fries are supposed to be from Sunshine Burger.” Sawyer gestures to the food. “And we’re all dressed like Stella.”

“What about the music?” Claire points one finger up toward the darkened sky, as though the guitar riff currently drifting overhead is coming from an actual sound system and not the brick-sized speaker Bunny bought online four years ago. “Is this from the movie?”

“Oh,” Kate says, her voice mocking. “You mean you don’t recognize this incredibly obscure soundtrack that nobody listens to except these two snobs?” Her eyes flick between me and Sawyer.

“It’s not our fault if you aren’t familiar with one of the greatest film soundtracks of all time,” Sawyer says. “Charlie Roman might be an asshole, but he had good music taste. If saying that makes me a snob, then so be it.”

“Says the only boy I know who loves Justin Bieber more than my nine-year-old cousin,” Claire says. “And Casey watches YouTube videos of him to fall asleep.”

The sides of my milkshake glass are so slick, I almost drop it. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”

Claire turns to me, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my god, did you guys not know this?” she says. “Sawyer has a playlist on his phone called ‘Belieb It or Not.’”

Sawyer and I meet eyes, my jaw dropped. Sawyer. Likes Justin Bieber?

“Are we talking only hits here, or deep tracks?” Bunny asks.

“Both, obviously,” Sawyer says. “The Biebs has range.”

“Did you just say the Biebs?” I blink up at him, a look of hurt horror on my face. “Everything I know about you is a lie.”

Claire cackles.

“Why are you blowing up my spot?” Sawyer says, turning on her. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Do I have any time to say sorry?” Claire sings, and I can tell from the tune that it’s supposed to be that Justin Bieber song, the one with the weirdly catchy trumpet part.

Sawyer makes a sound of frustration. “Those aren’t even the words,” he says, throwing his hands up.

Claire loops her arms through Sawyer’s and presses her chest to his, murmuring something to him I can’t hear. As I watch them speak, their faces only inches apart, my skin itches with embarrassment. The moment feels too intimate, my presence completely wrong. It feels like watching my parents be romantic—something I still find repulsive, no matter how many times I witness it happen.

Bunny passes me a plate and I try to focus on the food that’s spread out across the table, the tray of freshly hot French fries and burgers, ignoring the pressure behind my eyes. All this will fade, all this will fade.

The five of us assemble our plates—Bunny piling his high with three burgers—and take our seats in front of the screen. Bunny grabs the seat to the right of the projector while Sawyer sits on the bench in his usual spot. Before I can say anything, Claire sits in mine, right next to him. I can feel Sawyer’s eyes on me as I take the single chair to the left of the bench, but I pretend to be preoccupied with rearranging the French fries on my plate so that they form a complete ring around my burger.

Bunny left the projector on, so a large, illuminated rectangle lights up the sheet I’ve rigged up on the long patio wall. Kate sits in the chair directly behind it and presses Play on the connected laptop, filling the backyard with the sounds of clattering silverware. The screen is black at first, then broken by the title sequence as the clamor of a restaurant hums loudly behind. When A ROMAN NUMERAL FILM flashes across the screen, Sawyer boos. Then, without warning, the blackness cuts sharply to snapshots from the restaurant, a waitress’s face as she writes an order, the spout of a bottle tipping wine into a glass, the chefs sliding plates through the serving hatch. As the stream of images continues, a conversation carries over the din. Though the camera doesn’t yet find the couple, it’s obvious they’re in the restaurant having dinner.

STELLA

When?

SAM

Two months ago.

STELLA

How many times?

SAM

Two, maybe three.

STELLA

Which one is it?

SAM

Three.

STELLA

Where?

SAM

Stell, I don’t think—

STELLA

Where?

SAM

Her apartment.

We finally see the couple staring across the table at each other. Mich Roman as Stella in a plain black dress and her pink pixie cut swept back from her face with a bobby pin. Sam, in a blue button-down shirt, five-o’clock shadow smeared across his cheeks and the top of his neck. They both look exhausted, sad, defeated. At a standstill.

The scene cuts to them in the car, Sam driving. They’re both silent as the car snakes down a windy road through a narrow canyon, rock walls towering high on either side. A quiet guitar song lulls softly from the radio, punctuating the tension in the car.

STELLA

You need to be out by tomorrow morning.

SAM

Fine.

Out of nowhere, something snaps. The viewpoint switches to behind Stella and Sam, showing a deer that’s standing in the middle of the road and drenched in headlights. It appears from around the corner and so Sam doesn’t have time to brake. He swerves, there’s a crash. Then blackness.

At the sudden flash of headlights, Claire actually screams. I sip my milkshake, which has already gone a little warm and thin.

From here, the tempo slows slightly. It’s daytime. Stella and Sam are back on the road, they come across a Sunshine Burger and the farmhouse. When they park and split off to investigate, I tuck my legs underneath me in anticipation, milkshake cradled close to my chest. Sam walks into Sunshine Burger, the door dinging above his head. The restaurant is empty: no customers seated around the red leather booths, nobody behind the counter. Everything is silent. As he walks toward the cash register, he calls out, but nobody answers. He leans over the counter, checks under tables, but he’s completely alone. Noticing a door at the back of the restaurant likely leading to the kitchen, Sam walks toward it and, without knocking, pulls it open wide and walks through. But the moment he does, he’s emptied out into the front of the restaurant again, right where he started. He looks confused. But thinking he must be in some weird, identical back room, he calls out again, walking toward the back door once more. When he goes through it again, he’s right back where he started, at the front of the restaurant. He repeats this over and over again, at first unsure what’s going on and then in the end, to make sure it is what’s going on.

According to Empire magazine, Charlie Roman made Kyle Kramer—the actor who plays Sam—do this scene over a hundred times so he could have options for Sam’s different reactions every time he emerged through the Sunshine Burger front door. Most of the film’s tiny budget went to the three identical, interconnecting fast-food restaurants Roman had built, so Sam would always have one Sunshine Burger in front of him and one behind no matter where the camera was shooting. It’s masterful. It’s also mine and Sawyer’s favorite part of the whole movie.

As Sam breaks into a jog, the same buzz of adrenaline I always get when I watch The Middle hums in my chest. I glance at Sawyer, but he’s not looking at me. He and Claire are on the bench as she curls into his side. Sawyer’s mouth is mere centimeters from her ear as he murmurs something to her and she smiles. Then, she turns around and kisses him on the cheek before cuddling closer under his arm. That same feeling of wrongness returns, so overwhelming it sucks all the air out of my lungs, like I’m not supposed to be here, like I’ve walked in on them or something. But no matter how loud the sirens in my head wail, I can’t look away.

I can’t help but notice how comfortable they look, with Sawyer’s arm draped over the back of the bench, Claire’s head on his chest. How relaxed. How happy.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

That’s because your Movie only shows YOUR new reality and how it affects YOU. If each Movie showed reality as a whole, it’d be longer than all the Lord of the Rings movies put together!

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “YOUR MOVIE AND YOU”

I know sleep is going to be impossible from the moment I shut my eyes later that night and the first image of Sawyer and Claire appears. His arm around her, their faces both awash in the blue glow of the screen.

I don’t know what I expected. I know they hang out; I’ve seen them kiss, they text. This whole thing with Claire—I’d been able to convince myself they were just hooking up in spite of the fact that Claire sometimes took it farther into casual PDA territory. But now it’s becoming clear that whatever they have goes beyond the physical stuff, which weirdly makes it worse. She knows things about him, things not even I do. Justin Bieber? Even if Sawyer had told me he liked Justin Bieber, I probably wouldn’t have believed him.

The worst part of all was how content they looked together. As though not only had Sawyer moved on, but it was because he wanted to. He hadn’t needed any pushing from me. And like, duh. Sawyer himself said he was over the stuff with us. He was hooking up with Claire. All signs pointed to the fact that he was doing it by his own free will. Because he likes her. And now here I am, threatening to erase it all. Not even threatening—actively taking steps to erase it. Him moving on. His happiness. Being with someone that doesn’t screw things up because they’re selfish and scared. At least before, I could say I didn’t know that by giving myself the opportunity to tell Sawyer how I feel, I was robbing him of anything meaningful. But now? Now I know what I’d be doing. What right do I have to take that happiness away from him? From either of them? What kind of friend would that make me?

Giving up on trying to sleep, I drag myself to my feet. At the sight of the kitchen light on at the end of the hall, I frown. As soon as the movie credits went up earlier tonight, Bunny was out the door and on his way to the skate park. In all my tossing and turning, I hadn’t heard him come back yet. But when I get to the kitchen, it’s not Bunny at the table, papers scattered amid an open tub of chocolate ice cream with a single spoon sticking out of it. It’s Kate.

“What’re you doing up?” she says at the sight of me in my pajama shorts and oversized Captain America T-shirt Sawyer bought for me ironically two Christmases ago. “I haven’t been sighing that loudly, have I?”

“No louder than normal,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep.” I nod my chin at the chair nearest my bare legs. “Can I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

As I settle in, Kate stands and retrieves a second spoon, which she deposits on the table in front of me. I dig into the ice cream and lean back in my chair, my teeth scraping across the scoop until my whole mouth stings from the cold.

“Why’re you up?” I ask.

Kate sighs, and admittedly, it’s pretty loud. “Oh, you know, the usual. Growing despair, panicked nightmares, unresolved depression. Take your pick.”

The piles of papers dispersed around her are so thick, I can barely see the table’s wooden surface underneath. It’s clear from the big, imposing logos in the top right corners—BORREGO WATER, CITY OF CIELO SPRINGS, CSGE—that they’re bills. I think of Kate’s words from a few days ago, the look of resignation on her face when she admitted the Trip wouldn’t survive much longer unless it opened. It’s too much.

“How’re you feeling about the reopening?” I say.

Kate gives me a sad smile. “Do you want the honest answer, or the fluffy one?”

I narrow my eyes at her and she laughs.

“I’m scared shitless,” she admits. My face must give away some kind of worry, because she’s quick to assert: “Not because I think you guys are doing a bad job. I think you’re all incredible, and that’s kind of the problem.” Her eyes dart around the papers, at the long lists of numbers I’m too afraid to read. “What if you guys are all working your asses off and the Trip still fails?”

“But it’s not going to,” I say, and I believe it. “You kept it alive all through Covid, so you can do it this time too.”

“That’s the thing,” she says. “We made it through Covid, so how could I let this happen again? I should’ve known better. I should’ve been trying to protect it. What idiot doesn’t get property insurance? Sometimes I’m pretty sure I can actually hear your uncle Rob turning in his grave.”

“Have you talked to Mom?”

Kate’s gaze slides over to meet mine. Those five little words, and she knows exactly what I’m asking.

“Me and your mom—things got complicated when you guys moved, as you know. Your parents—they’re operating in the stratosphere, money-wise, and here I am just trying to scrape by with my silly little movie theater in the middle of nowhere.”

“All the more reason to get their help,” I say. “You know they have the money.”

Kate shifts in her chair, discomfort heavy on her face. We never talk about my parents like this, their money.

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t feel right for me to barge in with my problems after we’ve drifted so far apart,” she says. “Plus, I’m not completely destitute yet. I’d like to wait until at least the foreclosure signs are imminent before I go begging your parents for cash.”

The conversation I had with my mom earlier comes back to me, even though her situation and Kate’s are in no way the same. My aunt made a bad choice not to protect herself against something none of us thought would happen, whereas in all likelihood, my parents are probably just trying not to lose money they already have too much of.

“Do you ever wish you’d saved your,” I say slowly, “you know.”

It feels too weird saying “Rewind” around my aunt.

Kate lets out a startled laugh. “Good god, no,” she says. “I learned the hard way that Rewinds don’t fix things, they usually just make them worse.”

“Even if it meant you could save the Trip?”

“Even then. And you should’ve seen it, Dix.” Her face falls as she zeros in on one of the papers on the table. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s reliving the image of the Trip after the fire, or because she can’t bear to meet my eyes. “It was such a disaster, I wasn’t sure we could fix it. It felt like everything Rob and I had worked so hard for was just gone.”

“Then why not take it back, if you had the chance?”

Kate smiles sadly. “I know it sounds easy, but using your Rewind is a lot more complicated than hitting a button,” she says. Tell me about it, I don’t say. “I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened with mine.”

I nod. “A little bit.”

Kate and my uncle Rob first met when they were teenagers, and got married just out of high school. They’d found a house they wanted in Santa Monica, one that was only a couple blocks over from my parents, who’d recently moved in together. But Kate and Rob waited just a second too long, and another family swooped in.

“I wanted that house so badly,” Kate says. “It was perfect. It had this gorgeous little porch and a big backyard. Me and your mom were gonna raise our kids together.” She shakes her head. “It sounds so stupid now. It was just a house. I used this big, time-altering thing so I could buy a goddamn house. I mean, what was wrong with me?”

“You couldn’t know what would happen,” I say gently.

“You can say it, Dixie,” she says. The anger in her voice, though sharp, isn’t directed at me. “I killed a kid.”

Hearing it so bluntly from her mouth makes me blink in surprise. “You didn’t kill anyone,” I say.

“I mean, not with my bare hands,” Kate says. “But that family beat us to that house. They bought it first, fair and square. I was the one that went back and forth about it, because it was out of our budget and I’d have to ask Grandma for more money. But I had to have it. I had to have my way, get my perfect version of reality, and a little boy died.”

From the way my mom told it, it was only days after Kate used her Rewind that the other family had had a gas leak in their house, the one they still lived in because Kate and Rob buying the one in Santa Monica meant they hadn’t found anything else yet. It was that gas leak that had ended up killing their only son.

“Have the memories of the other family faded?” I say. “You wouldn’t even know who they were if you hadn’t missed out on the house to them, which technically now never happened.”

Kate shakes her head. “I won’t let myself forget. I don’t deserve to forget.”

“But you don’t know what might’ve happened even if you hadn’t used your Rewind,” I say. “Something tragic still could’ve taken place.”

“Something tragic did take place, because of the choice I made. That’s the problem with Rewinds.” In the time we’ve been talking, the ice cream has gone watery around the edges, little wells of creamy chocolate pooling in the middle. Kate skims her spoon through the sludge before sliding it into her mouth, her eyes drifting to somewhere beyond my head. “Even things that seem so unrelated to one thing can have such major consequences on another. Things we could never predict. Watching my Movie … all I saw was how happy Rob and I were, unpacking boxes, planting hydrangeas in the front yard.” Her voice cracks. “I didn’t see anything about that family’s pain. And now look at me.” She gestures down at my flannel shirt with her spoon. “I barely lasted six years in my supposed dream house before I couldn’t take it anymore and bolted to the desert. None of it was worth it, on so many levels.”

Silence envelops us both, so heavy I can practically hear the individual drips of ice cream as they slide into the center well. All I saw in my Movie was how happy Sawyer and I were. What if something awful, something I can’t predict now, happens as a result of my Rewind? Even though I’ve known about Kate’s Rewind for as long as I can remember, the possibility only now feels real. Very, very real.

“So, you regret using your Rewind?” I say quietly.

“Pretty much every day.” Kate laughs, but it’s all sadness. “Not because I wished I could use it on something else, although, don’t get me wrong, I wish like hell that little boy was still alive.” She wipes her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I don’t think Rewinds should exist at all, even if it could’ve saved everything I’ve ever loved.”

“But—” I stammer. “Not even Uncle Rob?”

“He wouldn’t have let me use it on him, even if I still had it,” she says. “He never liked the idea of our family getting this opportunity to go back and change the past, especially when it affects everyone else but they don’t get the same courtesy. And I get it. Why should I get this chance and not everyone else? Rob was too stubborn to get his cough checked out before the doctors slapped him with a stage-four cancer sticker and it was too late. This whole thing with the Trip—we’re here because of me, because I chose not to get property insurance. It’s only fair that I should have to deal with the aftermath. This”—she taps her fingers on the table’s surface—“this right here. This is reality. If we just get to take back our mistakes, how are we ever going to learn? It’d be the same thing if I took money from your parents. This is my mess. Nobody else should have to clean it up but me.”

This makes more sense than Kate not wanting to bother my parents with her problems. She feels guilty, responsible for the fire and all the damage. The mess she thinks she herself, she alone, has made.

But what about messes you didn’t mean to make? Messes you would do anything to take back? Messes that screw up the only future that ever made sense, with the only person that makes you feel like you?

“But you’ll lose something you love.”

“Yeah?” Kate says, turning steeled eyes to mine. “And whose fault is that?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Impact Reports only highlight the big alterations as a result of a Rewind. They’re meant to prepare the family for upcoming changes. So no, the fact that your tattoo was misspelled in the new reality was not included.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “REWINDS 101”

Claire is waiting in the front seat of a small, bright green Volkswagen Beetle. When she sees me emerge from Kate’s house, she smiles and waves, her hair in a perfect high ponytail. I, meanwhile, am wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans, my hair in a messy bun and my tired, puffy eyes covered by a pair of dark Ray-Bans.

“Good morning,” Claire says brightly when I slide into the passenger seat. The air-conditioning is on full blast, and yet not a single hair on Claire’s head looks ruffled. She gestures down to the two coffees in the cup holders between us. “I got you an extra-hot latte so it would be, you know, actually hot when I got here.”

Sure enough, Dixie is scrawled in permanent marker on the cup in front. Seeing it, I clench my fists in my lap. It’s another point for Perfect Claire.

“Thanks,” I say.

Claire shrugs. “Thanks for letting me thrift,” she says. “It’s sucked not being able to help put the Trip back together, so it’s nice to get to contribute somehow.”

We veer off Cielo toward the road that runs along the eastern side of town. It’s where the buildings become bigger and farther apart, more warehouses than small boutiques. All being well, I can keep this shopping trip from hell down to just an hour. Forty-five minutes, if I’m not picky. When I woke up this morning, a stack of papers was waiting in the fax machine tray, the headline IMPACT REPORT written across the top in Comic Sans. I’d never actually read one before, my mom always dealing with the Rewind stuff for our family. It felt weird that the first one I’d read would be my own. Even seeing the headline gave me such a spike in adrenaline that I suddenly felt dizzy. Before I could read any more, I shoved it under my bed along with my NYU orientation stuff, resolving to deal with it later today. But as Claire and I drive farther and farther away from Kate’s house, regret at not having read it, just getting it over with, slowly spills into my veins.

I spent a long time last night thinking about what Kate said, about how it’s our responsibility to clean up our own messes. And I’ve decided I’m still going to use my Rewind. Because fixing my mess—that’s what I’m doing. I saw how happy Sawyer was in my Movie, how unhappy I made him by standing him up. He’s the one who said it had wrecked him. And yeah, he’s okay now, but he’ll be okay after my Rewind too. Tomorrow is the last full day before my Rewind is enacted, and after that, he won’t have ever had to feel the pain of me not showing up. I can take it all away.

Claire hums along to a song on the radio while I grab my phone and pull up the list Kate and I drafted this morning of furniture the Trip needs.

“Is that the treasure list?” Claire says, noticing my cell. When I look up at her, she shrugs. “That’s what me and my mom call antiquing: treasure hunting.” She shakes her head. “Never mind. What’s on it?”

I list out the items for her one by one: at least six sets of tables and chairs (two chairs minimum per table, and none of the sets need to match each other, or even themselves), two comfy armchairs, two reasonably sized coffee tables, and ideally one big, super-cozy couch. I also show her the pictures I’ve taken so far of the Trip’s new interior, the deep blue walls and a sample of the orange wallpaper Kate’s picked for the gallery.

As I’m reading through the list again, my phone screen goes black, signaling an incoming call. I frown down at the name that appears on my screen: HARVEY. How did his name get in my phone? I don’t remember adding it after he texted me, but maybe my phone auto-programmed it. But why is Harvey calling me? In all the summers I’ve been coming here, this is the most contact I’ve had with anyone in New York. Usually everyone just leaves me alone, out of sight, out of mind.

I decline the call as Claire pulls into a huge parking lot. Old Hill Thrift is similar to the AV Alley in that it looks like a massive warehouse from the outside, all corroded metal walls and giant sliding doors open wide. Mismatched chairs are lined up on the sidewalk outside; I can already see a couple that’d work for the new café. Inside, the space is staggeringly huge; it looks like it could’ve been a factory, the floors made of buffed concrete. The doors on each wall are swung open to create a cross breeze that wafts gently over what looks like miles and miles of furniture. There are couches and armchairs, cabinets, dining tables, bookshelves, and hundreds of dining chairs, including an entire section of inflatable ones.

Claire immediately beelines to the couch section, but I take my time, wandering down one of the aisles and dragging my hand along the smooth surface of a nightstand, the shiny sheen of a leather recliner. While Sawyer has always been adamant that directing is his film calling, I’ve always been more drawn to even deeper behind the scenes, especially set design and props. There’s something about finding the exact right piece to make a scene work, or feel whole, like the orange couch in Friends, or the leg lamp from A Christmas Story, that makes my fingers itch with excitement. I love the hunt, finding the perfect color or texture.

“Dixie, come here!” Claire calls from the opposite end of the store. “I’ve found the perfect couch. Literally, you’re gonna die.”

I weave my way through a network of office chairs and find Claire sprawled out across a chestnut-brown leather sofa. It’s an old-style one, like you’d expect to see in a British spy’s office. It’s long, with plenty of room for three or maybe even four people, with thick arms that roll outward and remind me of cresting waves. The back is pockmarked with little buttons so it looks like dough that’s been poked with a toothpick.

“Seriously, is this not perfect?” Claire says. She makes room for me as I slump into the couch, the leather soft with age. “Just think how good it’ll look up against the wallpaper. Plus, it’s on sale.” She flips the handwritten price tag that’s looped around one of the arms. A big red slash is through the price, with one that’s two hundred dollars less written underneath.

I hate to admit it, but she’s right. Next to the wacky orange-and-pink wallpaper pattern Kate has selected for the lobby, it’ll be perfect. It’s missing a button at the back and there are a few threads hanging off the cushions, but otherwise it’s in pretty good condition. And most importantly, it’s in our budget.

“I think this is the one,” I say, patting the slightly crackled leather underneath me. “We just need to have them put it on hold and Kate’ll come pay for it later today.”

“I’ll go talk to the manager.”

Claire shoots to her feet, waving frantically at a man standing behind the counter along the back wall.

I stretch my arms out so they rest on the back of the couch. Maybe we really can keep this trip brief, if Claire keeps sniffing out good furniture at a rapid-fire pace like a well-trained police dog. As she talks to the manager and gestures over to me, my phone starts vibrating again. Harvey’s name is back on my screen. I’m almost tempted to answer, if only to figure out why in the hell he would need to call me twice in fifteen minutes, but I have a feeling this store has the acoustics of the Sydney Opera House, and Claire would hear me. Instead, I decline his call again and put my phone on airplane mode, figuring that if Sawyer or Kate need to reach me, they can just call Claire.

When Claire comes to tell me the sofa is as good as ours, I’ve migrated over to what the laminated sign duct-taped to a warehouse wall calls the DÉCOR, ACCESSORIES, ETC. section. This means it mostly consists of tall bookshelves overflowing with porcelain statues, cowboy hats, various wigs, and a weirdly diverse selection of lava lamps. I know I’m technically in a hurry to get out of here, but something in me can’t resist a bookshelf full of somebody else’s random shit.

“I need this for the party, right?”

Claire is holding up a purple lava lamp with red, shapeless globs floating inside. Somehow in the ten seconds that’ve passed between her getting over here and speaking to me, she’s put on a curly black wig and a pink velvet cowboy hat. The shock of it makes me splutter a laugh.

“It’ll go with the disco ball,” I say, remembering her words from last night.

“God,” Claire says as she sets the lava lamp back down. “I broke that thing, like, instantly this morning, along with a huge chunk of the ceiling. Do you know anyone that can fix drywall before tomorrow?” When I grimace, she nods ruefully. “Yep. Thought so. If I can’t even keep my house in one piece before the party, my parents are definitely gonna find out about it afterward.”

“They don’t know you’re having it?”

Claire dips behind another lava lamp, this one with lavender blobs drifting lazily through the blue liquid. “I mean, they know I’m having a couple friends over. Do they know one of them is bringing vodka?” She mimes shrugging. “Not exactly.”

Somehow the idea of Claire having an illicit party is like imagining the Easter bunny robbing a bank.

As though she can read my thoughts, she adds, “I know it’s dishonest but, like, I feel like I’m entitled to one poor choice, right? I sat through twelve years of piano lessons and I freaking hate the piano.”

A shoebox filled with old black-and-white photographs sits on a table in the middle of the accessories section. I flick through them, the shots of young guys standing in front of old army vehicles, a woman with her dog on the beach. The only thing weirder than someone giving away their old pictures to a thrift store is the idea of some random person actually buying them.

“So, you don’t usually throw parties?” I ask.

“Me?” Claire raises her eyebrows. “No. The drama kids, yes. Sawyer barely ever goes to them, though. I actually feel honored he said maybe to mine.”

At her mentioning Sawyer, I grip the edge of a Polaroid so hard, the corner tears. After mine and Sawyer’s showdown in his garage, I know better than to talk about whatever their thing is. But Claire isn’t paying attention. She swaps her cowboy hat for a black beret and keeps talking.

“Is he like that with you?” she says, frowning at her reflection in a tall, floor-length mirror before grabbing a top hat. “Like, he barely ever hangs out with everyone. All he wants to do is build his sets, or watch movies.”

“Well, yeah, because those are the best things,” I say.

“Okay, maybe you’re the wrong person to ask,” she says, laughing quietly. Claire pulls off the hat and wig in one sweep, carefully placing both back on the naked Styrofoam display heads they came from. “But seriously, can you please make sure he actually gets out when you guys are in New York? It’s freshman year. He should be meeting people, not sewing all night. I mean, at least not every night.”

My fingers twitch at her insinuation. That the thing Sawyer loves most in the world isn’t good enough because Claire says so.

“Why would I force him to do something he doesn’t want to do?” I say.

“Because he probably does want it,” Claire says. “I mean, at least a little bit. He’s human. Like, I know he’d want a relationship, but he’s never gonna have one if he doesn’t actually meet people.”

I dig my fingers into a tall jar of buttons, pushing down, down, down until I reach the glass bottom. “He met you,” I say under my breath, but apparently not quietly enough, because Claire snorts.

“Oh, believe me, I tried to get that boy to commit.” She rounds the table to examine a wooden carving of a parrot perched atop a misshapen skull. “I’ve invited him to hang out, I offer to go bowling, even though I suck at bowling. I’ve even asked him to babysit with me. The kids go to bed at eight, so like, hello. I’m basically just asking him to make out with me all night.”

“And he says … no?” I say, surprise leaching through my words.

“He always says it’s ’cause we’re gonna be on opposite sides of the country soon, with, like, college and stuff, but I don’t know. I’m not sure I really believe him.”

I squint at her, the words in my head tumbling out before I can even think to hold on. “But you’re, like, perfect.”

Claire whirls around, a look of pure elation on her face. “Awww,” she says. “Thank you. But perfect to you does not mean perfect to him. So, we make out at parties sometimes.” She shrugs. “Could be worse.”

I’m pretty sure Claire is perfect to everyone. At least everyone with eyes. She follows me as I wander toward a collection of armchairs.

“Are you excited about NYU?” she asks. “You guys have been planning this for, like, ever.”

“Yeah,” I say automatically. “I mean, you know—yeah. You’re right, we’ve been talking about it for a long time, so it’ll be nice to have Sawyer around. You know, full time, rather than just the summer.”

“And you think he’s actually gonna want to go out and do stuff?”

“I mean, I don’t even want to go out and do stuff, most of the time,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth, I realize they’re not quite right. “Being homeschooled means I don’t get to meet a lot of people.” I laugh as though it isn’t actually true. Just beside me is an overstuffed armchair on the outskirts of the section, its soft fabric in a warm, burnt orange. I zero in on the stitches crisscrossing the chair’s high back until they’re all I can see, Claire and the matching olive armchair she’s perched behind no longer there. “I’ve basically spent all my time in New York hating it, but now with Sawyer there, I just feel like … maybe everything’ll be okay.”

With Sawyer in New York, everything will change. Being at NYU means I’ll have to go out, people will have to know who I am. But with Sawyer nearby, holding my hand, wandering through gallery exhibits, riding the R train—none of it will matter.

“Oh my god.”

I blink my eyes back into focus, the sound of Claire’s voice making me jump. For a second, I could actually feel Sawyer’s arm next to mine on the subway, air-conditioning blasting down on us and sending goose bumps across our skin.

“What?” I say.

Claire’s mouth breaks into a slow smile. “Do you— Are you into him?”

Instinctively, my lungs seize. “Wh—what?” I stammer. “I’m not—no. I’m not.”

“Holy moly, you are. It’s written all over your face.” She stares up at the ceiling, blinking in surprise. “I always suspected you guys were a thing, but when Sawyer said you were just good friends, I thought maybe I’d misread the situation. But I didn’t. You like him.”

As panic surges through me, quick and hot, I clutch the edge of the orange armchair, waiting for a tirade. Claire and Sawyer may not be dating-dating, but girls on TV have fought over much less. But when I look up, Claire isn’t poised to stab me with her car keys. I don’t know if it’s the shock over just how quickly she’s pinned me down or the way she’s looking at me, her eyes soft, as though she’s just stumbled across a newborn puppy, but I sigh.

“Okay, maybe I like him,” I admit, glancing around to make sure nobody is nearby enough to hear me. “But I screwed things up and now I— It doesn’t matter.”

“How…” Her gaze drifts down to the armchair still under her fingers, her forehead creasing. But before I can say anything back, her eyes snap to mine. “Wait. You’re the girl, aren’t you?”

I squint at her. “What are you talking about?”

Claire shakes her head. “You are. You’re the girl who broke his heart.”

All at once the room blurs, as though she’s shoved my head underwater. “I—I—” I can hear myself saying. “What?”

“We all thought he was sick on spring break, but he told me after that something went wrong with a girl he had a thing with.” Claire nods with every word as her voice picks up speed. “He wouldn’t say who, and I just thought that’s because it was some girl from CSH, but of course—we were in New York. It was you.” She rounds the armchair but I take a step back, my heart soaring into my mouth. “You’re the reason he says no.”

The sound of some Taylor Swift song pierces the air. Claire’s ringtone. She roots around in her purse and pulls out a phone that’s in a giant rainbow-shaped case. “Hello?” she says into it. “Wh— Yeah, she’s right here.” Claire holds her phone out to me. “It’s Bunny.”

I frown. Why would Bunny be calling Claire to get to me? But then, I remember—I put my phone on airplane mode.

“Hey,” I say to my cousin. “Is everything okay?”

“Dixie, we have a code red,” he says, his voice breathy and frantic. “I repeat, we have a code red.”

Stepping away from Claire, I hunch my shoulders into my ears, as though that’ll block the sound. “What’s the matter?”

“You need to get to the Trip now.” A voice that sounds distinctly like Sawyer’s gets louder in the background, as though he’s nearing the phone. “No, it’s not in there,” Bunny says to him. “Don’t go in there, check PR One, and if it’s not there, check PR Two.” Then, back to me in a whisper that scratches at my ears, “Dixie, I’m not kidding. Whatever you’re doing, drop it. This is bad. Really, really bad.”

Bad? What does bad mean to someone like Bunny, who once told me he could think of nothing more upsetting than Joe Keery, his dream celebrity boyfriend, getting a buzz cut? Though, something about the anxiety in his voice tells me that whatever’s going on at the Trip right now is slightly more alarming.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “I’ll leave right now, just keep—”

But he’s already hung up.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There have been rare instances in which Mulligans cancel their Rewinds before the four days are up, or choose not to use their Rewind at all. Both are allowed and up to the discretion of the Mulligan in question.

—EXCERPT FROM “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The Uber ride to the Trip is a blur. When I turn my phone off airplane mode, my screen is flooded with notifications: four missed calls from Harvey, two from my mom, and even one from my dad. My eyes widen at that last one. My dad? When was the last time that happened? Seeing their names all in a line sends my scalp itching; I can’t help but feel like I’m forgetting something.

“What is going on?” I whisper down at my phone.

Claire asked surprisingly few questions when I told her she needed to pick out the rest of the furniture by herself because there was an emergency at the Trip. Part of me was relieved our conversation about Sawyer had been cut off; I just wished it hadn’t been by something that filled me with so much dread. As I sit in the back of the Uber, my driver playing a song that’s a cross between techno and reggae, all I can think is Fire. That’s why Bunny was so panicked on the phone, because there’s been another fire demolishing the hours of work we’ve put into the Trip. Maybe even the Trip itself this time. Or maybe there’s been a flood, or a sinkhole, or someone is holding them hostage. In this last instance, it seems unlikely Bunny would call me instead of the police, but the irrational part of my brain is hell-bent on spiraling and so it screams on a loop that ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.

Kate doesn’t answer her phone and Sawyer’s goes straight to voicemail. I try both again and again, even Bunny a couple times, but all I get are endless rings, adrenaline burning in my chest.

When my Uber driver eases up to the curb outside the Trip, there’s no smoke or fire trucks outside. No crowds or police cars, which rules out the hostage theory. Everything is eerily quiet. Inside, the lobby is completely empty, which at least means whatever damage there is, it’s somewhere new. The sheets have finally been stripped away, revealing a shiny new candy counter and popcorn machine. Half the lobby has been covered in a new carpet that’s dark gray and stamped with a mustard-yellow diamond pattern; the other half is still bare concrete, giant rolls of carpet waiting along the walls. It’s like a scene from a postapocalyptic home improvement show.

“Hello?” I shout into the empty room. The remaining concrete floor makes my voice echo. “Where are you guys?”

A honey-colored wood floor has been laid in a zigzag pattern behind the candy counter, extra planks of wood discarded nearby. I lean over the counter to check that Bunny isn’t crouched down beside the new popcorn machine, hiding from whatever Marvel-style mega monster that’s hunting him, but there’s nobody.

Maybe one of them had to go to the hospital. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t Bunny call to let me know?

“Dix?”

Sawyer stares at me from the mouth of the hallway. His expression is completely neutral, no panic or fear written on his face.

“Did you guys already finish thrifting?”

“No,” I say. “Bunny called and said I had to come down here because there was some emergency, so I left Claire at Old Hill.”

Sawyer laughs. “Oh my god,” he says, shaking his head. “I got here and Bunny was all freaking out about the fact that he accidentally ordered five hundred boxes of Cookie Dough Bites instead of fifty. Kate sent me up to take stock in PR One so we can figure out where the hell everything’s gonna go.”

My heartbeat starts to slow. “He— Are you serious?” I say. The question is a cross between a bark and a laugh. I’m all at once relieved and furious. “I thought there was another fire or something, so I rushed down here like an idiot.” I spin in a circle, searching the room. “Where is he? I’m gonna kill him.”

“He’s somewhere around here.” Sawyer waves an arm as though to illustrate that somewhere could be anywhere. “All the flooring guys are taking lunch, so I was gonna do the same, AKA plunder the candy that’s expired since the Trip closed.”

He slips into the storage closet behind the candy counter, where we keep small amounts of stock so we don’t have to go back and forth to PR One five thousand times a day.

“Did you guys find everything we need?” he calls out.

I lean against the candy counter, the last of the adrenaline slowly evaporating from my body. “When I left, we only had a couch. Do you think I should go back?” Even the thought of reentering mine and Claire’s conversation about Sawyer makes my stomach ache.

“Nah, Claire’ll get it done, don’t worry.” Sawyer reemerges with an armful of candy: two boxes of Reese’s Pieces, one box of Whoppers, and a Sour Patch Kids. He opens each box one by one before spreading them out across the counter. “She was president of our yearbook, the drama department, ASB, and the student graduation committee, all of which met on Wednesdays our senior year. Picking out furniture and getting ready for her party tonight is like a multitasking appetizer for her.”

Of course.

Sawyer empties a handful of Sour Patch Kids into his mouth. “Speaking of multitasking,” he says, chewing slowly. “Tonight. I figure it’ll take, like, six hours to get tiny New York onto the Trip ceiling, at least, which means we have twenty-four hours or so to finish the actual buildings and stuff, if Kate lets us out of here by eight. There’s not actually that much left to do on them, mostly just, like, little details. I really want to hang clouds from the ceiling, so I was thinking you could…”

His voice carries on, the hurried, excited lilt ricocheting off the newly painted walls. If he’s saying we’ll get out of here by eight and then go straight to working on tiny New York, does that mean he’s not going to Claire’s party?

“Wait, what?” I say, cutting him off.

Sawyer blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Did I not tell you that by showing you tiny New York, you’re now officially my assistant? My bad.” He pops a Whopper into his mouth and grimaces. After a few quick chews, he forces a swallow. “And before you call your union rep, yes, I will buy us pizza and bubble tea, and you can have regular five-minute breaks”—he lifts a pointer finger toward the ceiling—“if you meet your targets. But don’t start asking about healthcare, because I’ve run the numbers and it just isn’t viable for a company of our size.”

The front doors to the Trip lobby swing open, followed by four guys in matching white cargo pants and dark blue T-shirts. They must be the carpet people. The one with a red buzz cut waves at Sawyer before another two begin unfurling one of the long rolls of unlaid carpet.

I turn back to Sawyer, who’s nibbling the edges of a Whopper to decide whether it’s worth eating, or should be thrown in the trash. Even though he didn’t explicitly say it, it’s obvious he has zero intention of going to Claire’s party. From the way he speaks, so easily and nonchalant, it’s not even a question to him, as though he wasn’t even invited. We’re going to hang out together at his house tonight like we always do, eating pizza and watching movies as he works on one of his projects.

He’s still talking when I rush toward him, wrapping my arms around his middle. Sawyer’s arms instinctively shrug up to make room for me.

“Wh—what is going on here?” he says, laughing nervously.

I don’t answer. I just nestle my cheek against his chest, my hands connecting behind his back. From the sound of the carpet guys’ voices, I can tell they’re only a few feet away, but I don’t care. I bury my face deeper into the front of Sawyer’s shirt. I can feel the muscles in his back relax as he eventually cinches his arms around my shoulders and rests his head on top of mine. Could I really be the reason he says no to Claire? And what does that mean for right now?

The sound of a radio coming to life and a loud conversation between two carpet guys about which mini-golf course in Cielo Springs is better startles us both. Our arms drop from around each other at the same time. I blink up at Sawyer. There’s one very obvious way I could find out if Claire was right. What it means. It doesn’t matter that my Rewind is supposed to take effect soon; I have to tell Sawyer how I feel, even if he has moved on. He needs to know everything. Now.

“Can we talk somewhere quieter?” I whisper.

Sawyer just nods. “Always.”

Without hesitating, I grab Sawyer’s hand and our fingers interlace as I lead us toward Screen Three. The sounds of the radio fade as he opens the door and I step inside. Kate is standing beside the main screen, but she’s not alone. She’s talking quietly to two people, a hand on each of their arms as though she’s trying to usher them toward the emergency exit at the back of the room, which leads to the alleyway behind the Trip. The strangers’ backs are to me, but there’s something familiar about the woman’s shiny, army-green leggings that mold around her curves like a second skin. Her bright blond hair is down and in loose waves that curl around her bronzed shoulders. The man is in tastefully cut jeans and a crisp white linen shirt. As he speaks to Kate, he swipes a hand through his floppy hair, tilting his head just far enough in my direction to not immediately notice me, but so that I catch his crooked smile. Seeing them both, my mouth goes dry and I suddenly feel as though my shoes have grown roots that keep me tethered to the carpet just feet from the door. Everything in my brain is screaming at me to turn around, to get Sawyer out of here, to run, but I’ve lost all feeling in my body.

“This isn’t happening,” I whisper to myself. “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.”

Bunny is sitting in the front row watching Kate. At the sound of my voice, he turns bewildered eyes to me and stands, but we both know it’s too late.

“Dixie,” Sawyer says slowly from behind me. He too sounds like he thinks he might be in a dream. “Why are Mich and Charlie Roman in the Trip?”

Just as he finishes the sentence, Mich turns around and catches sight of us staring from the doorway. Her face breaks into a smile as she lopes toward us, her long steps graceful in spite of the fact that her strappy leather heels are at least five inches tall.

“Dixie!” she exclaims, pulling me into a hug once she’s in arm’s reach. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning.” When she leans back, her eyes snag on Sawyer. “Hi,” she says to him, reaching her arm over me to shake his hand. “I’m Michelle.”

Sawyer opens his mouth as he takes her hand. Judging by the way his lips move, I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s speaking words even though nothing is actually coming out. Charlie Roman joins the group and slings his arm around my shoulders, no hesitation whatsoever as he leans in and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Hey, kiddo,” he says into my scalp.

Everything in me is still numb, but I somehow manage to say, “This is Sawyer.” I gesture to him with a shaking hand. “Sawyer”—I swallow—“I believe you know my mom and dad.”

If it’s possible, Sawyer’s jaw drops even further. His eyes dart from me to my parents, to Kate and Bunny behind them. “Your—” he splutters. “Your—your what?”

At the sound of the hand dryer roaring from the bathroom across the hall, Sawyer turns, the door to Screen Three still open against his back. Footsteps squelch along the tiles before someone appears in the hallway, someone I have to blink at least a hundred times to convince myself is actually here.

“Harvey?” I say.

He swoops a hand across his dark brown hair before stretching his arms out wide. His face is so perfectly chiseled, he looks like a cartoon.

“Surprise!” he says, his voice booming in my ears.

Harvey’s expression is all excitement, as though this isn’t the last place on earth he, wearing khaki pants and a green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a hundred-and-four-degree heat, should be, as he crosses the few feet from the bathroom to us. But instead of shuffling behind my dad like he usually does or even shaking Sawyer’s hand, Harvey slips his arms around my waist and lifts me into the air. Then, he does the unthinkable: he kisses me.

I’m so startled, I don’t even have the brain space to shove him off. When our mouths break apart, he sets me back down on the floor and presses his forehead to mine. He smells like a mixture of vanilla and pepper, and I suddenly have the very distinct feeling that it’s not just from a cologne I recognize, but a cologne I bought him.

“I missed you,” he says. And the even more horrifying thing is, he sounds like he means it.

“Wh—” I start to say, turning to my parents, but the answer clicks in my brain all at once. Memories I didn’t know I had taking shape in my head. Harvey. Somehow, impossibly, is my—

“Sawyer, this is Harvey,” my mom says, cutting me off. “Dixie’s boyfriend.”

Part Two AFTER THE REWIND

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Contact Memories are memories you would’ve formed were you in this version of reality the whole time, and only enter your head when you come into contact with something related to the memory in question. Instantly flooding your head with new knowledge post-Rewind is how nervous breakdowns happen.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “REWINDS 101”

My mother is talking in a way I know is supposed to appear happy and carefree but that is actually very anxiety-ridden, and yet somehow completely oblivious to the fact that I’m so obviously on the verge of passing out. That must’ve been what was in the fax machine this morning; it wasn’t my Impact Report. It was my mom’s. I’d just assumed that when she called me yesterday, it meant she’d only just been approved for her Rewind, but she must’ve done it before me, just after I left New York. In all my nerves thinking about my conversation with Kate, I forgot that my Impact Report won’t come until the night before my Rewind goes into effect. All the calls were my parents and Harvey as they kamikaze-invaded Cielo Springs.

My feet are glued to the floor and my throat is so dry, I don’t think I could speak even if I wanted to. Sawyer snaps himself out of his own daze with a shake of his head, his eyes blinking rapidly as though he’s just woken up from a dream in a completely foreign location. He mumbles something I don’t catch before turning toward the door and quietly slipping through to the lobby.

As though his sudden movement has reminded my brain what walking looks like, my feet regain enough feeling that I’m able to chase after him. Startled voices rise from Screen Three, but I think I hear Bunny say something like She’ll be right back as the door swings shut behind me.

After being inside the darkness of the Trip, the light outside is comically bright. I hold up a hand to shield my face, but even so, I have to squint as I search the sidewalk for Sawyer. There’s a crosswalk at the end of the block; he’s walking toward it at a somewhat normal pace, which I take as a good sign. I run after him and cut him off so he can’t cross the street.

“Sawyer, please wait,” I say, holding out my hands.

The look on his face is still one of dazed confusion, his eyes darting from me to the Trip to the sidewalk to the cars speeding through the intersection, scrutinizing each as though he’s looking for some sign that we’re actually in The Matrix.

“Your parents are Mich and Charlie Roman,” he says, shaking his head. He sounds weirdly giddy, as though he’s on the verge of laughter. “I was just in a room with Mich, Charlie Roman, and … whoever the fuck that was.”

He obviously means Harvey, but not even I can bring myself to talk about him yet. I don’t even know how long we’ve been dating, if we’re actually dating or just hooking up and my mom’s being optimistic in her wording. Because it’s Harvey. He’s insanely handsome, fine, but never once have I thought about dating him. Wanting to do anything with him. Even wanting to spend time with him. How can he be my boyfriend?

“Can you please just let me explain?” I say. “I was gonna tell you—”

But Sawyer’s not listening. “Who’s your grandpa, Martin Scorsese?” he blurts out.

I roll my eyes. “No, he’s my godfather,” I say.

His mouth drops open in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m joking!” I exclaim.

I’m not joking.

“You told me your dad was the director of some global company, that’s why he’s never around.”

Sawyer asked only once about what my parents did, that first summer I came to Cielo Springs. But he probably could see how uncomfortable the subject made me, and never brought it up again.

“He is a director,” I say. “Of his production company and movies.”

“That’s such a—” Sawyer huffs in frustration. “But your last name is Mulligan.”

I swallow. “My mom goes by Mich Roman, but legally she hyphenated her last name and gave it to me, too.”

Technically that’s because we need to bear the Mulligan last name if we want to use the Rewind, but Sawyer doesn’t need to know that. He would’ve seen my full name if he’d ever looked at my paychecks, but I made sure he didn’t.

“I knew Mich and Charlie Roman had a kid, but they never take pictures with her. They’re all from when she was little and plus, she’s blond.” Sawyer blinks as realization falls over him like a bucket of water. “Is that why you dye your hair every summer? You don’t want to look like them?”

My eyes shoot down to the sidewalk and the line of ants disappearing into a jagged crack in the ground. I can’t even bring myself to nod.

“That’s why you won’t FaceTime me when you’re in New York, because I might see something. Your house. Your hair, your parents.” His voice trails off as the pieces connect in his head. “And Kate and Bunny—they knew?”

At this, I look up. “Kate knows who her own sister is, yeah,” I say.

Sawyer runs a hand through his hair. “Un-fucking-believable.”

The crosswalk signal goes from red to green and Sawyer maneuvers around me.

“Where are you going?” I say, chasing after him.

“I need to work on tiny New York.”

“Do you have to do it right now?”

His walk has become more determined now, going from zigzags to angry, purposeful strides. With each new second, my panic doubles. Once we reach the other side of the street where the Datsun waits patiently next to a silver trash can stamped with a sticker that says Keep Cielo Springs Squeaky Clean! I grab onto his shoulder. Sawyer shrugs free so fast, it’s as though I’ve burned him.

“All the times we talked shit about Charlie Roman, we were talking shit about your dad.” His hands land on the back of his head as his eyebrows shoot up, disappearing behind his hair. “Oh my god, I told you Mich was my first crush. Oh my god.”

“I know,” I say, grimacing at the memory. “That was weird.”

“Was that just a big joke to you? Was all of this just a big joke?”

“No,” I insist. I hold out my hands without touching him. “My relationship with my parents—it’s complicated.”

Sawyer paces over to the Datsun, shaking his head. He retrieves his keys from his back pocket and fumbles for the right one. My heart is pounding so hard I feel slightly breathless, and I know it’s not just because I’ve been running.

“Can we please talk?” I say, catching back up to him.

Sawyer finds the right key and jabs it into the driver’s-side door. “I really need to get away from you right now.”

His words hit me like a blow to the head, but instead of slowing me down, my breathing only gets faster, my voice more desperate. I can’t let him leave, not before I can explain. Because what if this is the last time I see him? What if he drives away and that’s it, game over?

“I was going to tell you everything, I swear, but then I saw you with Claire and the Barracuda deal happened, and it all—”

Sawyer finally turns to look at me, squinting. “What the hell are you talking about?”

For a second, I mirror his expression, his puzzled look catching me off guard.

“Claire, and—well, you guys—” I start.

“I’m not talking about Claire,” Sawyer says. “What Barracuda deal?”

“The deal my dad did with Barracuda,” I say. “The one that makes them, like, the only place anyone can see Roman Numeral films? And then he gave that whole speech about how the movie theater is dead?” The more I speak, the more Sawyer’s frown deepens. “We literally talked about it, like, three days ago.”

He gives me a sarcastic smile. “While that sounds like Charlie Roman”—he pauses as he yanks his car door open—“I’m sorry, your dad—I’m pretty sure I’d remember something like that.”

Sawyer drops into the Datsun and slams the door behind him. A clicking sound echoes from inside the car; he’s locked the doors. As though I’d ever just try and physically drag him back out. It’s this that sends a lightning bolt of despair through me, this tiny action signaling the wedge that’s quickly forming between us.

The Datsun’s engine roars to life. Within seconds, Sawyer speeds away without another word or look through his window. But as I watch him go, the gloom in my chest is momentarily dampened, replaced with confusion. How could Sawyer not remember the Barracuda deal? We specifically talked about it in the lobby just before Kate announced we’d be reopening in a week. Or had Kate announced we’d be reopening in a week, and then we argued about what movies we’d show on the Trip’s reopening night? Sawyer wanted something arthouse and I wanted to go big with Marvel or the new Christopher Nolan. The memories suddenly feel murky, like paints so mixed together, it’s impossible to pick out where one color starts and another one ends.

As the Datsun turns a corner a few streets down, it hits me, the jolt of clarity like a bullet train up my spine. There was never any Barracuda deal. Not anymore. Because that’s what my mom used her Rewind on: she took it all back.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Similar to all non-Mulligans, legal spouses have no memories from previous realities. Some people find this cruel—spouses know about the Rewind, but aren’t afforded the privilege of their own. It begs the question: Is it better to live in ignorance, or look but never touch?

—EXCERPT FROM “REWINDS 101” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

Inside the Trip, my parents and Kate are still standing close to Screen Three talking in hushed voices while Harvey and Bunny sit in the front row. The two of them are laughing at something Bunny said, Harvey’s smile easy and bright. Seeing it, something warms in my stomach. Something like happiness, but the memories behind it still feel out of reach, like something underwater that every time I try to grab, sinks farther and farther away. All the Rewinds that have been enacted in my lifetime have never really impacted me before, and so it was easy not to think about them. But this—this feels like someone has injected all these feelings into my body that my brain still doesn’t understand, feelings that don’t feel like mine even though technically they are. What if Harvey and I have done stuff before, and I don’t remember yet? The ease with which he kissed me—so obviously, in front of my parents—suggests we’re comfortable with each other, but seeing him now, all I can think of is the quiet boy who could barely pass me the butter at dinner without looking like he wanted to pass out. A boy for whom I never, in a million, trillion years, would have ever thought I could feel anything other than something like ambivalence toward, but less mean.

At the sight of me approaching, Bunny’s smile drops and he blushes, as though embarrassed to feel anything other than horror at a time like this.

Harvey stands. “Hey,” he says, brow creasing when he takes in what must be the hesitation on my face. “Is everything okay?”

He actually looks concerned by the fact that something might have upset me, as though he cares. And yeah, Harvey acted like he cared about me before, but in a way someone cares about the daughter of their Very Important, Very Influential Boss. This concern looks real. Sweet, almost.

“Yeah, it’s—everything’s—” I start to say, but glance away. Making eye contact with him feels like acknowledgment, acceptance, even, of whatever this thing is between us.

My parents have walked toward us at the sound of my voice, my dad reaching out an arm to pull me into his side again. It feels weird, calling them Mom and Dad while also seeing them, who they really are, here, in Cielo Springs. Even in my head, I’ve become so good at separating Charlie Roman and Mich from being my parents that calling them by their real names when talking about the Hollywood superstars has become second nature.

Before my dad can loop his arm around my shoulders, I step back, out of reach. “What are you guys doing here?”

My mom shoots a glance at Harvey and gives him one of her best Mich smiles, the one Vogue said could stop traffic. “Harvey, sweetheart, could you give us a second?”

It’s an obvious dismissal, a You’re not in the family, so get out, but Harvey is professional enough to just smile.

He rubs his hands together. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll see if I can get lunch delivered before we go.” He sets a hand on the small of my back that makes me jump, leans in close, and lightly kisses my cheek. Though I may be startled, nothing in me recoils as though I mind his lips anywhere near my face.

The five of us wait until Harvey has left, Kate trailing her fingers down my arm to get my attention as she edges up behind me.

“I’m so sorry, Dixie,” she says under her breath. “I tried to get them out but—”

“It’s okay,” I say.

She smiles sadly before following Harvey to the door and locking it behind him, presumably so none of the carpet guys can come in. When she turns around, her eyes zero in on my parents.

“What the hell is going on?” she blurts.

My mom drops her purse into one of the seats in the front row, the long strap draped across its back. “Does nobody read the Impact Reports?”

“You know I don’t want anything to do with Rewinds,” Kate says.

“Yeah, well, maybe if it’s your own sister’s Rewind, you should care.”

Kate folds her arms across her chest. “So, you took back the Barracuda deal,” she says. She must’ve come to the same conclusion as me. “What am I supposed to do, thank you? You two are the reason we were even in this mess.”

I sink into the seat beside Bunny, my legs stretched out in front of me and my back slid low in the chair. I can’t remember the last time our moms have been in the same room, much less the same city. My mom and Kate were close for their whole childhood and teenage years, even after my mom made The Middle and married my dad. It was when production for The One Who Wasn’t started, when my parents had enough money for the house in Manhattan and we had people doing our grocery shopping for us, that things changed. Their lifestyles were too different, not even the link of childhood memories strong enough to keep them together. Even when my mom retired from acting a few years ago, there was no salvaging things between them—the damage was done.

“Kate, this isn’t her fault,” my dad says, stepping in. “I’m the one who—”

“Oh, believe me, I’m aware,” Kate says. “Let’s face it folks, the movie theater is dead.” She drops her voice to mimic my dad and it has the desired effect. He winces.

“Can you back off for ten seconds?” my mom says to her sister. “He doesn’t remember saying that.”

“You might not remember it, but I do. Vividly,” Kate says, turning to my dad. “My own brother-in-law saying the thing me and my dead husband sank our entire life savings into, the only thing I have to support my son, is worthless.”

My dad’s hand is buried deep in his hair, fingers clawing at his scalp as he stares wide-eyed at the floor. I hadn’t even considered how weird this would be for him as a non-Mulligan. He can only be told about the alternate version of reality after the fact, that other version of him just a paper doll who, as far as he knows, he’s never actually been.

“But why are you guys here?” I say, cutting through the tension left lingering from Kate’s words. “Right now?”

“We wanted to see you,” my mom says. She swallows so hard, I can practically follow the momentum down her throat. “Check in on you after all this Rewind madness.”

My dad appears in the chair beside me. “I’ve got a meeting in LA tomorrow morning, so we’re staying there tonight in a hotel. I was kinda hoping you’d come back with us.” He stretches an arm across the back of my chair and turns his gaze up to my mom, his face that trademark Charlie Roman brand of boyish and hopeful. “We could watch a movie, get takeout.”

My lips part as I consider my dad’s offer. I haven’t gone as far as the bodega on the corner of our street with him, much less a hotel in LA, in years. I’m not sure what’s more surprising: the fact that he’s asking me to go anywhere with him now, or that he thinks I’d actually do it. But judging by the small smile on his face, he’s clearly oblivious to everything that’s happened in the last week. What he’s done. Because now that my mom took back the Barracuda deal, our fight the night before I left for Cielo Springs will never have happened.

Behind him, Kate still has her arms crossed as she stares at something over our heads, her jaw grinding back and forth. Her discomfort is like a sixth person in the room, pacing and prickling at my parents’ presence. All the hard work she’s put into the Trip—the second anyone finds out she’s Mich’s sister, that’s all anybody will talk about. The Trip will stop being Cielo Springs’s hundred-plus-year-old theater and start being a potential avenue to Charlie Roman. But there weren’t any paparazzi outside, which means there’s still a chance nobody knows my parents are here yet, or how they’re connected to Kate. Which means I still possibly have time to get them out of Cielo Springs without anyone knowing. Kate would never ask me to leave with my parents, but I know getting them out of here is the right thing to do, no matter how awkward being in a room with my dad will be. Plus, I’m pretty sure my plans with Sawyer tonight have been canceled.

“Wait,” I say to my dad, squinting. Los Angeles is a three-hour drive away. “You guys just got here from LA and now you’re turning right back around? Isn’t that a lot of driving?”

But my dad’s smile just widens as he says breezily, “We took the jet.”

Up until I was seven years old, my dad was my best friend.

People say they’re close with their parents, but when I did, I meant it literally. Me and my dad did everything together. He and my mom married shortly after they made The Middle and I wasn’t far behind, which meant I was practically born on set. For the next seven years, my parents made three movies together with me in tow, either strapped to my dad’s chest as he sat behind a camera, on my playmat never more than a few feet away, or in my own director’s chair once I could sit up without the risk of toppling over. Apparently even from six months, I knew to stay quiet when my dad called “Action!,” my eyes sparkling as I watched my mom move through a scene.

She was always in front of the camera, which felt like a line I couldn’t cross. But behind it with my dad, there were no limits. He made it his mission to show me everything, from how to operate a camera to the essentials of smooth-talking actors with delicate egos and overpaid agents. I learned my numbers by writing scenes and takes on the clapperboard. Dad would quiz me on phonics as we sat in the darkness of the editing room until four in the morning, when my mom would practically have to drag us out by our hair. Every Sunday we’d see movies from morning to night, discussing the actors and directing choices between screenings. Even though I was only a kid, my dad always listened patiently to my arguments and theories, taking notes when I had ideas. He was the reason I love movies as much as I do.

The night before I left for Cielo Springs, we were celebrating. The memory of it already feels a little fuzzy around the edges, but the basics are there. After postponing my high school graduation three times because my dad had been delayed on business in LA, I’d finally been able to walk across the “stage,” AKA wave to the camera when my teacher said my name. The whole “ceremony” took approximately ten minutes, two of which were spent watching my teacher try to figure out why the sound on her video wasn’t working. I was fairly sure the speech she gave was a canned one, something she just revised for every student she “homeschooled,” but it didn’t really matter. High school was officially over.

The kitchen itself was an assault of bright white: white cabinets, white walls, white marble floors my mom had specifically sourced from France a couple years ago. My parents sat on one side of the island and I was on the one adjacent, next to my dad. Even though it was already summer in New York, he’d returned from LA even more tanned, bright-eyed, and something like energized in spite of the red-eye flight. Since he got back that morning, I’d lost count of how many times he’d hugged me: once when he first walked through the door, again over my cereal at breakfast. During the ceremony, after the ceremony. At least another thousand times as we toasted my success on our rooftop patio with two glasses of white wine for my parents and a shot glass full for me. Those were just the times I could remember. My dad seemed genuinely happy and proud, even though my grades were mediocre at best. We all knew the only reason I’d gotten into NYU was because of my last name. I could’ve gone to Harvard if I wanted. But I couldn’t deny that both my parents’ attention had left me with an unfamiliar warmth in my stomach that was part puzzlement, part cautious happiness.

A takeout sushi feast had been laid out in my honor across the island: tempura-battered whitebait and sweet potato drizzled with sweet chili mayo, an entire box of edamame, their fat pods sprinkled with thick grains of salt.

“I think we should go on vacation this summer, after you get back from California, Dixie,” my dad said suddenly. He dropped his plastic chopsticks onto the counter and clapped his hands together. “Somewhere far away and really tropical.”

“Maybe New Zealand?” my mom said. “Peter’s been inviting us out there for years.” She looked at me, one fried crab leg of her spider roll dangling from her fingertips. She was talking about Peter Jackson. He’d been one of my dad’s best friends since they sat next to each other at the Academy Awards a few years ago. “You two could finally do the Lord of the Rings tour.”

My dad shook his head. “Tropical, but not tropical enough,” he said. Then added, “Don’t tell Pete. I was thinking more like Fiji, or the Maldives.”

I watched this interaction closely, not sure if I’d accidentally stepped into an alternate reality or my smoked salmon had gone bad and I was in the middle of a poison-induced hallucination. I couldn’t remember the last time we all went on vacation as a family. Definitely not since we’d moved to New York, which meant it’d been nearly ten years.

My dad had created his production company, Roman Numeral, after making The Middle. RN mostly made indies until Dad was approached by All-Around, a huge distributor that’d just gotten the rights to the mega-hit book trilogy The One Who Wasn’t. My parents’ profiles had been rising steadily with every new movie, but All-Around had particularly liked what they’d seen with The Chair. Even at seven, I’d thought it was their worst movie, but Rolling Stone had gushed over my mom’s “intense, unsettling performance” and Dad’s “dark, dystopian portrayal of the risks of unchecked wealth.” TOWW was to be on a scale and budget my parents had never seen before, and I’d been excited at first. At least until I realized that because filming would take place over two months in England, half of which was to be filmed outside in freezing January, they decided without me that I couldn’t go. Before leaving for London, they’d moved us into our new house in New York, the one made possible by my dad’s deal with All-Around. That first week in our new place without them felt so foreign, a team of nannies taking me to my new private school and buzzing around me instead of Kate and my uncle Rob, the two people who’d always looked after me when my parents had to go away for a night. They were far away now too, my entire family on the wrong sides of the world. My parents would FaceTime me at least four times a day, my mom returning to New York on weekends, but it still wasn’t the same. I’d felt left behind, the two of them only too eager to run off without me and create movies, the thing we always loved to do together.

For my dad, trips abroad always meant business. Always meant without me. So, the fact that he was even toying with the idea of something so suburban as a family vacation made my jaw drop.

“The Galapagos?” I said suddenly, surprising myself.

I’d been learning about Charles Darwin and all his tiny birds last semester in biology. The Galapagos seemed like one of the last uncharted places on Earth; somewhere that, if me and my family were going together, we might not be recognized. Maybe, for the first time in my life, we could just be.

My dad clapped his hands together again and pointed at me. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. “The Galapagos Islands. That’s exactly the kind of tropical I’m talking about. I’ll have Harvey call the travel advisor the studio uses tomorrow.” Dad popped open an edamame and dropped the little green beans into his mouth one by one. “The Galapagos Islands,” he muttered to himself, chewing. “Absolutely incredible.”

Though I’d more or less gotten used to being completely on my own, the thought of going somewhere new with my parents left me feeling something like excitement. But there was still one thing hovering at the back of my mind. The entire reason we hadn’t been on vacation together in the last however many years.

“Don’t you have to work?” I said.

My mom stole a glance at my dad through the corner of her eye as he slapped his palms down on the counter. “That’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “We have two things to celebrate tonight.”

“Oh my god, you’re not having a baby, are you?” I said to my mom.

Her eyes widened to almost twice their size. “Fuck no,” she spluttered, then dabbed her mouth gently with her napkin. “Sorry. But no. I’m done in that department. The seventeen stitches I had to have down there after giving birth to your shoulders pretty much guaranteed that.”

Dad chuckled. “No, it’s actually a surprise for both of you. Something I’ve been working on for the last few months.”

At that, my mother’s eyebrows rose. I covered my mouth with the back of my hand, biting back a laugh. She and my dad had never stopped being close, their relationship legendary in Hollywood for being so solid it was practically made of diamond. Seeing her caught off guard by my dad instead of just me was kind of hilarious.

“I know we haven’t been able to spend much time together in a while,” Dad continued. Ten years, I didn’t add. “But Roman Numeral has just signed an incredible deal with Barracuda that means I’m going to be around a lot more.”

At that, Mom and I blinked at each other, a frown creasing her forehead. There’d been rumors about Roman Numeral signing with Barracuda for a few months now. Barracuda was still somewhat of a new streaming platform, signing movies by some medium-sized filmmakers, a couple super-successful indies. There was no question that my dad would be their biggest name so far.

My mom tried to smooth her confusion away with a smile. “What’re you talking about?” she said evenly. “What kind of deal?”

Dad leaned over the counter as though he was about to confess a secret. “The kind of deal that’s worth three hundred million dollars.”

I rocked back on my stool, his charged whisper reverberating in my head.

“Shut the f—” my mom sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“They’re paying you three hundred million dollars to stream your movies?” I said. “That’s insane.”

“Not just the back catalog,” Dad said. “But hopefully everything in the future, too. This deal means Barracuda will be the exclusive platform for all existing Roman Numeral films, plus three new movies. But that’s it—once we fulfill the terms for that deal, they can sign on for more new movies, for more money. We’re set.”

My mother pressed her fingers against her lips as she looked at my dad with an expression I couldn’t read. “Oh, Charlie,” she said slowly.

This time, I was the one who wrinkled my brow. “But what about theaters?”

Dad swept his arms out as though to clear papers from a desk. “Skipping them. Everything RN makes will go straight to Barracuda. If anyone wants to see them, they’ve got to subscribe.” He rubbed his hands together, his eyes bright with excitement. “The team at Barracuda thinks it’s going to be huge for their subscriber numbers. And the best part is, I don’t actually have to direct any of the movies if I don’t want to, so I can be home. I mean, I’m gonna produce, obviously, at least at first. But hopefully over time, I can step farther and farther back.”

The longer he spoke, the more I could feel the floor underneath me slipping away. It felt like the kitchen had been vacuum-sealed, my lungs tight and my skull suddenly too big for my head. Recent Roman Numeral films were mostly shit, sure, but they were huge for movie theaters. Even indies like the Trip showed them, because they knew it put butts in seats. Without anything big like that to show, how would they cope?

“But your movies are massive blockbusters,” I said. My voice sounded far away, almost breathless. “Movie theaters need you.”

“Movie theaters have been struggling since the dawn of time,” my dad said back. “If they haven’t fixed things by now, me sticking around isn’t going to do it.”

“Well, that—” Mom started to interject.

“Yeah, but it’s not gonna help,” I said, barreling over her. “This could be the end. What if more production companies follow you?”

The more I talked, the more reality sank in. Nothing to show in theaters would mean no traffic and no reason to stay open. Movie theaters as I knew them would die, banished to the Dark Ages of uselessness along with DVD players and phone books. I pushed my wasabi-smeared plate away, my stomach turning at the thought of food.

My dad shrugged and at least had the decency to sound sad when he said, “They probably will. I’m not the first person to do a deal like this, and I won’t be the last. It makes too much sense.”

“Charlie—” my mom said, but I could barely hear her over the pounding in my head.

“Yeah, even though it’ll ruin the industry that made you,” I said. “Or are you so loaded now, you don’t remember?”

Did he really not remember all the midnight screenings? Where in the World Is Charlie Roman? I knew he wasn’t the first person to take a deal like this, but this was different. This was my dad.

“Money means security,” my dad said. “I know you’re lucky enough to never have had to worry about it, but there are reasons for that.”

“What about Bunny and Kate’s security?” I said. “The Trip will probably go under because of stuff like this. Does that not matter to you?”

Tears were gathering along my eyelids, but I wiped them away before they could fall. It didn’t just hurt that my dad was spitting on everything that used to matter to him. Selfishly, it hurt that he was doing this to something that mattered so much to me.

“Of course it matters,” my mom said, turning to look at my dad. “That’s not what Dad’s saying.”

My dad looked to my mom, his eyes wide with surprise, as though somehow this wasn’t the way he thought this conversation would go.

“I’m doing this for our family,” he insisted to us both.

“I know,” Mom said, reaching for his hand. “Dixie is just—”

A horrified laugh erupted out of me. “You’re not doing this for me,” I said to my father. “If you were doing this for me, you wouldn’t also be doing everything within your power to obliterate the Trip, the one place on Earth that makes me happy.” The tears came all at once then, slipping down my cheeks. I swiped at them with the back of my hand in vain. “If you were doing anything for me, you wouldn’t have been gone for the last ten years making shitty mega movies so you and your rich friends can buy new Bugattis every year.”

My mom straightened up on her stool. “Excuse me?” she said.

But my dad just shook his head, an exhausted smile on his face and his eyes trained on the marble grooves under his fingertips. “You,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up to me, “are an ungrateful brat.”

“Charlie—” my mom started again, but my dad cut her off.

“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” His hands curled into fists and his jaw was clenched, giving his words the effect of being slowly hissed from his mouth like air from a radiator. “Mom and I work our asses off every day so we can give you everything.”

I stood from my stool, swaying. My stomach was knotted tightly, my throat going hollow and cold. I was going to be sick. But before I ran out, I turned to face both my parents, not caring anymore that my cheeks were wet with tears.

“But you know what your money could never buy, Charlie?” I said hoarsely. “A dad who could give me the fucking time of day.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I can’t just sit here and list out all the reasons I have or will reject Rewind applications. Don’t try to hurt people. Follow the rules. It’s simple. You know, I really regret encouraging you all to comment on these blob posts.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “REWINDS 101”

The airport in Cielo Springs is so small, it’s more like a post office with planes. It’s only ever used by rich Angelenos who’d rather spend thousands hiring private jets than three hours in the car to reach their weekend getaways at the expensive spa hotels dotted around the edges of Cielo Springs. I’m wearing a hoodie I stole from Bunny’s room after we swung by Kate’s house to grab my stuff; combined with the Ray-Bans covering my eyes, I’m hoping it’s enough to fool the airport staff into thinking that like Harvey, I’m just another member of the Roman entourage.

Inside the plane is a sea of beige: khaki leather seats littered with caramel-colored pillows, cream carpet, and matching walls. Even the light coming from the strobes zigzagged across the ceiling gives off a goldish glow. Toward the back of the plane are two sets of seats that directly face each other; Harvey and I sit there, my parents stretched out on the long couches near the cockpit, my dad resting his head in my mother’s lap while she scrolls through her phone. I’ve never been on a private plane before—not with them, or ever. My mom always tries to book one for me every summer, but even the thought of showing up in Cielo Springs in my very own plane makes me want to both laugh and hurl.

Harvey eyes me over the lip of his water bottle as he lifts it to his mouth to take a sip. “When’s the last time you went anywhere like this with your parents?”

Even though he asks this so casually, his question makes me startle. Is this the kind of stuff me and him talk about? Or is it that obvious how uncomfortable it makes me to do anything in public with my parents?

I try to smile but feel the cracks around the edges. “It’s been a while.”

Ten years. Because once TOWW came out and my parents were catapulted into the Hollywood elite, their schedules went berserk. Gone were the days of filming indies locally in LA; now they were shooting in London, Paris, Sydney, Tokyo. There were talk show appearances, photo shoots, SNL, more movie deals. They were flying somewhere new every few days, and while they tried to go one at a time where they could so someone was always home with me, Charlie and Mich Roman at their core were a package deal. A package I was no longer a part of. And without one of them to stand between me and the paparazzi or my parents’ weird horde of obsessive fans, going outside as myself became terrifying. That’s where the hoodies came in, and the homeschooling. The dark corners of movie theaters where no one would recognize me. Even when my mom retired and was spending more time at home, feeling comfortable going outside with her wasn’t just something I could switch on. It had been too long.

Overhead, the captain announces on the intercom that we’ll be flying soon. I’ve kept my phone in my lap in case Sawyer tries to call or text, but I turn it off now, knowing he won’t. I’ve called him three times since leaving the Trip and each one goes straight to voicemail, which means he’s either also turned his phone off or he’s already blocked me.

Harvey tilts his face toward the window on his left, the sun streaming in and cutting across his sharp jaw. As the plane stutters into motion, the light shifts along his features, illuminating the gold in his hair, in his squinted eyes. He flexes his fingers on the armrests, and I wonder where they’ve been on me, whether or not he’s ever run them along my face. Because no matter how hard I try to dig into my memories, our origin story just isn’t here yet. My grandma calls them “Contact Memories,” things that usually don’t establish themselves in the head of someone from our family until we come into contact with them, or need them. Technically if that were the case here though, I feel like I should’ve remembered how Harvey and I got together the moment I saw him at the Trip. But maybe my brain was in too much shock to process anything else. I can feel we’ve got a history together, a history I’m pretty sure started in late April; we’ve said a lot, shared a lot, but I can’t remember what. I can distinctly recall us going to Coney Island together, seeing Back to the Future on Broadway. We have a favorite taco cart. And when I think of him, a warmth blooms in my chest, a warmth that feels dangerously like affection.

But that can’t be possible. Because when I think about Sawyer, I get the same feeling, only amplified by a million. Every cell in my body stops functioning, like devoting any energy to anything but Sawyer—even breathing or breaking down food in my small intestine—is a waste. But does that mean I’ve been cheating on Harvey? If I feel this intensely about Sawyer now, that means I’ve probably never stopped feeling this way, which means I’ve been like this even while Harvey and I have been together. Is it possible to cheat on someone when you didn’t know you were together? But technically I will have known we’re together, at least in this new reality. And Sawyer clearly didn’t know about Harvey, which means I didn’t tell him. Is this version of me that big of a jerk that I’d get into a relationship with one guy while still being in love with another, and then lie to them both about it?

I push my hands into my eyes and groan. “This is so confusing.”

Harvey frowns. “What is?”

When I look up at him again, his eyes are soft, his body shifted forward as though hearing me, giving me his full attention, is the most important thing in the world. He looks so concerned. And then it dawns on me: What if Harvey is in love with me?

“I have to break up with you,” I whisper quickly. At the sound of my own voice, I snap my hands up to cover my mouth, lips in a shocked O.

Harvey leans back, a line forming between his eyebrows. “What?” he says, stealing a glance over his shoulder at my parents. My dad has his eyes closed as my mom strokes his hair with her free hand. “Why?”

I grimace. What is wrong with me? Why would I just blurt something like that out?

“Is this because—” Harvey scoots to the edge of his chair, voice dropping. “Is this because I kissed you too hard earlier?”

“Wh—” I start, but I’m so caught off guard, I don’t even know what to say. Of all the things he could have said to me in this moment, asking about the force with which he kissed me an hour ago is somehow the least expected. “What are you talking about?”

He thumps his head against the seat. “It is, isn’t it.” He sighs, his eyes darting up to the ceiling. “I’m really sorry. I could feel that I was kissing you too hard, but I kept thinking about that time on Memorial Day, where you said we were acting like siblings in a staged family photo, and if we wanted to make this look real, we’d have to kiss like we meant it.”

He’s talking so fast, it takes me a few seconds to catch up.

“Kiss … like we meant it?” I say slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing back at my parents again. “So people think we’re together.”

“Think we’re together?” I repeat.

Harvey squints. “Dixie, are you okay?”

As though by stating these thoughts aloud, I’ve given the universe permission to fill my brain, the memories start stacking themselves up in my head. The dinner in April. My house. Me and Harvey sitting next to each other. His dad watching us from the other end of the table. The sound of his dad’s voice as he crowed loudly over our meal, mapping out all the money he’d made on the trip he took to Monte Carlo last year with his third ex-wife. Harvey and I had barely spoken all night except when he said he liked my earrings.

Once dessert was finished, Mom instructed all of us to move into the living room for coffee and more cocktails. Usually this was the point in the night where I could escape into my bedroom and my parents would be too tired to demand I come out again, so as my mother disappeared into the kitchen, I slipped into the hallway. But as I tiptoed toward my bedroom, the sound of raised voices behind the bathroom door stopped me. One raised voice. He wasn’t screaming, exactly, because that would bring too much attention. He was mostly growling.

“Have you made a move yet?” Harvey’s dad demanded. Even though I couldn’t actually see him, it was obvious he was speaking through gritted teeth.

“No, not yet,” Harvey said meekly. “I’m going to, but—”

“What the hell are you waiting for? You’ve been sitting next to her all night. Ask her out.”

At this, I stumbled backward into the door to my dad’s office, which was opposite the bathroom. They were talking about me. Me and Harvey … going out together?

“You know how good this’ll look, my kid with Roman’s. Williams will shut the fuck up about trying to edge me out—”

Then things clicked. Harvey’s dad was one of the presidents or something at All-Around, the distribution company that had so many ties with Roman Numeral. If me and Harvey were together, it’d somehow make his dad more important.

“But I’ve barely ever talked to her,” came Harvey’s timid reply. “I told you, every time I try to talk to girls, I just get—”

“Yes, thank you for the reminder,” his dad sneered. “My own boy, a fucking virgin.” There was a dull thump, as though something—or someone—was shoved into the bathroom wall. “Do you even know how embarrassing you are? Do you want me to lose my job?”

Harvey’s mumbled response was lost to the sound of the bathroom doorknob rattling. I scrambled into my dad’s office, hiding in the shadows until someone emerged from the bathroom and the sound of footsteps moving toward the living room was gone. When I looked again, the bathroom door was opened just slightly, enough for me to see two feet sticking out from behind it. Even though Harvey and I had only said a handful of words to each other in total by this point, I knew I couldn’t just leave him there. Not without at least making sure he was okay.

I poked my head around the bathroom door. Harvey was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes red and his face slick with tears. When he looked up, he didn’t appear surprised to find me there.

“I’m guessing you heard all that,” he said, not as a question but a statement of resignation.

“You mean the part where your dad’s a giant douchebag?” I said.

Harvey let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. I edged into the bathroom and closed the door behind me, groaning a little as I slid down the wall and sat beside him. The tiles beneath me were cold but cleaned with such precision and totality, they actually sparkled.

“I thought you were supposed to be at least a little like your parents,” Harvey said. “But I swear to god, my mom must’ve found me on the doorstep, because there is not a single ounce of me that can relate to that guy.”

He threw a hand toward the bathroom door. Even from in there, we could hear his dad telling another loud story, his booming laugh reverberating through our house. I used to know what that felt like, relating to your parents. Your dad. But now, most of the time I learned things about mine via TMZ and Entertainment Tonight. Just last week, I’d learned he used to smoke when he was a teenager. Who knew?

“All he wants is to have a son that’s this cool, macho dickhead who’s banging the most girls while knowing the least names. It’s gross.”

“You don’t have to be a jerk to ‘bang girls,’” I said, grimacing at the word choice. “If anything, I think it’s cool that—”

“I’m gay,” Harvey said suddenly.

I snapped my head toward him, not sure if I’d heard right. Almost as though he’d only just heard himself, Harvey turned toward me too, his jaw dropped in horror.

“Oh my god,” he said, his voice dialing up in panic. His hands clawed frantically over one another. “I’ve only ever told my sister. I don’t know why I just said that.”

I smoothed my look of surprise into one I hoped conveyed complete and utter nonchalance. “I think I just have one of those trustworthy faces,” I said with as much coolness as I could muster. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

Harvey laughed through his nose, but his eyes were still sad as he glanced down at his hands. He’d at least stopped crying, his cheeks getting that matte, post-sob sheen.

“Please don’t tell my dad,” he said quietly.

“I won’t,” I rushed. “I would never.” I swallowed, for some reason wishing my mom were here. That time she punched a reporter in the nose for touching her leg happened before I was born, but it was legendary in our household. She’d know how to deal with Harvey’s awful dad. “So, your dad doesn’t know?”

Harvey shook his head. “And the longer I don’t have a girlfriend, the worse he’s gonna get. He’s already suspicious.” He ran both hands down the front of his face and sighed. “I don’t want to lie to someone, but I really just need to figure something out until I can go to college and move out. My sister and her boyfriend said I can spend holidays with them, down in DC.”

But leaving for college was still six months away. That would mean six months of pressure to treat girls’ bedrooms like motels, six months of bathroom ambushes or worse. If Harvey’s dad was willing to accost him in someone else’s house, what would he do when it was just the two of them, actually alone?

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I said suddenly. The question was out of my mouth before I could even register it as a thought in my head.

Harvey turned his stunned expression toward me. “Are you serious?”

I shrugged as though I wasn’t asking someone out, something that’d seemed pretty much inconceivable since everything went down with Sawyer in Central Park. But I couldn’t think about that.

“My mom’s always trying to get me to hang out with other people my age,” I said. “Maybe now both our parents will leave us alone.”

His eyes welled with tears that he wiped with the back of his hand. “You know my dad only wants this because it’ll make him look good.” Harvey sniffled. “You really want to do him a favor?”

I nudged Harvey with my shoulder. “I’m not doing it for him.”

My shoulders sink into the soft leather of my chair on the plane. That’s why I didn’t tell Sawyer about Harvey; because our “relationship” isn’t real. It wasn’t my place to say anything about why I was helping Harvey. And I never thought Sawyer would find out.

Across from me, Harvey bites his lip, concern bright on his face. It’s this exact moment where what I’ve been feeling for him since I first saw Harvey an hour ago makes sense. It wasn’t lust or even attraction. It wasn’t love.

It was friendship.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rewinds are only permitted on moments that have taken place in the last 365 days. History has shown, the longer you leave a Rewind, the more complicated changing reality becomes.

—EXCERPT FROM “REWINDS 101” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

By the time we make it to my parents’ hotel, it’s nearly five o’clock. The staff in the lobby greets us like royalty, offering glasses of champagne and sparkling cucumber water before whisking us off to a bungalow that’s bigger than Kate’s entire house. The living room is dominated by a grand piano and overlooks a freshly trimmed lawn that’s surrounded by palm trees and tropical flowers. There was wall-to-wall traffic the entire way here from Van Nuys, but now, all traces of it are gone; all I can hear through the open French doors leading to the private patio is a lawnmower whirring from somewhere far off.

The bungalow is big enough that Harvey and I each get our own rooms. I shrug off Bunny’s hoodie and flop onto my king-sized bed, the white leather headboard banging gently against the olive-green wallpaper behind. For the eight hundredth time today, I check my phone, but there’s still nothing from Sawyer. I flick through our texts, where for once, the solid line of unanswered messages are mine.

Dixie

Sawyer I’m really sorry. Can you please answer the phone?

Dixie

I wanted to tell you about my parents, it just never felt like the right time. I was going to tell you today I swear

Dixie

I really need to talk to you

Dixie

Please can you say something?

Dixie

I’m so sorry

Reading them back, I can see the panic and desperation growing with each message. Sawyer and I were so close; I could feel it, that moment between us where everything would finally click into place just behind the doors of Screen Three. How was I supposed to know my parents would be there? Or that my mom’s Rewind would reveal I’ve got a secret boyfriend?

“I’m guessing by the fact that nobody’s out here arguing with me that we’re all okay with watching Shrek Forever After and getting KFC tonight?” my dad calls from the living room.

My mom’s outraged voice echoes back, “In what world does that make sense?”

All four of us convene in the living room, my dad sitting at the piano and looking up from his phone innocently. Shrek Forever After was the first movie he and I ever saw in a theater together as part of our Sunday tradition; it’s also the movie he’d play whenever I was feeling sick, a cure-all that, when combined with Reese’s Pieces and Gatorade, never failed.

“Shrek Forever After, yes, KFC, no,” I say, leaning against the wall to the hallway. “Tacos, maybe. Sushi, always.”

Dad points a finger at me. “Sushi, I can do.”

“Shrek Forever After?” my mom says as she gingerly rubs her right ear. She collapses onto the plush, latte-colored couch in the living room and kicks her feet up so they rest on the leather coffee table. “I’ve presented at the Oscars.”

“Don’t act like you’re too good for Shrek,” my dad says. “Nobody is too good for Shrek. If Mike Myers called and asked you to voice Red Riding Hood, believe me, you’d take it.”

“Shrek Forever After is a cinematic masterpiece,” I say. I count on my fingers. “The humor, the depth, the character arcs alone—”

“Yeah, yeah”—my mom waves me away—“I’ve heard the Shrek argument before and I know how it ends. But if I fall asleep and there’s even a single one of your Reese’s Pieces in my hair, any and all Shrek paraphernalia will be banned from our house. Capeesh?”

My dad and I exchange glances. Carefully burying Reese’s Pieces in my mom’s hair was her punishment for falling asleep during movies, which is why my dad always got an extra box every time we watched anything from the Fast & Furious franchise.

“Deal,” he and I say at the same time.

Harvey watches all this from the end of the piano, arms folded across his chest, looking amused. Even my mom smirks at us from her spot on the couch. It feels almost normal, ganging up on her with my dad. As though the Barracuda deal was just a joke, that he’d never be okay with so much as contributing to the decimation of my favorite places on earth. Because I guess in this reality, maybe he isn’t.

“Can we all agree on sushi?” Dad asks.

Mom, Harvey, and I murmur our assent. My dad wanders out onto the patio with his phone, searching for sushi places that do takeout within a five-mile radius, while my mom busies herself in the kitchen opening the bottle of champagne that was left chilling on the counter along with a vase full of expensive-looking white lilies. Harvey takes her seat on the couch, careful not to meet my eyes now that we’re alone. We’ve barely spoken since our initial conversation on the plane, neither of us knowing how to navigate the other. That ease with which he kissed me at the Trip is gone.

When I plop down next to him on the couch, he looks over at me, surprised.

“I’m really sorry about earlier,” I say quietly, so my mom won’t hear. “I was really discombobulated with my parents showing up.” I swallow. “But I don’t actually want to break up.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You mean, you still want to be my fake girlfriend?”

I mirror his half-smile. “If you’ll fake have me.”

Harvey tips his hand palm-up on his knee and without thinking, I take it, our fingers locking. Unlike with Sawyer, there’s nothing electric. Harvey’s hand in mine is warm, comfortable. Friendly. We both lean back into the couch, our shoulders touching.

Something starts buzzing from Harvey’s pocket, and he leans forward to retrieve his phone with his free hand. “Shit,” he mumbles down at the screen. “I was supposed to tell the car service what time to pick us all up tomorrow morning.”

“Us?” I say.

“Hey, Dev,” Harvey says, answering the phone. “Yeah, sorry, I got sidetracked. Same deal as today, we need an SUV.” He pauses as the other person on the line speaks. “Eight A.M. should be good. Yeah, we’re going to their headquarters, 4300 Sunset Boulevard.”

Why would I need to go to my dad’s business meeting? Unless we’re doing something straight after, and it’d just be easier for us to all go in the same car in the morning. But I don’t know how long I can stay away from Cielo Springs, not with the reopening only two days away. Not with Sawyer avoiding my texts.

I pull out my own phone and Google the address Harvey gave the car service guy. Getting dragged to studio meetings was a common thing growing up, four-year-old me sprawled out under the massive boardroom tables with my dad’s iPad. But as the search results come up, something tells me I won’t be watching reruns of Adventure Time during this meeting.

Because the address belongs to Barracuda Media.

The room around me becomes a sepia-tinted haze, my mom padding into the living room with a glass of champagne in each hand, Harvey hanging up the phone. I blink until the varying shades of brown—the beige of the walls, the nutty brown of the wood-paneled pillars, the pine beams crisscrossing the ceiling—all blur together.

Harvey stoops in front of me. “Dixie?” His words sound small. Unfamiliar. He sets gentle hands on my knees. “Are you okay?”

“All right, the perfect sushi place has been located.” My dad’s voice as he steps inside from the patio anchors me back into the room. “They deliver, too, and when I asked if they’d throw in a couple boxes of Reese’s Pieces, they sounded open to the idea.”

“Did you say no to the Barracuda deal?”

If I thought Harvey’s voice sounded small, mine is practically microscopic. My dad stares back at me blankly. I’m not even sure I’ve spoken until my mom turns her attention to me.

“What are you talking about?” she says.

The room is so silent I can practically hear my pulse beating in my neck. My dad’s eyes flick between me and my mom, his hands curling into fists. He parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Did you?” I say, my eyes never leaving him.

Confusion permeates every crevice of my mom’s face, from the bend of her brows to the tiny wrinkles around her eyes. “Of course he said no,” she says. But when my dad doesn’t answer, she presses nervously, “Charlie?”

My dad stretches his arms out in front of him, palms up. “It’s a deal for three hundred million dollars,” he says. “Do you have any idea what that would mean for us? No more of me having to travel for months at a time, never having to worry about—”

Mom’s hand flies up to her forehead. “Oh, Charlie,” she groans.

I shove myself to my feet, leaving Harvey to scramble out of my way. “This was a mistake,” I say.

“I said no the first time, but they called me back a few weeks ago offering the deal again, so I went to LA to hear them out. I asked them to give me some time, so we could talk about it as a family,” my dad says. “I wanted to, before you left for California, Dixie, but it didn’t feel right, when we were celebrating your graduation and Harvey was there.” He cringes, throws out to Harvey, “No offense, Harv. I was gonna ask you to give us some time tonight.”

Harvey holds up his hands. “None taken.”

Was Harvey at my graduation dinner? At the question, the image of that night comes back to me, a new one sitting side by side with my memory of my argument with my parents, Harvey next to me at the kitchen island picking over a plate of plain white rice with edamame heaped on top.

“I haven’t signed anything yet,” my dad says now. As I push past toward the opened doors behind him, he whirls around. “Where are you going?”

I charge out to the patio and the sprawling lawn behind, tears pressing at the back of my eyes. I’ve never been to this hotel before and so I don’t know where the hell the parking lot is, or where I can pick up an Uber, but I have to get away from my dad, the arguing that has already started up behind me but that fades with every infuriated stride I put between us. It’s not even my dad I’m mad at, not really. I am the idiot for thinking he could change, that I would ever be more important to him than an obscene amount of money. He said so himself—it’s three hundred million dollars. How can I compete with three hundred million dollars?

“Dixie, just stop!”

A hand wraps around my wrist and spins me, bringing me face-to-face with my dad.

I wrench my arm free, clutching it to my chest as though his hands are ice. “Don’t touch me,” I seethe.

We’ve stopped somewhere beyond the private bungalows, a long, rectangular pool visible between a grove of palm trees. The hotel’s tall main building looks down on us, countless rows of balconies rising overhead.

My dad holds out his hands, trying to calm me as though I’m a wild animal. “Can we please just talk about this?”

“What’s to talk about?” I say. “You don’t give a shit about what I think. All you care about is making a disgusting amount of money.”

“That’s not true,” he insists. “I’m just saying it’s more complicated than making money. There are things at play here that you don’t understand. Things I made sure you would never have to understand.”

A dark laugh bursts from my throat. “Well, bravo,” I say. “How could I ever understand anything about you? You don’t talk to me, you don’t tell me anything. I don’t even know you. All I know is this deal will help ruin movie theaters. Something that means everything to me. They used to mean something to you too. Do you not remember every Sunday at the Regal? That was our thing.” My eyes sting at the memory of us sharing tubs of popcorn as my legs swung under the seat beneath me, too small to touch the ground. “You said movie theaters were dead like you didn’t even care. These last few years in New York—movie theaters were the only places I felt safe.” I throw my arms out. “The Trip, Cielo Springs. That is my home.”

“I—” my dad says loudly, but stops himself. He stares down at his feet and lets out a long sigh. “I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I say. The tears that have been building in my eyes finally break free. “You’d have to be around to know that. And now you just show up here, acting like you suddenly care.”

“I do care,” he insists. “I’ve always cared.”

“Wow, really?” I say. “That was you caring? Missing almost all my birthdays, never being home for dinners, not having our family around, because they’re too uncomfortable being near you. Did you know that nobody out here knows who I am?” When my dad frowns, I nod, tears streaking my face. “Yeah. Exactly. Nobody out here knew I was related to the ultra-famous Charlie and Mich Roman. My own best friend didn’t even know. Kate and Bunny didn’t tell anyone. We all just wanted to live our lives quietly, out of your and Mom’s shadows. And then you show up and ruin that too.”

My dad’s shoulders bend in so his body loses shape. Silhouetted against the darkening sky, he’s only a stick, head hung low as he rakes his hand through his hair.

“I know I’ve missed too much,” he says. “But this deal with Barracuda—it could mean more time together, you and me and Mom. Isn’t that what you want?”

A few people have gathered along their balconies, none of them subtle about the fact that they’re listening to our fight. My hoodie is lying somewhere on the floor of my hotel room, but for once, I don’t care who else sees or hears me. As long as my dad does.

“You know, that’s the first time you’ve ever asked me what I want,” I say. “This whole time. Because it’s always been about you. Your career. What you want. And yeah, I wanted you to be around when I was younger—I needed you to be around.” The tears are coming so heavily now, they’re almost a constant stream down my cheeks. “Do you have any idea what it’s like being your kid? Everybody always wants something from you. They just want to use me to get to you. I never know if someone is talking to me because they genuinely want to, or if it’s because they know who I really am. And you weren’t there to protect me from any of it.”

“I’m here now, though,” Dad says. “Can’t we—”

“That’s the thing,” I practically shout. “I don’t need you anymore. I filled that gap a long time ago. Movie theaters were the one place I could go where no one could see me. Where I was just another body in the crowd. But now you want to take that away too and you expect everything to just be okay?”

My dad digs into his eyes with the heels of his hands. He looks exhausted, his hair tousled and one shoelace untied.

“I had to work—I had to…” he says, letting the sentence dwindle into nothing. “Please can we just talk more about this? I haven’t said yes to Barracuda.”

I blink up at the sky, a faint line of smoggy brown clouding over the horizon. “But you haven’t said no,” I say back. “And if that choice is so hard for you, then you’ve already made it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I know it can be disorienting, being dropped into a new reality. All the non-Mulligans are hunky-dory and you’re left adjusting. All I can say is, there’s only one solution to feeling unsettled by your new life, and that’s time.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “THE REWIND: WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?”

Twenty minutes later, a black Honda sidles up next to me on a suburban street, all four windows rolled down. The driver looks bored as he brings the car to a stop and turns down the radio.

“Where are you going?” Harvey calls from the back seat.

I knew going for a walk instead of finding the fastest way out of LA was a mistake. My arms wrap around each other to block out a cold I know isn’t really there.

“I don’t know,” I sniff.

“Do you want a ride?”

“Are you gonna drag me back to my parents?”

“I’m actually looking for food,” Harvey says. “I’ve always been too polite to say anything, but I legit hate sushi.”

I snort, my feet stuttering to a stop on the sidewalk. “How did you even find me?”

“Well, you’re, like, four blocks from the hotel,” he says. He waves his phone in the air. “Plus, your mom shared your location with me.”

Shit. I forgot to turn Find My iPhone off. Having me and my parents connected via Find My iPhone was my mom’s fun little way of us bonding, always knowing where the other ones were. But all it did was reinforce how far away my dad was.

I tip my face up toward the sky again, which has finally darkened into black.

“I don’t want to go back yet,” I say quietly.

Harvey slings an arm out the window so it dangles against the dirt-covered car. “I’m not gonna take you back if you don’t want to go,” he says. When I don’t immediately step off the sidewalk toward him, he sighs. “Seriously. I’m here as your boyfriend, not your dad’s assistant.”

I sigh too, but open the back door anyway. My eyes are sore and my face is still sticky from crying, but at least the tears have stopped. I can tell I must look fragile from the way Harvey gives me a smile-slash-grimace before patting my knee and nodding to the driver.

We end up at an In-N-Out Burger in West Hollywood, sitting across from each other and stuffed so tightly into a hard plastic booth that mine and Harvey’s knees touch under the table.

“So,” he says as he picks up a French fry from the red tray between us and dips it into his little paper cup of ketchup. “What’s your next move?”

It’s this thought that has been swirling around my head almost exclusively for the last half hour. As I wound through the gridded streets of Beverly Hills, I narrowed things down to three realistic options: I can go back to New York, stay in LA, or go to Cielo Springs. Staying in LA almost certainly means I’ll have to talk to my dad tonight, which I’m not ready to do; I know I could stay with my grandma, but I don’t want to have to explain myself. If I go to New York, I can at least wait the next day out until my Rewind takes effect, but there’s been another thought lingering at the back of my head, one I’ve been too afraid to look at too closely until now. That night when my dad told us about the Barracuda deal, he said he’d been working on it for a few months and then signed the day before my graduation. So, what if by me changing that day in Central Park, I somehow make it so the Barracuda deal is back on? What would that mean for the Trip? Granted, he could still sign it eventually in this reality, but I decide I’ll worry about that later. In the meantime, I have to read the Impact Report from my mom’s Rewind first, see if there’s anything there that can tell me one way or another if me using my own Rewind will counteract things. Which is why there’s really only one option for what I have to do tonight: I have to get back to Cielo Springs. At least if I go there, Kate and Bunny won’t ask questions if I don’t want them to. And maybe by the time I get back, Sawyer will be ready to talk.

The last fourteen or so missed calls in my log are from my parents and Harvey, so it takes a little while to find Sawyer’s name. I click on it and wait as it rings.

“I need to go back to the desert,” I say to Harvey’s question. Sawyer’s voicemail picks up. “Shit, Sawyer, just answer the phone,” I whine down at my screen, ending the call.

Harvey twizzles a French fry between his fingers. “Who’s Sawyer?” he says before biting the fry cleanly in half. “Is he the hot blond guy from the movie theater?”

My face boils with embarrassment.

Harvey snickers. “That means yes.” He sips from the single cup of pink lemonade sitting between us, then offers it to me. “What’s going on with him?”

“We kind of had a fight when you and my parents showed up”—I take the lemonade from him and stir the ice around at the bottom with the straw—“hence him storming out.” The lemonade is sharp, stinging my mouth.

“Oh, wait, you’re talking about the tall one.”

Lemonade catches at the back of my throat and I splutter coughs into the back of my hand. “The tall—” I finally say. “What?”

“The guy,” Harvey elaborates. “The tall blond guy.”

“Yeah, that’s Sawyer,” I say. “Who are you talking about?”

“The really cute blond one that was sitting down. You know, with the long hair.”

I squint at the memory, parsing out all the bodies in the room at the Trip. There was my mom, dad, Kate, Harvey for a little bit, Sawyer also for a little bit, and—

“Ew,” I say with a grimace. “Are you talking about Bunny? That’s my cousin.”

My cousin, who I used to pull around our neighborhood in a little red wagon.

Harvey’s eyes illuminate. “Oh my god, his name is Bunny?” he says, holding a hand to his heart. “I love that even more.”

“His name’s not actually Bunny, we just call him—” I pause, pretend to gag. “You know what? This is too weird. Let’s stay on topic.”

“Yes. Right,” Harvey says. “Tall guy.”

“Sawyer.”

“Sawyer.” He nods. “Why are you guys fighting?”

I swallow. Even though Harvey has been acting like we know each other—because in reality, I guess we kind of do—all day, I still can’t get over how familiar he is with me, how he can read my expressions. Even as we sat down to eat a few minutes ago, he didn’t bother asking if I wanted my own cup of ketchup because he knows I hate it. On the way here, we talked about how he was planning to sign up for a British history class when he started at Columbia in the fall, mostly because he was hoping to finally put his obsessive knowledge of Freddie Mercury to good use. It’s the most I can remember ever having spoken to him in one sitting, though I’m sure in this reality, it isn’t. He doesn’t even feel like the person I knew before. Was this who he always was, but hiding, or had our relationship helped bring it out? Both?

My mouth drops open just enough to let the words eke out, but worry holds them back. I know how bad it sounds that I’ve kept my own parents a secret from someone I’m supposed to love, but Harvey has been so honest and vulnerable with me. Don’t I owe him the same?

With a deep breath, I quietly launch into the story about Sawyer, us meeting four years ago, how practically inseparable we’ve been, even when we lived on opposite sides of the country. I even come clean about Central Park, somehow managing not to dissolve into the booth with shame. Harvey listens patiently, elbows propped up on the table and his expression blank even when I get to the part about how Sawyer didn’t know who my parents were until today.

“And then him finding out you’re my boyfriend was kind of the icing on the shame cake,” I finish.

Harvey’s mouth falls open. “Wait,” he says. “He didn’t know about our”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“arrangement?”

I puff out my cheeks with a long breath. “Was it not clear that I’m a secretive loser?” I say. “Plus, I’m not gonna tell him stuff without your permission.”

Harvey drops another French fry into his mouth and nods, as though considering this.

“Now I just need to talk to him.” I poke my phone, willing it to light up with Sawyer’s name. “If he ever answers his freaking phone.”

“Can’t you just go to his house?”

“I called,” I say. “His dad says he’s not there. He’s not at the Trip either. Bunny and Kate haven’t heard from him.”

I even called the AV Alley, but Aaron hadn’t seen him either.

“Have you checked his socials?”

“He only has Instagram, and he doesn’t really use it for stuff like that,” I say, reaching across the table for a French fry.

Harvey shrugs. “It’s worth a shot though.”

In-N-Out’s fries are long and skinny, the perfect potato-y yellow. I crunch one with the back of my teeth and sigh, picking up my phone again. Sawyer’s Instagram is up on my screen in seconds, but just like I thought, there’s nothing. His last post is a video, one he uploaded two months ago. I’ve already watched it at least seven times, but I click on it anyway. It’s of the carnival scene I saw in his garage, the Ferris wheel spinning, the crowd rushing by below. Smiling, I watch as a little boy buys a balloon that sweeps him off his feet, carrying him up and over the Ferris wheel so he lands in the top car.

“Can I see?” Harvey asks.

I blink myself back into the restaurant. Harvey is leaned over our table, one hand inching closer to my phone. I clear my throat and slide it toward him.

“There’s nothing there,” I say as Harvey taps the screen. “He’s probably—”

“Found him,” he says. “He’s with someone called @zoeyjoyxo.”

“What?” I say back, surprise heating my cheeks. “How do you know?”

“Someone tagged him.”

Harvey twists my phone back around so I can see the picture on the screen. It’s an Instagram shot but not of Sawyer. Instead, there’s a girl with dark hair wearing a black beret and who’s standing next to another girl whose strawberry-blond hair is smashed down by a velvet cowboy hat. Claire.

The caption at the bottom from @zoeyjoyxo says:

Let the games begin

: @huckfinnwasbetter

@Huckfinnwasbetter is Sawyer’s handle. Behind Claire and who I’m guessing is Zoey is a dusty-looking disco ball sitting in the middle of a dining room table. It has to be the disco ball Claire broke.

“He went to the party,” I say softly.

The party he had no plans of going to, because he was supposed to hang out with me.

“I’m sorry, which party?”

“Claire’s party,” I say, tapping the picture with my fingernail. “She’s the cowboy. She used to work at the Trip.”

“Perfect!” Harvey claps stray salt from his fingers. “Let’s go.”

I shove back into the booth as though he’s just tried to fling ketchup in my face. “I can’t just show up at some party and try to corner him,” I say, laughing incredulously. “It’s one thing going to his house, but this would be so weird.”

“I thought you said you knew this girl.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“So, were you not invited?”

I click the side of my phone so the screen goes dark before shoving it into my pocket. “I mean, I was,” I say.

Harvey takes one last long sip of pink lemonade before dropping the cup onto the now empty red tray.

“All right then,” he says firmly. “Let’s do this.”

My fingers prickle with nervousness. He has a point; I was invited. Technically I have just as much right to be there as anyone else. It’s less than ideal, but ambushing Sawyer at Claire’s party might be the only chance I have to talk to him.

“Wait,” I say to Harvey, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s?”

He blinks at me. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m driving you, obviously. How else are you gonna get there?”

I swallow. “I mean, there’s the bus…”

“Yeah, no.” He shakes his head. “That’s not happening.”

“Where would you get a car?”

“The hotel will sort it out.” Harvey leans forward again. “The things they’ll do for celebrities and their people is shocking.”

“But,” I say, “it’s, like, three hours away.”

I can feel how weak my voice sounds, because Harvey’s right. The bus to Cielo Springs doesn’t even run this late. Without my parents to fly me on a private jet, I’d have to take a cab or an Uber, and there’s little to no chance any driver would make that six-hour round-trip willingly.

Feeling my resistance crumbling, Harvey reaches across the table and folds his hands over mine.

“Babe,” he says sweetly. “This’ll be our first road trip.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It’s not compulsory to wait the four full days before enacting a Rewind, but it’s advised. Something so permanent deserves careful consideration. Take a moment to think about what you’re doing: Is there another way? Will this be worth it?

—EXCERPT FROM “THE REWIND: WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

Claire’s house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac on the other side of Cielo Avenue from Kate’s place. Bunny is waiting for us on the sidewalk by the time Harvey and I pull up, crouching down low on his skateboard before springing up into the air and spinning the thing for one full rotation before landing on it again with a flat thwap. We’ve been texting for almost the entire drive, Bunny tasked with making sure Sawyer doesn’t leave the party before we get there. Apparently, he tried as soon as Bunny arrived, but Claire roped him into a flip cup tournament, and I know Sawyer is too competitive to let something like that go.

Harvey parks the car alongside the sidewalk a few houses down from Claire’s, killing the lights so the street returns to darkness except for the orange glow from a couple spotty streetlamps. Bunny hops onto his skateboard and rolls forward to meet us.

“And he skateboards?” Harvey says, turning to me. “I think I’m in love.”

I give him my most withering stare and snap, “Focus.”

The houses on Claire’s street are moderately sized, the front yards just more varying takes on desert-scapes. In the daytime, the houses probably all look exactly the same, their pebbled outsides in various shades of beige.

“Is he still here?” I say to my cousin by way of greeting.

Bunny holds up his phone. “You mean, has he left since I texted you three minutes ago? No.” He kicks his skateboard up so he can grab it, then swings it under his arm. “They’re all watching Borrego High’s Beauty and the Beast, so we’ve got at least another hour before he bolts.” His face is suddenly very serious. “What’s the plan?”

“Plan?” I repeat. “I don’t know. Talk to him.”

Harvey turns on me. “That’s the plan?”

“You’ve had three hours in the car and that’s the best you came up with?” Bunny says.

“Well I—I mean,” I stutter. “That’s all I need to do. I just need to talk to him.”

“If it were that easy, you’d have done it already.” Bunny shakes his head. “Fine, whatever, we’ll make it work. Do we need to do anything about Claire?”

“Why would we need to do anything about her?” Harvey asks. When my cousin turns to him, Harvey smiles. “I’m Harvey, by the way,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Benjamin,” Bunny says, straightening his spine so he’s at least two inches taller. He takes Harvey’s hand. With Harvey’s permission, I told Bunny on the drive over that we weren’t actually dating. “You can call me Ben, though.”

“Benjamin?” I can’t help but cackle. “What is this, a job interview?”

Bunny faces me enough so Harvey can’t see as he mouths Shut up to me. Then, back to Harvey, “Claire is the girl Sawyer low-key hooks up with when he’s sad. She gets it though, so it’s cool.”

Harvey lets out a low whistle. “The plot mother-effing thickens.” He looks at me. “Do you want me to seduce her?”

My eyes widen. “Do I what?” I exclaim. “No, I don’t want you to seduce her. I thought you were supposed to be bad at talking to girls.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t say it would work.”

But Bunny is right. Though Claire didn’t immediately start yelling at me when I admitted I liked Sawyer, she could’ve been plotting something for later. Something I’ll set up perfectly by willingly walking into her house.

“I can’t think about that right now. I just need five minutes with Sawyer to explain.” My throat constricts all of a sudden, my voice going tight. “Bottom line is, Sawyer is my best friend. I don’t know what my life looks like without him. I just—I at least have to try and fix this.”

When I look up again, Bunny and Harvey are both watching me; Harvey, with a half-smile on his face and Bunny chewing his bottom lip as he sets a hand on my shoulder and says, “We got this.”

We follow Bunny into Claire’s house. The front door spills into the living room, which is dark except for the light from the kitchen and some rainbow bulbs shining from one of those cheap Chuck E. Cheese disco light machines that’s rotating from a coffee table in the middle of the floor. Fixed to the wall at the back of the room is a large TV, at the foot of which sits a long couch flanked by two matching armchairs. The room is filled with about twenty people our age, crammed onto the couch, doubling up in chairs, and sprawled out on the floor, lying flat so they can see the TV looming above. On the screen is grainy footage of a stage, on which stands a girl in an ill-fitting brown wig. When she sings, her voice sounds like a cross between Ariana Grande and Kermit the Frog.

At first no one seems to notice as the three of us enter the room, but it only takes one person to glance my way before the murmuring starts.

“Is that…”

“Holy shit, it is.”

“Dude, that’s the girl from TikTok.”

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath.

There wasn’t time to plan how I’d get Sawyer alone in a room with me on the drive here, because I was too busy scrolling through social media, where my face was reflected back at me hundreds and hundreds of times. Someone had recorded mine and my dad’s argument in the hotel courtyard, then uploaded it to TikTok, Instagram, X. Everywhere. From that came the blogs, videos of people speculating where I’ve been, as though I haven’t been living underneath my parents’ roof for the last ten years. My favorite video so far is the one whose caption reads, “Dixon Mulligan-Roman: Yes, she’s still alive.” That one alone has already been shared more than seven thousand times. There were even videos where people were profiling Cielo Springs, my “secret summertime hideaway,” complete with pictures of the Trip, Kate and Bunny, even Sawyer. The photos they found of me in my Trip uniform with purple hair are from years ago, pictures I don’t even remember taking. Everything I’d worked so hard to keep quiet was out in just a few hours. And worse, it wasn’t only my cover blown; it was Kate and Bunny’s, too.

“They all know?” I whisper to my cousin.

Bunny speaks to me through the side of his mouth. “Yeah, probably should’ve warned you about that.”

I twist my fingers in front of my stomach, command my feet to stay still, to not bolt back out the front door. Something like this hasn’t happened since that time my mom tried to take me out for ice cream in Chelsea and someone asked for her autograph; within seconds, the sidewalk was swarmed, phones shoved in our faces and people pulling on my clothes so hard, the hem of my T-shirt tore.

At the rising commotion, Sawyer, who’s sitting in the middle of the couch, glances back at us. All I see is him roll his eyes before he turns around again, arms folded over his chest as he sinks low enough in his seat that the top of his head disappears.

“Dixie,” a voice whispers from my left. “Dixie.” Claire is standing in the kitchen, waving. When we make eye contact, her movements only get more frantic. “Come here!”

Harvey leans over. “Is that the cowboy?” he says.

I take a deep breath. She’s not wearing boxing gloves, which is a good sign.

“Keep your keys out, in case we have to flee,” I say to him under my breath.

Harvey nods.

The kitchen sits just off the living room and is separated by a wall with a big, open window cut into it so the rest of the house is still visible. It’s long and rectangular, about the size of the one in the house my parents rented when they lived in London while shooting The One Who Wasn’t. Claire is back here alone, swirling a wooden spoon around a large bowl that’s filled with a bright red liquid. The musical blaring from the living room breaks into “Be Our Guest,” Lumiere’s accent switching from French to British, with a strange sprinkling of Canadian.

“What are you doing here?” Claire says over it.

I swallow, try to put on an innocent smile, like I’m definitely not thinking about her theory that the boy she wants to date has shut her down because he likes me.

“You invited me,” I say.

“Yeah, obviously.” She sets the spoon down on a paper towel. “But you were in LA, like, ten seconds ago. Why are you back here?”

My lips part to ask how she knows I was in LA, but the answer is obvious. She, like everyone else at this party, has seen the videos.

“What is going on?” she says to my silence. “Your parents are Mich and Charlie Roman?”

“I—it’s a—” Instinct makes me fumble for the words, ready to deny it. But there’s no point anymore. The secret is out. Everyone knows who I am. “Yes,” I say, sighing. “They’re my parents. I kept it a secret so I could have a normal life out here, but now”—I throw my arms out toward the living room—“apparently everyone knows.”

“Did Sawyer?”

Even though I’ve been thinking about him almost constantly for the last eight or so hours, the mention of his name, with him just feet away, still makes my skin heat.

“No,” I say quietly.

“No?” Claire practically shouts. Then, lowering her voice to a hiss, “How could you not tell him?”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

She eyes the couch through the cutout in the wall. “I’m pretty sure you’re too late.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” I say. “I came so I could talk to him.”

“And how’re you gonna do that?”

Bunny appears over my shoulder. “She doesn’t have a plan,” he interjects.

Claire levels a frown at me. “You don’t have a plan?”

“Could we lure him somewhere?” Harvey says from my other shoulder.

“Oh my god,” I say, jumping at the sound of his voice. “Why are your suggestions so creepy?”

Harvey slips his hand around me to extend it toward Claire. “I’m Harvey.”

Claire shakes it, her eyes filled with confusion as she looks at me. “He’s my boyfriend,” I say.

But when Claire’s expression morphs into horror, Harvey bumps me with his hip. “Not actually,” he says. “We’re keeping it casual. It’s a whole thing.”

“Luring him isn’t a bad idea,” Bunny says. “We could plant Dixie somewhere and get Sawyer in somehow. Then I’ll secure the door from the outside so he can’t escape.”

“That’s insane,” I say.

“You could use my room,” Claire offers.

“Wait, wait, wait.” I turn toward her, blinking. “You’re not … mad?”

Bunny and Harvey exchange a look.

“We’re gonna give you guys a second,” my cousin says, patting my shoulder.

They shuffle off to the far end of the kitchen near the fridge. Once they’re a few feet away, Claire sighs.

“Sawyer made it clear a while ago that we were temporary,” she says to me. “If anything, it’s a relief to know it’s because he’s into you, not that there’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I say, my attention drifting back to Sawyer, only the ends of his curls visible over the top of the couch. “I’m the one who lied to him.”

“Look.” Claire suddenly fills my vision, her hands clamped firmly on my shoulders. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, sparkly green pencil lining her eyes. “Sawyer didn’t immediately storm out the second you got here, which means there’s still a part of him that wants to be around you, even if he wouldn’t admit it.”

“But you didn’t hear him at the Trip today,” I say. “He’s so mad at me.”

“Then make it better. Go to my room and talk to him. Make things right.” Her eyes flick over my shoulder, teeth edging out to bite her bottom lip. “And when you’re done, you can tell me more about your casual not-boyfriend.”

I turn around to look at Harvey, whose mouth is close enough to my cousin’s ear that I can’t hear what he’s saying.

“I’m pretty sure he’s hitting on my cousin,” I say, watching them. Harvey reaches up to play with the ends of Bunny’s hair and the truth of my words sinks in. “Oh my god, he’s hitting on my cousin.”

Claire frowns. “Damn it,” she says. “Why does everybody get someone except for me? I better be the belle of the fucking ball at Berkeley.” The exasperation in her tone makes my spine bolt straight. I’ve never heard Claire swear before. She looks at me, shaken, as though she’s only just heard herself. “I think I’ve had too much jungle juice,” she says.

With that, Claire walks me through the kitchen and over to the hallway branching off the living room. Then she plants both hands on my back and shoves.

Claire’s bedroom walls are so green, it hurts. They’re not so much “green” as they are “lime,” peppered with huge framed musical posters for Spring Awakening, Hamilton, and Rent. What look like at least fifty front covers ripped off show programs are taped to the wall over Claire’s white metal bedframe in clean, even lines. Opposite is a long wooden trunk, on top of which is a small TV. With the absence of Beauty and the Beast and Kelly Fraser bleating out a pitchy rendition of “Something There,” the room is quiet, leaving me to shift from foot to foot on the spongy off-white carpet. I don’t know how Bunny and Claire intend on getting Sawyer down here, but I still probably have a few minutes. The comforter on Claire’s bed is striped with bright pink and white, her pillows an electric purple. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the remote control for the TV, turning the volume down low once the screen comes to life. Growing up, the TV was rarely not on in our house, my dad using the undercurrent of noise as a backdrop when he worked on new scripts. When nothing was on, he’d put in one of the DVDs from his Lord of the Rings boxed set, the sweeping lilt of the score calming his nerves. I can’t help but wish Return of the King was on now, just so I could lose myself in the scene where Éowyn kills the Witch-king of Angmar. That was mine and my dad’s favorite part. But I flick through the channels until I land on some sitcom rerun, shaking out of my head the look on my dad’s face when I told him no one out here knew I was related to him.

The doorknob rattles and there’s Sawyer’s voice, annoyed as he shouts down the hall, “I don’t even know what a bandeau looks like,” before he catches me sitting on the bed and freezes. He’s already far enough in the room so Bunny can lean in and slam the door behind him. Sawyer spins and tries for the doorknob, but it won’t budge.

“Are you kidding?” He pounds on the door. “You’re holding me against my will?”

I shoot to my feet. “For the record, I was against entrapment.”

He rests his forehead against the door and says into the wood, “Super comforting, thanks.”

“Can we talk?” I say. My voice wobbles. I clutch my hands in front of my stomach. “Please? I only need a few minutes.” When he doesn’t reply, I add wryly, “I’m pretty sure they’ll let you out after a few minutes.”

Sawyer gives a long, defeated sigh. “Whatever,” he says, pushing past me to sit on Claire’s bed.

I swallow. Now that he’s here, his shoulders stiff and hurt carved into every movement, all the things I’ve been carefully preparing to say to him are stuck in my mouth. The channels fly by at a dizzying speed as Sawyer clicks the remote, searching. The rotating haze of colors makes my eyes water, and I have to shield my gaze with one hand to stop my head from spinning.

“Can you maybe … not, do that?” I say weakly.

In all the time we’ve known each other, Sawyer and I have barely ever fought. Aside from the argument in his garage, the worst time was when he found out I’d watched F9 without him after we’d love-to-hate-watched everything in the Fast & Furious franchise together, but that was only because Vin Diesel had actually come over to my house to show my dad the movie in our screening room and it would’ve been rude to refuse. That time, Sawyer didn’t talk to me for a whole day, only resuming communication when I showed up at his apartment with a share bag of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, the F9 DVD, and a tiny Vin Diesel action figure.

He’d been hurt then, but this is a thousand times worse.

The channels stop turning, and for a second, I take him responding to my request as a positive—until I see that he’s landed on something intentionally.

“Oh, looky here,” he practically sings. “What impeccable timing.”

I frown. “What’s th—”

With all the thoughts buzzing around my head, it takes a second for me to work out the film. The shot is of a gated, bean-shaped pool surrounded by an apartment complex, the water a potent chlorine blue. At the shallow end stands a man who’s supporting a woman in a blocky black one-piece as she floats, her face eerily still. When he takes his hand away and she doesn’t sink, the man laughs and says delightedly, “Look at you!”

It’s The Middle, right after the part where Sam and Stella figure out that in order for them to leave limbo, Stella needs to learn how to swim. They discover this after realizing that the root of their problems and the decisions they’ve made that’ve ended with them in limbo lie in the death of their little boy, who drowned after falling into the pool at their apartment complex. Stella couldn’t swim, resulting in her almost dying as she jumped into the deep end and tried to save him. But Sam is the one that left the gate unlocked, which is why he needs to be the one to teach her. Both of them, their decisions, make them complicit. If they want to leave limbo, they have to do it together.

The TV screen is filled with my mother’s face as the camera zooms in on her glassy eyes and the cloudless sky reflected in her pupils. My fingers twitch as tears gather along her lashes, pain alive in every feature. Even though when I was four, my mom showed me how she could cry on command, explaining that just because she looked sad on camera didn’t mean she really was, that she’d always be happy as long as she had me and my dad, it still feels weird seeing her broken on-screen.

“You know,” I say, sitting beside Sawyer, careful not to make too much sound so as not to spook him, “she got so much water in her ears from filming the pool scenes that she burst her right eardrum trying to get it out. She still has ringing in her ears whenever she’s really tired or goes on an airplane.”

From the second the words leave my lips, I know they’re a mistake. It was supposed to be light, just a fun fact, a way to break the ice, but as Sawyer turns to me slowly, his smirk filled with nothing but disdain, I can hear how self-important it sounded.

“Cool fact!” he exclaims, his fingers going up around his face in jazz hands. “It’s almost like you know her.”

His words are so sharp, I flinch. He springs to his feet again, pacing around the small patch of carpet in front of Claire’s closet. His hands find the back of his head, tugging at his curls.

“How could you not tell me?” he demands suddenly. “How?”

I swallow again, digging deep for my voice. “It was a slippery slope,” I say. “I would’ve told you right at the beginning, back when we first met, but when you said you liked The Middle and it was clear Kate and Bunny hadn’t said anything to you before, it was kind of nice to be able to talk to you about it without you knowing who my parents were. But then, the longer I went without telling you, the harder it got to tell you, because it started getting weird that I hadn’t told you.”

Sawyer throws his arms out wide. “That’s why you should’ve said something from the start.”

“I mean, it’s not like I lied. Not technically,” I say. “It’s not like I said my parents were doctors or something. You just never asked.”

“Shit, you’re right,” he says. “That’s so unlike me. I always ask new people I meet, Oh, and by the way, are your parents famous?” He rolls his eyes. “That’s a lame-ass excuse and you know it. Do you even like The Middle, or was that just a lie too?”

“Of course I do,” I exclaim. “It’s my favorite movie of all time. Seriously. Not just because I think it’s a great piece of art, but because it means so much to my family. It’s where my parents fell in love, it’s the first thing they ever made. It was just … pure. Before my dad had to care about anything else.” Before the studios and the money. “Until you came along, I’d never met anyone who cared about it as much as I did.”

“But you lied,” Sawyer says. “We’re supposed to be best friends, and you lied.”

“We are best friends,” I insist. “You know me better than anyone.”

“How can you say that? I didn’t even know who your mom and dad are.”

“So what? Why does that matter?”

“Because they created you,” he says. “They’re where you come from.”

“But what about all the other stuff?” I say. “Everything else you know about me is real. I broke my arm when I was five. I love Marvel movies. I’ve always dreamed about studying film at NYU.”

“Did you even apply to NYU, or did your parents just make a phone call?”

I press my lips together. “I applied just like everybody else.”

“Huh.” Sawyer shrugs. “I didn’t think nepo babies had to deal with paperwork.”

“I am not a nepo baby.”

Sawyer shakes his head. “Spoken like a true nepo baby.”

“Look,” I say, the warmth of anger creeping up my neck. “You being a dick right now just reinforces why I don’t tell people who my parents are. You get that, right?”

“I’m mad because you didn’t tell me, not because you’re a nepo baby.” His voice climbs so he’s just a few steps downs from shouting. “I don’t know anything about you that counts.”

His words sting. That counts? As though the only thing about my identity that matters is the fact that I have famous parents?

“What do you want to hear, Sawyer?” I say. “Do you want to hear about how we have to schedule decorating the Christmas tree, and how even then, my dad misses it ninety percent of the time? Or how about the fact that I stopped going out as me when I was thirteen because my parents weren’t around to keep paparazzi away or weirdos from trying to cut off little pieces of my hair, which, by the way, is a thing that actually happened. Twice.” At least both times it sold for a couple thousand dollars on eBay. “When I come out here, things are different. I can actually be myself without the shadow of my parents.”

“But see, it doesn’t work like that.”

Sawyer spins away and pretends to look at the books stacked up on the shelves above Claire’s desk. He runs his fingers along the spines and I watch them closely, remembering the way I’d imagine what they’d feel like on my face in those months leading up to Central Park, but I blink the thought away. I need to focus.

“You don’t get to be two different people on two ends of the country and tell me I know you better than anyone else. You have this completely other life, Dixie. Crazy-famous parents, a boyfriend—”

At the mention of Harvey, a firework of energy bursts through me. This is something I can refute. Something I can hold on to.

“Harvey isn’t my boyfriend,” I exclaim. At Sawyer’s frown, I step closer, my voice dropping in spite of the fact that there’s no way anyone will hear us over the TV in the living room and I’m pretty sure Bunny is guarding the door. “Look, you can’t tell anyone, but Harvey and I are just fake-dating. His dad is an asshole, so I’m doing him a favor.”

Sawyer’s frown deepens. “Who, his asshole dad?”

“No, Harvey. We’re just friends. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s into Bunny, which, believe me, is a very weird thing to say out loud.”

“You still kept it a secret,” Sawyer says.

“I know.” I take another step toward him. “And I’m sorry. People can get so weird around me when they know. They stop seeing me and just see Mich and Charlie Roman’s daughter.” I toss a hand toward the bedroom door. “I mean, you saw everyone in there.”

“See, that’s the problem.” Sawyer pulls his shoulders into his ears. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want people to know. I’ve seen how weird and possessive they can be about celebrities. But that’s people, that’s everyone else. Not me.”

“I know that now,” I say. “But at the beginning—”

“You had four years to say something, Dixie. Four years.”

I can feel my control on this conversation slipping dangerously close to an edge and permanently out of reach. I swallow hard, trying to bring some kind of calmness into my body, but everything about me wants to panic.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” I say, moving forward another step. “I was going to do it after Central Park, but when I got there—”

“Wait.” Sawyer’s body goes still. “You went to Central Park?”

The breath I pull in judders in my chest. No more secrets.

“I made it to the fountain,” I say. “But I saw you and I knew—I knew everything would change, and I got scared.” My hair is still up in the messy bun from this morning. I touch the orange wisps floating around my face, tuck them behind my ears. “Did you know, when I turned eleven, I had a birthday party, and I invited all the girls from my class. It was this stupid private school my parents wanted me to go to. They thought it would be better for ‘discretion,’ or whatever. My mom had this company turn our house into a murder mystery party and you know what? It was surprisingly fun. None of the girls had ever really talked to me before, but after that day, they all started asking if we could hang out. Always being on set with my parents, I’d never had friends before, so I was excited. And my mom—she was freaking thrilled.” My throat tightens at the memory of my mother, the elation on her face every time I asked if a new girl could come over after school. “It took me two months to figure out they all just wanted to come over because they had this competition going about who could steal the coolest thing from my house. One of their parents found my dad’s expired driver’s license in her kid’s jacket pocket.”

The worst part wasn’t the humiliation, or the fact that once the game was over, not a single one of the girls would talk to me, as though I was the one who’d ruined their game. The worst part was my mom’s expression when she found out, how she didn’t even argue when I begged to be homeschooled.

Sawyer steps toward me and I freeze, not sure what to expect. But as soon as he’s close enough, he reaches both hands up to either side of my face and presses his forehead to mine. I crush my eyes closed, my heart beating wildly.

“I’m sorry I called you a nepo baby,” he says, barely audible over the thundering in my chest. Something in me unlocks. Something like hope. Maybe he really will forgive me. He skims a thumb over the tear that’s slid down my cheek and it’s so much like my Movie, I want to melt. “I wanna believe you would’ve told me about your parents before it came out on its own. Genuinely, I do. If you’d just given me a chance to know you, maybe things would’ve been different.” Sawyer steps back, and as he does, two tears slip down either side of his face at the exact same time. He wipes them with both hands. “You can say what you want, but the bottom line is, you didn’t trust me to know who you really are.” More tears, ones he doesn’t wipe away this time. “And if you can’t trust me, then that just means no matter what you say, we aren’t best friends, and we never have been.”

Reaching behind him, Sawyer twists the knob on Claire’s bedroom door and this time, it gives. He slips back into the hallway and then the front door slams. Bunny, Harvey, and Claire rush into the room, but their voices blend together as I crumple onto Claire’s bed. The only thing I can hear is the tinny, hollow sound of the TV, of my own mother crying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Similar to the Rewind, the source of Impact Reports isn’t fully understood. According to Lois Mulligan, transcribing them “feels a little like writing down an audiobook that suddenly exists in your mind.”

—EXCERPT FROM “REWINDS 101” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

For something that lists out the consequences of a literal fold in reality, Impact Reports are surprisingly short and boring. The tone is sparse, written out like a summary of surgery, just meant to convey the facts and nothing else. Flipping through it for what has to be the thousandth time this morning, I wish it had pictures or something. A more interesting font, at least. Anything but the cold, clinical sentences that do absolutely nothing to tell me whether or not using my Rewind will have any influence on the Barracuda deal.

Pale morning light trickles in from underneath the blinds behind the bed in my room at Kate’s house. My eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed in sand, my head swelling with the kind of heaviness that begs for sleep. But every time I shut my eyes, images of Sawyer’s face last night swim through my brain, his hurt so vivid I swear I could touch it. Hurt I caused. Hurt that was my fault. Hurt I can shove away into the back of my head as I pore over my mom’s Impact Report again and again and again.

IMPACT REPORT

Rewind: Michelle Mulligan-Roman

Moment Pre-Rewind: In a conversation with Charlie Roman, Michelle Mulligan-Roman did not comment on his idea to sign a deal with Barracuda Media, making them the sole distributor of all past and three future Roman Numeral productions.

Moment Post-Rewind: In a conversation with Charlie Roman, Michelle Mulligan-Roman strongly dissented to his idea to sign a deal with Barracuda Media, making them the sole distributor of all past and three future Roman Numeral productions.

This concept is hard to wrap my head around. When my dad floated the idea to make a deal that would essentially tear down his sister-in-law’s only income, my mom … what? Shrugged? Laughed? Did what my mom did with her Rewind really not occur to her to do in the first place? None of it sounds like her, but the Impact Report doesn’t exactly leave a lot of room for interpretation.

Underneath the Rewind moment is a list of repercussions only marginally more elaborative:

Charlie Roman does not sign a deal with Barracuda Media, making them the sole distributor of all past and three future Roman Numeral productions.

(No further details)

More work with All-Around Media.

Charlie Roman is working with All-Around Media on creating new films.

Barracuda Media signs new deals.

Barracuda Media has secured the streaming rights to four future productions by the Sprouse twins, as well as all members of One Direction (barring Harry Styles) should they wish to direct or produce any films.

Dixon Mulligan-Roman is in a relationship with Harvey Keller.

(No further details)

There are a few more minor repercussions listed, but nothing that would signal specifically that my new Rewind would counteract my mom’s. Everything about the Impact Report is so emotionless and dull. There are no dots to connect, no obvious clues as to how the Rewind might have resulted in these changes. The first three are kind of self-explanatory, though. My dad signed with Barracuda, now he didn’t. No deal with Barracuda likely means he had to find work elsewhere. And without my dad’s deal, Barracuda had to sign someone else in his place.

It’s how this all left me and Harvey dating that I don’t understand. Maybe because my dad is working more with All-Around, which is where Harvey’s dad works, they’ve been around our house more? And having his dad around more has meant Harvey being around more, and there being more opportunities for me to accidentally witness his dad’s shitty behavior? But if I use my Rewind on Central Park, will that mean I don’t have the chance to get Harvey’s dad off his back? Or that my mom somehow might not have the chance to tell my dad that by helping with the careless dismantling of the movie theater industry, he’s being a giant fucking dick?

The obvious solution here is to read my own Impact Report, which, if my Rewind is due to be enacted tomorrow, should come tonight. Maybe I’ll still figure out a way to protect Harvey from his dad. Maybe the Barracuda deal will still be off, and Kate can sleep better knowing directors still have faith in movie theaters. And if my dad hasn’t signed with Barracuda yet but is still mulling it over, there’s time to talk him out of it. Only reading my Impact Report will give me answers. It’s this realization that clears the fog in my brain, that makes me sit up in bed and grope around the nightstand beside me for my phone.

I thumb out a quick text to my grandma.

Dixie

Hi Grandma! Do you know when my Impact Report will come today? No pressure, I’m just wondering! Love you!!!

The exclamation points scream anxiety, but I’m hoping my grandma will write it off as a product of the early hour. The tiles are cold underneath my feet as I pad into the bathroom. Last night when we got back from Claire’s party, Bunny and Harvey sat with me on the couch until I was so exhausted from crying, I could barely lift my head off Harvey’s shoulder. He slept on the living room couch, so I try to close the bathroom door as softly as possible. When I’m done, I tiptoe back into the hallway and wince at the sound of someone coughing from behind me. Bunny’s bedroom door is open, but it’s not my cousin standing in the doorway adjusting the waistband of his tiny black boxer briefs; it’s Harvey. Though still clearly heavy with sleep, his eyes quadruple in size at the sight of me. Even in the weak morning light, I can see him blushing. Behind him, Bunny mumbles something sleepily from his bed.

“Is this really weird for you?” Harvey says after a long silence, his eyes trained on the tiled floor as he sweeps back his sleep-rumpled hair.

I sigh, turning toward the kitchen. “Not nearly as weird as it should be.”

On the coffeemaker is an orange Post-it note, my aunt’s familiar handwriting looped across.

WENT TO THE TRIP EARLY. COFFEE’S READY TO BREW. CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE UP

I must’ve slept at least a little, because I don’t remember hearing her get up this morning. Kate has already put a filter in the machine, along with what looks like enough scoops of ground coffee for at least three cups.

“You little angel,” I say to the empty kitchen.

Crumpling up the note, I toss it into the trash can beside the fridge and wait as the coffeemaker rumbles to life. My plans for today unfurl in my head like a map unrolling across a table. Keeping busy will mean I can take my mind off my Impact Report until my grandma gets back to me. After I drink my coffee, I’ll call Kate and see what else needs to get done for the reopening tomorrow. She’d mentioned something about needing to put pictures in frames for the gallery wall. Someone’ll have to program the computer with the films for tomorrow night. Last time we talked, nobody could agree on what we’d actually show, but—

The doorbell rings, breaking my thoughts. Water trickles into the coffeepot as I stare at the darkened front doorway. Did Kate forget her keys? If that were the case, why wouldn’t she call and have one of us bring them to her when we get to the Trip? Unless it’s Sawyer, who’s slept as badly as I did and wants to talk again. He’ll know we’re bound to see each other at the Trip today and maybe he wants to make up to avoid any inevitable awkwardness. I can picture him standing on the doorstep, a bubble tea in each hand as his eyes lift to meet mine.

In my rush to open the door, my feet tangle and I almost trip, catching myself at the last second with a palm slapping against the wall. It’s not Sawyer fidgeting on the doorstep, though. There’s no bubble tea, no charged eye contact.

God, I’m so delusional.

I fold my arms across my chest. “What’re you doing here?”

My dad shoves his hands deep into his jean pockets. He’s wearing the vintage Barbie T-shirt my mom got him a couple years ago, the blond-haired cartoon on the front throwing her arms up over the disco-squared dance floor. Dark Ray-Bans are perched on top of his head, pushing back his hair.

“I know it’s early, but”—his feet shuffle around on the front step, his words low and shaky—“any chance you’re up for a drive?”

Over his shoulder and parked in the driveway is a small white car. I throw a glance back into the house. The coffeemaker whines as the last of the liquid filters into the glass pot.

“I’m supposed to help Kate with the Trip,” I say. “We reopen tomorrow.”

No thanks to you, I add silently.

“We’ll only be out for the morning,” he says. “I can have you back just after noon.”

I chew my tongue. “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s still in LA. She thought we should do this just us.”

I blink up at the awning covering the front step so as to avoid rolling my eyes. Typical.

“Look,” my dad says, straightening. “You said I never talked to you about anything. I know I’m ten years too late, but can you at least let me try?”

It can’t be later than eight o’clock and it’s already so hot, sweat prickles along my back. I hold up one hand to block out the sun. It wasn’t just sitting in the Regal watching movies that was part of mine and my dad’s Sunday routine. The drive played a big part, too. It was where we’d listen to movie soundtracks, hyping us up for the films we were about to see, or prompting conversations about movies past. Our favorite soundtrack was for Mean Girls. We both had the talent show rap memorized and would perform it for my mom at Christmas every year.

He scratches the back of his neck, teeth biting down on his bottom lip. He’s still your dad, says a voice in my head. It’s not my own, though—the voice belongs to my mom. Words from our conversation on the phone. God, was that really only a few days ago?

I drop my hand. “Only if we listen to the Mean Girls soundtrack.”

Dad’s eyes brighten as a smile spreads across his face. “I’ve already got it queued up in the car.”

After an hour of driving, it becomes clear that my dad and I aren’t just going for a joyride; he’s got a specific destination in mind. We wind through twisting desert roads, the slopes all dirt and the shrubs brittle and brown from months without rain. The sky is an unbroken blue, the occasional bird circling something unseen in the distance. My dad and I ride mostly in silence, speaking only to ask if the other one minds if we turn the air-conditioning up or down, the soundtrack backward or forward. He doesn’t mention anything about yesterday, what I said. If it were my mom, it’d be the first thing she’d bring up from the moment she backed out of Kate’s driveway. But my dad and I have always been much quieter about our feelings with each other; it’s probably to be expected when so much of your relationship revolves around movies, around silently watching other people express their emotions. By the end of it, everything we might’ve wanted to say to each other feels like it’s already been said, except by people in full hair and makeup and with a team of writers to map out the perfect words.

Sign after sign warns that the road cutting through the landscape is ending soon, but my dad pushes on. It’s not until a mile before the town hits that there’s any indication it’s coming up, the name just a footnote underneath arrows pointing cars toward Riverside and Joshua Tree National Park. But once I see the name, I know it’s where we’re going, where we’ve been going this whole time.

The sign welcoming us to Romeo, California, is worn down and weathered from decades of sun. Its letters are a faded yellow, the cacti painted along the bottom border misshapen and chipped. Population: 1,700. Being at the end of the line, it’s not somewhere anyone would end up naturally, but I recognize its sloping canyons and the wide road snaking through. Between these dirt-covered hills is where my dad filmed The Middle when he was only twenty-five years old. It’s also his hometown.

The buildings along the main stretch are tired and outdated, lacy curtains pulled closed and neon signs blinking. A couple kids ride their bikes along the sidewalk, but it’s too hot to stay outside for long. None of the town looks familiar, which isn’t that surprising; the last time I came here, I was just a baby, right before my grandma died. Dad and I pause at a stoplight beside a grocery store, and that’s when I see it: a large red handwritten sign in the window that says Charlie Roman’s Mom Worked Here! I blink at it, squinting to see the words scrawled underneath. Ask to See Her Apron! I swivel around to face my dad, lips parted, but he’s staring straight ahead at the road, either oblivious to my discovery or deliberately pretending not to notice. He hits the gas again and I spin back around. Now that I’ve noticed one red sign, I see them everywhere: in the window of a café (Try the Charlie Roman Special!), in a bakery (Home of Charlie Roman’s Favorite Cinnamon Roll!), and a bar (Drink like a Roman!). Even the town hall is advertising guided Charlie Roman walking tours, Featuring eleven unique stops! See where the Hollywood star got his start! A couple in matching baseball hats and oversized sunglasses descend the town hall stairs accompanied by a man who’s waving a brochure the same red as all the signs and pointing at a mailbox.

My dad pulls into a parking lot for an unremarkable strip mall. He turns off the car.

I slide forward in my seat. “What’re we doing?” I say, looking around. The parking lot is almost totally empty except for a man hopping up the curb and entering a laundromat with a trash bag swung over his shoulder.

My dad unclicks his seat belt. “You hungry?”

I haven’t eaten anything since the French fries at In-N-Out with Harvey last night.

“Starving.”

“Good answer.”

The two of us get out of the car. I follow him up the curb to a restaurant called Maria Taverna. The front of the building is all glass, through it a counter and three small booths. There are no red signs in the windows, nothing to indicate that this place means anything to my dad. He knocks on the front door and waits as a man emerges from the opening behind the counter, his face split in a wide grin.

“Charlie boy!” he booms once he unlocks the door, his arms held out wide. A wave of warm bread smell mixed with sharp spices reaches us. My dad gives the man a big hug, the two of them making groaning, old-man sounds. “How are you, my friend?”

“Hungry,” my dad says. “I’ve been fasting in preparation for this.” He gestures to me. “You remember—”

The man gasps. “Dixon?” he says, turning incredulous eyes to my dad. He nods. “I haven’t seen you since you were this big!” The man crouches down and holds his hand about two feet off the ground.

The hair on top of his head is dark and sparse, the few wisps left combed over his shiny skin. His chin is covered in dark stubble, his brown eyes crinkling around the corners as he smiles at me. I don’t remember ever having seen him in my life.

“This is Eli. He and his mom own this place,” my dad says. He cranes his neck around Eli to see into the kitchen. “Is Maria here today?” The counter is small and basic, just a beige-colored laminate with an old, clunky cash register from the ’80s. Above it hangs a plastic menu, on which are things like kebabs and salads. The walls are peppered with grainy pictures of a city I can’t place, the people rushing past market stalls and on ramshackle mopeds with blurred faces.

Eli throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Ever since we heard from you yesterday, she’s been in the kitchen making your favorites.”

My dad smiles, but it’s not the crooked one he uses for the cameras. There’s something shy about it. “How’s she doing?” he asks.

Eli wiggles his hand as if to say So-so. “She has good days and bad days,” he says, the roaring joy in his voice dropping. “Today’s a good one. She doesn’t speak so much anymore, but she still knows her way around that kitchen.” He claps a hand on my dad’s shoulder, his grin returning. “Come on back. She’s been waiting for you.” Before he can pull him along, Eli nudges my dad with his elbow. “We can do the site inspection after lunch.”

My dad shakes his head and laughs. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

The door to behind the counter already unlatched, Eli follows the smell of bread. The kitchen is small, every inch of wall lined with stainless steel, but it’s immaculately tidy, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, black and green olives meticulously organized into clear drawers. Two towers wrapped in meat rotate in the far right-hand corner, one beef and one chicken, while on the other side is what looks like a conveyor belt leading into a giant bread oven. Going in are flat discs of dough that, once they pass through the red-lit metal box in the middle, come out puffed up and with their edges crisped a nutty brown. A short woman with gray hair wrapped up in a hairnet slaps the dough roughly between her small brown hands before feeding it into the conveyor belt.

“Mama,” Eli says, setting a gentle hand on her back. “Look who’s here.”

The woman turns. When she sees my dad, her eyes disappear into her head as a smile overtakes her lined face. She lets out a little yelp of excitement as my dad walks toward her and wraps his arms around her waist. At least a full thirty seconds pass before she pulls away. She and Eli are wearing matching white aprons that are looped around their necks and waists. Maria fishes around underneath the neck of her T-shirt before pulling out a thin silver chain whose delicate cross at the end sparkles underneath the fluorescent lighting. It takes me a second to realize she’s showing it to my dad.

“You still have it,” he says, reaching up and letting the cross sit flat on his opened palm.

The woman’s attention turns to me, her hands going up to cover her mouth. She ambles over in my direction, arms outstretched, until her hands land on my cheeks. Her fingers are warm, and I can feel the thin sprinkling of flour that covers them against my skin. As she stares at me, her smile bigger than ever, her round brown eyes well with tears.

“I know,” my dad says to Maria. “She’s big, right? Going to college in September.”

At that, Maria claps one hand over her heart and leans forward to plant a huge kiss on my cheek. Eli and my dad are talking again, making proclamations of missing each other, missing the smells, missing the food. I just stand there in the middle of it all, not exactly sure what’s going on anymore. Who are these people who seem to know me? The way they’re welcoming my dad, shoving pita bread at him and examining his stomach for signs that he isn’t eating enough, feels like family.

Eventually Maria shoos us out of the kitchen, Eli promising food as Dad and I slide into the booth at the back of the restaurant. The room is mostly silent except for the sounds of plates being assembled in the kitchen and the low hum of an ice machine. My dad fills two Styrofoam cups with ice water and hands them to me before grabbing napkins, straws, and plastic forks and knives from the counter. He distributes them across the table and slips into the opposite side of the booth, facing me.

“How often do you come here?” I ask him.

“I try to drop in whenever I’m in LA, but things have been so busy these last few months…” He fiddles with his cutlery, straightening the fork and knife so they sit perfectly parallel to each other. “If I can’t get in, I try to call every month or so. See how they’re doing, if the building needs any work. Repairs and stuff, that kind of thing.”

“Is that what Eli meant when he said something about a site inspection?”

Dad nods. “A few years back, they almost lost the restaurant, so I bought the building.” He lifts his fingers. “Expanding my portfolio, if you will.”

He laughs, but it’s distant. Even though it’s still only just ten o’clock, judging by the amount of people on the streets, at the state of the buildings, this place probably doesn’t get too busy even at the height of lunch and dinnertime, which means they likely can’t afford a lot in rent. I doubt my dad is making much, if any, money off it. But something tells me that’s not the point.

Our booth is the very last one in the row, nearest to the hallway leading toward the bathroom. Its narrow walls are lined with three big, framed pictures, the first of which looks like a much younger Maria with a small boy no older than two flattening dough between his pudgy hands. The second is a group shot, taken somewhere much greener than Romeo, twenty or thirty people gathered around rows of tables outside. And then the final one nearest the bathroom is of three people standing in a line, all three in matching white aprons. Maria is in the middle with a much younger Eli on her left. On her right is a teenage boy with yellow rubber gloves that extend all the way up to his elbows, a hairnet looped around his shaggy hair. I have to blink a few times before my brain is convinced I’m seeing what I’m seeing. It’s my dad.

“Oh my god, did you work here?” I say.

Just as my dad opens his mouth to answer, Eli emerges from the kitchen carrying a large round tray stacked with plates and bowls. “He was the best dishwasher we’ve ever had,” he says, smiling.

“That’s because you were always threatening to fire me,” my dad says back.

Eli laughs as he sets the tray down on the table beside ours. “I didn’t know how else to get rid of you,” he says. Then he turns to me and winks. “Only you could do that.”

Eli spreads the plates out in front of us, the air heavy with steam. There almost isn’t enough room on the table. There are at least seven bowls, each filled with dips, some creamy and smooth, topped with olive oil, and others chunky, little flecks of cucumber, garlic, and eggplant resting on their surfaces. One plate is piled high with still-steaming pita bread, another with what look like egg rolls but that are wrapped in thick green leaves. There’s a plate of shredded meat, another with tomatoes, pickled onions, falafel, and cubes of feta cheese.

Eli pats me and my dad on the back. “Enjoy, my friends,” he says. “If you need anything, come find me in the kitchen.”

We murmur our thanks as Eli disappears around the corner. My dad rubs his hands together, his eyes hungrily roaming across the table as he says, “Dig in.”

The two of us work quietly, scooping meat and falafel and pita bread onto the small empty plates my dad passes over. The not–egg rolls are apparently called grape leaves, which I’m told are wrapped with actual leaves, but are filled with lamb and rice instead of grapes. I tear the warm pita bread into strips and scoop up a new dip with each one, drop them into my mouth, and let the rush of flavors do their jobs. The two of us are so lost in our food, my dad and I don’t talk for at least ten minutes.

“God, I missed this,” he says after he polishes off his second pita crammed with falafel, hummus, and pickled onions.

“So, you really worked here?”

I know my dad had a life before movies in the same way I know he had a mom; though he doesn’t talk about them and there’s little photographic evidence of either, logic tells me they had to have existed.

“Until I moved to LA,” he says, nodding.

“Not until then?” I say, doing the math. “But that was just before you and Mom got married. You’d already made The Middle.” It’d only been a moderate success at the beginning, but it gave him enough of a name to secure funding for his next project.

“Well, yeah,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. “But we’d barely made any money off The Middle back then, and the studio could’ve taken our funding away at any point. I needed a backup plan.” He wipes a napkin across his hands before folding it carefully on the table. “Growing up, I didn’t have a lot of money. I never knew where my next meal would come from. If there’d even be one. My mom worked all day and spent every last dime she had at the bar. I spent a lot of time on my own, watching movies in the dark because my mom would get rid of all the light bulbs when she was hungover. I wished someone would hear me struggling. Help me out.”

At the mention of his mother working, I think back to the grocery store. The red sign in the window. Charlie Roman’s Mom Worked Here!

“But everybody here—they’re so stoked about you.”

Dad chuckles darkly, rubs the stubble on his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Yeah, now. After I could do something for them. But back then, most people couldn’t care less. Romeo’s a small town. They all knew my mom, knew what she was doing. Knew what she wasn’t doing, with me at home by myself. It wasn’t until I was fourteen, when Maria gave me a job here, that I felt like someone had finally seen me.” He smiles slightly. “I made four twenty-five an hour, got to eat all the pita bread I wanted. I thought I’d found Heaven.”

The plastic straws for our drinks are wrapped in white paper. Dad unpeels his and drops the straw in his cup.

“For me, work was my salvation,” he says, twisting the straw’s paper wrapper around his middle finger. “If I could just make money, everything would be okay. I could take care of myself, I could eat. My mom drank and drank because she had nothing and nobody, and everything she did have, she threw away. I didn’t want to be like that.” The paper splits across his knuckle and he discards it, brushing it down the table. “When All-Around gave me The One Who Wasn’t, I’d never seen so many zeros on a check in my entire life,” Dad says. “I knew it wasn’t a great project, but for the first time ever, I felt safe. Like our whole family could be safe.”

“Does Mom know all this?” I ask.

He bobs his head. “She knows.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Because I asked her not to.” He weaves his fingers together and stares down at his nails. “I can’t remember a time growing up where I wasn’t worried about money. If we had any, where it was coming from, if there’d ever be more. What would happen if there wasn’t. I didn’t want that for you.” He shakes his head. “So, I worked. I worked and I worked and I worked. I slept, and I worked. And when I didn’t sleep, I still worked.”

His voice breaks and all I can do is stare at him from across the table, my hands shredding a slice of pita bread so that the crumbs pile in my lap. I know I should say something, but my tongue feels too big for my mouth. I’ve never seen this person before, this version of my dad that’s so exposed.

“Those first seven years of your life were so good.” He closes his eyes. “But it wasn’t the security I wanted. It wasn’t enough.” When he opens them again, his eyes are red, filled with tears.

“That’s why you didn’t say no to Barracuda.”

It wasn’t that three hundred million dollars was more important. After everything my dad had been through, three hundred million dollars would mean the kind of security that, as a kid, he could’ve never dreamed of.

He nods. “When they first told me the deal, all I could think about was how it would fix everything. I’d have more time at home, I’d make up for everything I’d missed, and we’d still have the money we needed. It felt like that part of my life had ended, the part where I spent every day worrying I’d lose everything like my mom had.” He swipes at his eyes. “I said no the first time, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So, when they called again, I entertained it because I felt like, if I could just explain all this to you, maybe you’d understand why it meant so much to me. It was my own fault, trying to keep my past from you.”

The top of the table is white and grainy, almost glistening underneath the restaurant’s lighting. I trace my fingers over the surface, which is as smooth as an ice rink. That was what my dad had meant in the last reality, when he’d said he’d taken the Barracuda deal for our family; it was his way of giving me a gift. The gift of safety. The gift of more time together. The things he’d wanted to give me my entire life, but which never felt like enough.

“But I’m the one that didn’t understand how much all this was hurting you. I’d convinced myself I was doing it for you, working all the time, taking deals where all I saw was the money.” He lets out a long sigh. “I don’t want you to think I’m telling you all this now to justify the Barracuda deal. I mean, I guess I’m trying to tell you where I was coming from, but you were right. Taking it would mean sacrificing not just your happiness, but an industry that made me, that saved my life when I was an angry, lonely kid. All that stuff I said about the movie theater being dead”—he gives me a weary look. “I know it’s not something I believe. But from what Mom tells me, by that point, she already had her Rewind planned and I said what Barracuda wanted to keep things moving forward in case something went wrong with Mom’s Rewind and Barracuda took legal action. But I shouldn’t have. I hurt you and Kate and Bunny, and I’m sorry.”

“So wait, you knew what Mom was using her Rewind on?”

“Not the moment, specifically,” Dad says. “I know that’s against the rules, and we know how Grandma feels about the rules.” He gives me a look and shakes his head. “I just knew she was going to make sure the Barracuda deal never went through.”

“How did Mom change it then?”

He tears a slice of pita bread in half and dunks it into the hummus. “This deal has been in the works for months, but according to Mom, I only signed just before you graduated high school,” he says, chewing. “Then all hell lets loose, Mom uses her Rewind. Et cetera, et cetera. According to Mom, there was one time, way back when Barracuda first approached me, that I mentioned it to her, and she didn’t say anything, because she thought I was joking. There was no way I could be so stupid. But apparently, I was, because I signed. But then Mom went back and made it so instead of saying nothing, she said something. A lot of somethings. And I didn’t sign. That’s the reality I know.”

“But then Barracuda called you again.”

“Exactly. A few weeks before you came out here. That’s why I went to LA and— Do you remember when I called to reschedule your graduation?”

I roll my eyes. Though our fight never happened in this reality, he’d still postponed my graduation at least twice.

“Yeah, okay, I can see you remember it clearly.” Dad chuckles. “That was because we were still trying to work out the Barracuda details. I wanted to talk to you and Mom more about it before I signed anything, so I put the deal on hold for a few weeks. And now, here we are.”

There are so many strands to his story, it’s hard to untangle them. But there’s one that makes even less sense than the rest.

“You really didn’t tell Mom that Barracuda called you back?”

Dad at least has the sense to blush. “Yeah, last night was fun.” He shakes his head again. “I promise I won’t let Mom’s Rewind be in vain. I could never take that deal now, not when I know how much it would hurt you. I should’ve never considered it in the first place. And I know the Rewind only really fixed one thing. It can’t change the fact that I decided to be away for so long, that work was more important than physically being there for you. It’s something I’ll have to live with, and if we can’t find a way to move forward, I’ll understand. But I promise I’ll always be around, if you ever want to try again.”

I know what he’s saying is true. That this decision he made, though well-intentioned, was wrong. I did need him. I did feel left behind. And no Rewind could ever take that back, but for the first time, I think maybe it’s better this way. Because if all he did was take the bad back, how would we ever learn from it? We wouldn’t be having this conversation right now, one of the most honest and vulnerable interactions I’ve ever had in my life. We’d never move on, better. Together. Something, I realize for the first time, I don’t just want—it’s something I need.

All this time, I’ve been trying to convince myself that my dad, his empty space, meant nothing. But how can someone hurt you if they mean nothing? How can you feel their absence so viscerally if they mean nothing?

I smile at my dad, and when he smiles back, the tears that have been pooling in his eyes finally fall. It’s this exact moment that it hits me—I’m not going to use my Rewind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I cannot overstate the permanence of the Rewind. We’re altering the fabric of reality here, people, not returning a pair of shoes. It’s not a privilege to be taken lightly.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “REWINDS 101”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Bunny stands in the doorway to my bedroom, hands propped on either side of the frame as though he needs extra help staying upright. He gapes down at me, sitting crisscross on the floor with the box of picture frames Kate left for me to assemble the Trip’s new gallery wall.

“You’re taking this harder than anyone else,” I say, sliding out the manila envelope that contains all the pictures Kate’s picked. “Grandma was super cool about it.”

“What’d she say?”

“Not a lot.” The whole conversation had lasted about three minutes. “She asked if I was sure, and when I said yes, she said it was all taken care of.”

My grandma hadn’t even sounded that surprised, as though she was used to people seeing all their hopes and dreams realized on-screen only for them to decide they didn’t want them anymore. Or, in my case, that they didn’t deserve them. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised the Rewind was canceled so fast, either. But still; it was jarring thinking that something I’d obsessed about over the last three days was gone so abruptly.

Bunny shuffles into my room and closes the door. As he lowers himself to the floor beside me, he groans in pain.

My eyes slide over to him. “Shouldn’t you be busy making out with my boyfriend?”

He smirks. “We’re taking a break.”

“Where is Harvey?”

Bunny throws a thumb toward the door. “Collapsed on the couch with exhaustion from picking up all your slack.”

I bite back a wince. “Is he mad I tapped him in for reopening duty?” I say.

My cousin leans his head back, resting it against my bed. His eyes drift closed. “Nah,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “I made it worth his while.”

I nudge him with my foot. “Can you at least pretend that hooking up with my boyfriend is a weird thing to talk to me about?”

Bunny laughs through his nose.

When I’d called after lunch at Maria Taverna and asked if they could spare me at the Trip so I could spend more time with my dad in Romeo, Bunny said he’d take care of it. Over the next three hours, we drove around the tiny town, stopping at the pizza place whose owner lived down the street from my dad when he was a kid and would bring him the day’s leftover food, to the library where he’d check out as many movies at a time as they’d let him. When we passed the graveyard where I assumed his mom was buried, Dad didn’t say anything and neither did I. It felt like I was meeting him for the first time, seeing the place he grew up, the corners of the world that made him. Learning that Maria taught him how to sew, or that he used to think knock-knock jokes made the best pickup lines. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Me, picking you up for our date. And that my mom actually fell for it. What Sawyer said to me in Claire’s bedroom was starting to make more sense: where you came from is important, for better or worse. Though I still didn’t think it was everything, it at the very least helped make up the puzzle pieces that compose a person.

The pictures inside the manila envelope are all different sizes, their focus in varying degrees of graininess. The picture on top is one I recognize from the research books my uncle Rob made about the Trip; it’s a black-and-white portrait of a bald man in a light-colored suit and bow tie, his round face stoic as he posed for the camera. It’s Paul Porter, the first owner of the Trip. I find the frame that matches the picture size—a plain black one—and pry up the back, slip the picture in, and seal it up again.

“Was Sawyer there today?”

Bunny’s eyes flutter open. “Yeah,” he says. “Mom and I apologized to him. Said he didn’t have to be at the Trip anymore if he didn’t want.”

Air escapes my lungs. This thought never occurred to me. Obviously, I knew Kate and Bunny had lied to Sawyer too, but the idea of him not being at the Trip—it seemed incredible.

“What’d he say?”

“He called me a traitor. We all cried. We’re good now, though.”

I nod slowly. If only things between me and him could be that simple.

“He spent the whole day setting up the ceiling,” Bunny continues. “He’s pretty much done, just has to glue all the cars onto the roads.”

I keep my eyes trained on the next picture in my hands, one of the Trip just after World War II ended. Standing outside are crowds and crowds of people in uniform.

“How does it look?”

I find the picture’s corresponding frame and stick it in, adding it to the finished pile. I can feel Bunny’s eyes, watching me carefully.

“Pretty freaking amazing,” he says.

I nod again without looking up from the next picture. I knew it would.

“Why did you change your mind?”

The round, gold frame is smaller than the others, but it somehow feels heavier, like a rock in my lap. I try to make myself look busy prying up the little clamps at the back to give myself more time with Bunny’s question, but it’s one I’ve been thinking about almost constantly since lunch, my dad’s tearful words.

Not telling Sawyer about my parents, not being fully honest about who I was—that was my decision. I knew the risks, and I did it anyway. And I know from my Movie that if I’d taken it all back, started fresh with that moment in Central Park, Sawyer would’ve found out about my parents and he’d be okay with it, but that’s not the point. I’d hurt him. I’d made a mistake, one I should have to live with. Regardless of whether or not Sawyer would’ve forgotten, or only known the situation from another angle, I would always remember. Even if it was hazy, I’d always know what I did.

“Because this is my fault,” I say simply. “Ever since Dad started making mega movies, all my decisions, my actual life—none of it felt like my own. And then I came out here and I finally got to choose who I was and what people saw, and I chose to lie. Why shouldn’t I have to live with those consequences?”

Bunny shuffles forward, his legs tucked underneath him. “But you were scared,” he insists. “Anyone would be.”

His words are like fingers clenching my lungs. I was scared. Isn’t that what I’d said to Sawyer? But now it feels irrelevant, like a hollow excuse.

“It doesn’t change the fact that I did it,” I say. “Just because our family gets this weird opportunity doesn’t mean I have the right to erase Sawyer’s hurt because it makes me feel bad.”

“Sawyer might be mad, and I get it,” Bunny says. “But he doesn’t know he wouldn’t have done the same. He’s never been in that situation before.”

“But I have,” I say. “And I messed it up. Now I have to deal. It’s kind of like in The Middle—”

My mom’s face flecked with pool water, Sam as he lies next to Stella after the first time he’s slept with their neighbor, his expression one of stunned guilt. They all made decisions that led them to limbo; the only way they were going to get out was by facing them. Accepting them.

“You know how Sam and Stella have to figure out what they did to get into limbo and then use that to get them out?”

Bunny arches an eyebrow.

“I have to face the decisions I made that got me here,” I continue. “Using my Rewind and taking it back wouldn’t have changed what I did. At least not to me.”

It’s what my dad was trying to say in The Middle, and again today at Maria Taverna. It’s our decisions that take us through life. And the sooner I can accept that and take responsibility for them, the more careful I’ll be about making them next time.

“Are you really gonna take life advice from a movie that was made, like, a million years ago?” Bunny says.

I laugh under my breath. “You’ve met our family,” I say. “Obsessing over movies is kind of our destiny.”

The next picture slots into a simple black frame. I turn it around and lay it flat on the table, specks of dust scattered across the glass. It’s of the seats in Screen One, three people gathered in the front row all sitting next to each other. Me, on the left, Bunny on the right, Sawyer in the middle, all in our work uniforms of purple Trip polos and black pants. Sawyer is the only one smiling at the camera; Bunny has his head tipped back in a laugh, and I’m staring at Sawyer as though I’ve been laughing too. I recognize it. It was from my first day back in Cielo Springs that second summer I worked at the Trip. Anyone looking at the photo would think we were just three friends mid-joke, but I can see the adoration in my eyes, the way my hands are curled in my lap, my body just barely leaning in Sawyer’s direction. I was in love with him then, too.

My vision blurs, eyes filling with tears. Even though it’s just a photo, looking at it feels like staring at the sun’s reflection in a mirror. Not as painful as staring into the sun head-on, but still hard. It still burns. Because I know nothing like the moment in this photo will ever happen again.

Bunny’s arms are around me before I can even register the movement. My head slots perfectly into the curve of his shoulder, silent tears snaking down the side of my nose. Neither of us moves, not even when there’s a knock on my door.

“Guys.”

Only at the soft sound of Harvey’s voice do I look up. He smiles sadly at me and Bunny.

“We should get moving if we want to be at the airport in time.”

Pulling away, I wipe my cheeks clean with the back of my hand as we both stand. Without another word, Bunny grabs my suitcase, now zipped up with all my clothes and toiletries inside, and wheels it out of my room. I carefully place all the finished pictures into a pile on my bed, ready for Kate to hang them up tomorrow at the Trip.

I’d do it myself, but I’m leaving Cielo Springs tonight.

There was never any way I could go to the Trip’s reopening tomorrow. Not after everything that happened with Sawyer. Like my dad with work, the Trip is Sawyer’s salvation—when his mom canceled another visit, when the apartment he shares with his dad felt too small, the Trip is where he went to feel whole again. Tomorrow’s celebration is for Kate, sure, but it’s also for Bunny and Sawyer. They were the ones that put months of work into bringing the Trip back to life. I only came in at the finish line. And if my presence there will make Sawyer uncomfortable, I can miss it. I have to.

A selfish part of me is kind of relieved to not have to see him so soon after Claire’s party. I know even if he doesn’t ever talk to me again, there’s a good chance we’ll run into each other at NYU. We have the same major. But at least it’s not tomorrow.

The Cielo Springs airport is a ghost town at six thirty; planes don’t take off from here this late unless they’re private. My parents should be landing any second, allowing enough time for me and Harvey to join them on their flight back to New York. While Harvey and Bunny talk quietly by a potted cactus, their heads bent together, Kate pulls me into a hug.

“They told me about your arrangement,” she says, eyes zeroed in on her son. “But only after I questioned why they kept disappearing into PR One.” She steps back and smooths the hair that’s escaped my ponytail. “Don’t worry,” she adds, “your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” I say. “The pictures for the gallery wall are on my bed. There’re still a couple left, but I did most of them. Is everything else ready for tomorrow?”

“All that’s left to do is a final clean of the screens and lobby, put up the decorations, and that should be it. You guys have done such an incredible job. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten everything done so quickly without you.” Kate flashes me a nervous smile. “Now we just need people to come.”

“They’ll come,” I say.

Kate’s eyes dart around my face, landing on everything but my eyes. A telltale sign she’s trying not to cry. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to stick around?”

I smile without any teeth. “I think I need to be with my parents right now.”

She nods, tucks another errant chunk of hair behind my ear. “Tell them I said hi, okay?” she says, running a hand down the side of my face.

“Maybe you could tell them yourself one day soon.” My voice trails off for a few beats. “In New York?”

She pulls in a deep breath and kisses my cheek. “Maybe I could,” she says against my skin.

We linger for one final hug, Kate squeezing me so hard my back cracks, before Bunny ambles over. Behind him, Harvey is showing our IDs to a man at the airport’s check-in counter.

“I’ll see you at home,” my aunt says to my cousin, before waving one last time and disappearing into the slowly darkening parking lot.

I frown at him. “How’re you getting back?”

He gestures to his skateboard, propped up near the doors. I didn’t notice he’d brought it, but then, it’s basically been like his fifth limb this last week.

“Gonna have a good skate-cry on the way home,” he says. “They’re really therapeutic, the wind muffling all the snot sounds. You should try it.” Bunny wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me close. “I love you,” he says. “I’m sorry I spooned your boyfriend last night.”

“No, you’re not,” I say, his hair tickling the side of my face.

He chuckles quietly. “No, I’m not.” Bunny leans back, his arms wrapped loosely around my shoulders. “Dix,” he says hesitantly. “What moment were you gonna Rewind?”

The question catches me off guard, my Rewind no longer at the front of my mind. But because I’m not using it anymore, there’s technically no reason I can’t tell Bunny what I planned to erase. No reason aside from the fact that the mere thought of what I did to Sawyer still fills me with a shame so intense, I feel breathless. But I can’t avoid it any longer. Avoiding it is what got me here in the first place.

“Me and Sawyer were supposed to have our first kiss in Central Park, over his spring break,” I say. Maybe it’s the defeat or maybe it really is progress, but somehow, my voice doesn’t break. “But I didn’t show up, and he moved on.”

Bunny simply blinks. “Oh,” he says, the word sounding small and confused.

Looking over my shoulder, he squints up at some unspecified point, his lips parting slightly. But before I can ask what’s wrong, my cousin lunges toward me for one last hug. He breaks away just as fast, turning to grab his skateboard before hopping on, the wheels gliding across the airport’s slick linoleum floor.

“Sir—” the man at the counter calls, but Bunny is through the automatic double doors before he can get the rest out.

“Have a safe flight!” my cousin shouts behind him, lifting one hand up in a last-minute wave.

“He is so weird.” Harvey appears beside me, watching as Bunny disappears into the parking lot. “But hot. So, so hot.”

I sling an arm over his shoulder. “You’re the best boyfriend.”

“The plane’s just landed,” the man at the counter says to us. “You both can start boarding in a minute, if you want to follow me.”

Harvey and I turn to follow him down a hallway with a large metal door at the end, my suitcase trailing behind me. Through the long glass windows stretching across the back of the airport, I can see a small airplane slowly moving around a corner, following the directions of a woman on the tarmac as she waves a set of glowing orange sticks in the air.

Usually the thought of going back to New York at the end of the summer fills me with so much dread, I feel physically sick for the last couple days leading up to my flight. But this time, something like happiness pulses deep in my stomach. Even though I’m going back to the home that’s been mine for the last ten years, it feels new, somehow.

As Harvey and I cross the tarmac, Cielo Springs sprawls out behind the tall metal fence bordering the airport. Sloping red hills, the sky deepening to blue. It’s still hot enough that the air hugs every inch of my skin, but there’s a promise of a breeze. My home away from home. A place that, for the last four years, has been my salvation. And for the first time since I started coming here, I don’t know when I’ll be back.

Part Three AFTER AFTER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

There are no limits to what a Rewind will do when being enacted. Teleportation, body modifications, altering global history—to quote Lois Mulligan, “A Rewind’s gotta do what a Rewind’s gotta do.”

—EXCERPT FROM “THE REWIND: WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The high-pitched whine of a machine I can’t place cuts through the early-morning silence. I tug the covers high up over my head so only my feet poke out of the bottom and dangle over the edge of my bed.

Last night, my mom, dad, and I got back to our house just before four o’clock East Coast time, all of us too tired to do much more than brush our teeth and go to bed. When I flipped the lights on in my bedroom, everything about it was exactly the same: the posters on my walls, the magazines I’d left overturned on the carpet. Even though my bed in New York is nearly three times the size of the one at Kate’s house, I found myself missing the familiar scratchiness of the quilt, the shallow dip in the middle of the mattress as I settled into sleep.

The sound of the machine carries on in an even, unrelenting screech. It sounds like an old-school computer firing up the internet from a movie about the ’90s. I fling the covers down so they’re around my torso, eyes still closed.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I call.

When there’s no answer, I roll over to reach for my phone to check the time, but instead of finding more bed, I slip down the side of the mattress, my back meeting the hard floor with a thump. I groan, my head resting on the smooth, cold surface as a sharp ache spreads across my hips. I haven’t rolled out of bed since I was a kid, my mom thundering into my room and pushing back my hair to make sure my brain wasn’t leaking out of my ears. That’s why my parents had bought me a king-sized bed in the first place, so I could wiggle around to my heart’s content without spilling onto the carpet and risking a brain injury.

At the thought of the carpet, my body stills. Underneath me is a floor much more solid than carpet; I press my fingers into it, expecting to meet the spongy give, but I’m not lying on carpet. It’s tile. My body shoots into a sitting position. The whine of the machine has stopped, revealing an eerie silence I’ve never heard in New York before, no matter the hour. There’s always at least someone yelling, or cars. Usually both. But as I scan the room around me, the blue quilt still tangled around my torso, the desk across from my bed, I realize with a cold shock that I’m not in New York. I’m in my room in Cielo Springs.

“Mom!” I shout. “Dad?”

I spring to my feet and shoot through the bedroom door, the knob cracking so loudly against the wall, I’m pretty sure it dents the surface. Kate’s house is silent except for the soft rumbling of the air-conditioning units in the ceiling. Everything looks as it should, but how? Harvey and I joined my parents on the plane yesterday; my dad and I watched The Goonies on his iPad while my mom slept. We ate an entire share bag of peanut butter M&M’s between the two of us before we piled into a town car, dropped Harvey off at the apartment he shared with his dad in Chelsea, and went home to the West Village. Unless it was all just an unbelievably vivid dream. But if that were the case and I was waking up in Cielo Springs, did I also dream my trip to Romeo with my dad? And wouldn’t that mean Harvey is still here, sleeping over with Bunny?

I tear into Bunny’s room but it’s empty, his bed made neatly with the same stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh toy he’s had since he was three propped up on his pillows. Kate’s room is the same, quiet and clean. I wander back into the kitchen. Did I really dream the conversation with my dad, our lunch? Everything about it had felt so real. The falafel, the blurry look in his eyes when he told me about his mom, the restaurant. But when I close my eyes and try to picture it, the memories are fuzzy, buried under layers of something I can’t identify.

A creamy yellow light streams in through the window over the dining table, catching a Post-it that’s stuck to the middle of its surface. In my frantic search from before, I missed it. The note written on it is in Kate’s handwriting:

CALL YOUR MOM! K

My feet stick to the cool tiled floors as I fast-walk back into my room. My phone seems to ring in slow motion before anyone answers. But it’s not my mom on the other line. My dad’s hesitant voice fills my ear.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. “How’s the desert?”

“It’s—it’s good,” I say quickly. “Where are you? Is Mom there?”

“We’re at home,” he says. “I think Mom’s downstairs making coffee. I just woke up.” He swallows so hard, I can hear it through the phone. It’s as though yesterday, our lunch, the flight back to New York, where I carefully divided out all the green M&M’s for him—his favorite—never happened. But it would feel that way, if I dreamed it. “I miss you,” he continues. “Mom told me about our fight. I know we didn’t get a chance to see you before we left Cielo Springs, but—”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “You’ve been in Cielo Springs?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “We got back yesterday. Didn’t Kate talk to you?”

I pace around the room in circles. At least they’ve been in Cielo Springs. I didn’t dream that part. But how are they back in New York without me? Did I fall asleep when I was putting together the pictures for the gallery wall and didn’t realize? But the floor is clear, the picture frames nowhere in sight.

Through the other line, there’s a murmur of voices, my dad pulling away from the phone to talk to whoever’s there.

“Give me the phone.” It’s my mother’s voice. “You’re just gonna confuse her.”

“Confuse her about what? What’s—” my dad starts to say, but his voice fades.

“Dixie? Hi, sweetheart,” my mom says moments later. Her tone is the exact opposite of my dad’s; it’s bright, determined. All business.

“Mom?” I say, blinking fast. “What’s going—”

“Honey, check the fax machine.”

I frown, not sure I heard her right. “Check the what?”

“The fax machine,” my mom repeats. “Are you at Kate’s house? Go in your room—”

She continues talking, but my brain is already moving, fusing together pieces of new information. The fax machine. That must’ve been the sound that woke me up, the machine printing paper.

I flip on my bedroom light, squint into its sudden brightness. Sitting in the fax machine’s tray is a pile of papers. Still frowning, I grab them.

“Why is someone sending a fax at—” I start to say into the phone, but the header at the top, the Comic Sans font, stop me. Written just beneath it in big, bold letters is the title: IMPACT REPORT. But—Impact Report?

“Seriously?” I say to my mom. “Another person used their Rewind? Why would Grandma even—” But my words trail off again when I reach the first line of the document.

Because written beside the word Rewind in the section listing out the details is Benjamin Mulligan-Vale.

Bunny.

Bunny and Kate are standing behind the candy counter at the Trip, picking through a bright pink box of doughnuts when I come crashing through the door. Every second that’s passed between me hanging up with my mom and right now has felt like an hour, days, even, though I know it can’t have been more than twenty minutes. The underwire of my bra is digging into my stomach and my armpits are completely soaked, my hair matted to my forehead; with nobody to give me a ride and not wanting to wait for an Uber, I had to use Kate’s bike to get here, Bunny’s old Spider-Man helmet crushed on my head. Even now that I’m at the Trip, adrenaline is still surging through my body, leaving my head light.

“What did you—” I shout across the lobby, but as my cousin looks up, I’m struck by the scene around him and the words are lost in my throat.

The Trip is finished. And it looks incredible.

The lobby, once open and empty, is filled with the furniture Claire picked out, the tables and chairs spread out over the new carpet. Mason jars filled with sprigs of dried lavender sit on the tables’ surfaces next to tiny tea lights in jewel-colored cups. The tape that lined every corner of the walls has been peeled back, revealing crisp edges around the new, deep-blue paint. A yellow-orange wallpaper printed with pink, ’70s-looking flowers coats the wall on the left, the leather Chesterfield sofa pushed up against it. Clustered on the wall are pictures of the Trip: Paul Porter, the founder; the theater after World War II. The one of me, Sawyer, and Bunny in the very center.

But all of it pales to the ceiling. About twenty feet up and tipped upside down as though something out of a twee, miniature version of Stranger Things is tiny New York City. Everything is there, Times Square just below Central Park, the Guggenheim off to its right. Even landmarks I didn’t notice before: the well-kept pathway of the High Line, a Barbie doll spray-painted green for the Statue of Liberty. Clumps of cotton ball clouds suspended by fishing wire hang far enough down so as not to block the scene. White twinkle lights speckle the various buildings, giving the city life. It’s obvious from their shapes along the sidewalks, in the streets and Central Park, that there are tiny people roaming New York City, but they’re too small for me to make out their faces.

I’ve always known Sawyer was talented, but this—this is next level.

At the thought of Sawyer, I’m reminded of why I’m here in the first place, a renewed sense of purpose rushing through me.

“What did you do?” I shout again, charging toward the candy counter.

Bunny looks up at me and smiles, his lips coated in a dusting of cinnamon sugar from the doughnut in his hand. “Good morning!” he says brightly. He nudges the box of doughnuts toward me with his elbow. “Want one?”

“Do I—what?” I say. “No, I don’t want one.”

“How about a coffee?” Kate pokes her head around a shiny metal coffee machine that’s perched on the counter. In all my awe, I didn’t notice it. She pats the side of the machine, which hisses out a cloud of steam. “The guy gave me a two-hour tutorial on this monster yesterday and I need to practice.”

At my aunt’s and cousin’s faces, staring back at me smiling, the adrenaline in me fades for a half-second. They both look so normal and carefree, nothing in them giving away the fact that my cousin just altered reality without telling me. But I didn’t imagine it, the Impact Report in the fax machine, the confusion in my dad’s voice. It was real.

The adrenaline rushes through me again, raw and electric. “How are you guys so calm right now?” I say. Then, quietly, as I lean in closer to my cousin, “Did you really use your Rewind?”

He blinks back at me. “Yes.”

I know this. I genuinely do. But even so, hearing it out loud steals my breath.

“But when?” I say.

Bunny gestures to the couch over my shoulder. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”

He grabs a handful of napkins and two more doughnuts, then rounds the counter.

“I’ll make you a latte, Dix,” Kate calls as I follow my cousin to the sofa.

Bunny, who isn’t wearing shoes, settles into one end of the sofa, his legs tucked underneath him, while I sit on the edge of the other. He spreads a napkin out on the coffee table stationed in front of the couch and carefully places his doughnuts down. How can he be so cool and collected right now, when my heart is beating so fast I think I might pass out?

“Please make this make sense,” I say to him. “When did you use your Rewind? What did you even use it on?” In my rush to leave the house, I hadn’t thought to read the Impact Report.

He licks cinnamon sugar from his fingers one by one, then wipes his hands on a spare napkin. “Okay,” he says, eyes now on me. Finally, he’s starting to focus. “Last night, I was thinking about everything you said about Sawyer and why you didn’t want to use your Rewind, because all this had been your choice not to tell him, blah, blah.” Bunny blinks at me expectantly. “Right?” he says. “That’s what you said?”

“Sure,” I say impatiently, whirling my finger in a circle, urging him to go on. “More or less.”

Bunny shrugs. “Well,” he says. “I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit.”

It’s my turn to blink. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing about this was your choice.” He waves his arms around, to reference what, I don’t know. The Trip? Sawyer stuff? Life in general? “Yeah, you technically got to choose not to go out and get assaulted by weirdos with cameras, but you didn’t choose your parents and getting born into their world. So, it wasn’t really a choice at all. None of it was.”

He bites into the doughnut and takes his time chewing. I want to stick my hand in his mouth and rip the dough off his tongue, because none of this has anything to do with the Rewind. What is he talking about?

“It’s the same with Sawyer and not telling him about your parents. Yeah, it was your choice to keep them a secret, and if we’re getting technical with it, you should’ve told him from the start. We all should have. But the rights and wrongs behind that choice aren’t so black-and-white. I know you wanted to tell him. I know you would have, but that choice was taken away from you. Again. So, I wanted to give it back.”

My head feels light again, none of this making sense. What choice?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Remember how on the day your parents showed up, I called you and told you to get to the Trip? And then you got there, and you and Sawyer walked into Screen Three and it was like, boom! Chaos.”

I frown. The memory is mostly fogged with the feeling of my head on Sawyer’s chest, me asking if I could talk to him so I could finally come clean about my parents. I nod slowly.

“I was kind of preoccupied with the fact that your parents were there, plus a very hot guy had just walked in, and everything felt kind of messy.”

I curl my hands into fists and sit on them so as not to lunge across the couch and strangle my cousin. “And this has something to do with your Rewind because…”

Bunny sighs, as though I’m the one not making sense. “I went back and made it so that instead of me staying with your parents, I went into the lobby,” he says. He widens his eyes at me, as though waiting for what he’s said to connect. When it doesn’t, he sighs again. “In this version of reality, I made sure you didn’t come into Screen Three.”

There’s something about this statement that should click in my brain, but still doesn’t. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the answer to reveal itself.

“I never went into Screen Three,” I repeat.

“Which means…” Bunny prompts.

Which means I would’ve stayed in the lobby. Which means—

“Sawyer never went into Screen Three,” I finish, opening my eyes again.

Bunny nods. “Which means…”

And then, just like that, it clicks, the realization bright and loud and numbing in my head.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Sawyer doesn’t know about my parents.”

Bunny claps his hands together, delighted. “Bingo!” he exclaims.

Sawyer doesn’t know about my parents. Sawyer doesn’t know about my parents. But with all the articles online, how could he not know about my parents? Unless in this timeline, those articles don’t exist. But how could they not exist?

“What about my parents?” I say. “They still came to the Trip.”

“Yeah, but my mom got them out before anyone could spot them,” Bunny says. “They went out the back, through the emergency exit.”

So that’s what my dad meant this morning on the phone. Did Kate not talk to you? Kate had said on the day they arrived—the last time, when Sawyer saw them—that she’d tried to get them out, but presumably, she wasn’t fast enough. Because I came into Screen Three. This time, though, she’d been successful.

“Nobody knows who I am,” I say under my breath.

Nobody knows who I am. All the videos and articles about me, the way everyone stared at me at Claire’s party—it all feels shadowy, like the lunch with my dad. They’re overtaken by memories of a couple nights ago, me staying up until four in the morning eating Margherita pizza in Sawyer’s garage while we worked on tiny NYC and watched all three of the new Spider-Man movies with Tom Holland back-to-back. If nobody knows who I am, that means everything is back to normal. I can go outside and not have to worry anymore about who might see me, if anyone will recognize me and try to steal my hair. Sawyer—he doesn’t hate me anymore. But the reality of this statement sinks in with a coldness. Sawyer doesn’t hate me anymore, but only because in this version, I’m still lying to him.

“So, let me get this straight.” I brush the hair from my forehead, trying to tamp down the anger rising in my throat. “You’re telling me you’ve completely ignored my decision in the name of giving me more decisions.” My eyes narrow. “Do you know what a hypocrite is?”

“I know, I know,” Bunny says. “And I’m sorry for not listening to you. But you can still decide to not tell him, and things can happen the same way or similarly all over again. The bottom line is, it should be your decision. Everyone agreed with me.”

“Everyone?” I say, frowning. “Who’s everyone?”

“Grandma,” Bunny says. “My mom. Your mom. Your dad.”

Kate is still busy behind the candy counter, clinking together various metal things on the coffee machine and swearing quietly.

“Your mom?” I repeat slowly, watching as she recoils, narrowly missing a burst of steam to the face. The Supreme Hater of Rewinds? “My … parents? But—when did you talk to them?”

“Last night,” Bunny says, “as in, before the Rewind. That version of reality. I called your parents after you guys got back to New York and explained everything about Sawyer, how the whole thing with them showing up here put you in a lot of hot water, but that you weren’t going to do anything about it because you thought you deserved it. Everyone agreed that you don’t.”

It feels like I’m on a time-lag, as though nothing can sink into my brain until three seconds after it’s been said out loud. Bunny talked to my parents about Sawyer, about what their presence here did.

“So, you—you used your Rewind … for me?” I say. “But how did it happen so fast?”

“Grandma says you technically don’t have to wait the full four days, just that most people do. But I saw my Movie and knew I had to do it.”

His Movie. Technically, Bunny could only have seen things pertaining to him, but with me staying at his house, being around the Trip, he would’ve known I was happy.

“It only went into effect a few hours ago. Grandma didn’t even have time to send out the Impact Report until after, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt just this one time, since all the people the Rewind affected were on board.”

Something about his story of last night occurs to me. “Wait, I didn’t think you were allowed to tell anyone but Grandma what you’re planning to Rewind. How did you tell my parents?”

“I didn’t,” Bunny says. “I mean, I may have hinted at it heavily, but I just told them I wanted to do something that would mean they didn’t get to actually see you when they came out to Cielo Springs.”

And they’d agreed.

My cousin’s fingers lace through mine, resting in my lap. “You deserve the future you and Sawyer always should’ve had,” he says. “You guys are, like, way too annoying to be with anyone else.”

A tightness pinches my throat, pressure building behind my eyes. Bunny’s Rewind, while breathtakingly generous, only really takes back one problem. It still doesn’t erase Central Park.

“But we’re never going to,” I say, my voice breaking. “This still doesn’t take back the fact that I pushed Sawyer to move on.” Bunny stiffens, and it dawns on me what I’ve just said. “Not that I’m not grateful,” I rush. “I am. What you’ve done—you’ve given me a second chance at having a best friend, and—”

My cousin shoots to his feet. “I have to show you something,” he says, yanking me off the couch so hard, my shoulder cramps.

He tugs me behind him across the lobby.

“What are we— Where are we going?” I say, stumbling as I try to keep up.

Bunny stops in front of a small pine table that sits along the edge of the new café area. On the table are two sets of silver binoculars. They’re attached to a hook via a long chain, making it so the binoculars can’t go more than three or so feet away.

“Here,” Bunny says, handing me a pair. “Look up.”

I hold them up to my face, squinting to see through the lenses. The ceiling is close enough so everything is so magnified, I can just about make out the tiny expressions on the faces of the little people wandering the streets.

“Go to Central Park,” he says, nudging the binoculars so they shift slightly to the right. “Go to the bottom of the lake thing—not the big one, the smaller one. Look for the fountain.”

I find the Bethesda Fountain right where it should be, at the bottom of the lake. It’s exactly as I remember it, bronze saucer, angel figurine, only flipped upside down.

“Now go just to the left of it. Like, a couple inches.”

The binoculars move a hint to the left, and at first, I can’t tell what I’m looking for. There are swarms of people staring out over the lake, perched on the edge of the fountain with tiny lunches in their laps. But then I spot a flash of color, so unnaturally bright it’s impossible to miss. Two tiny figurines locked in a kiss. Even though I’ve never seen it in person, that I’d convinced myself it no longer existed, I know it when I spot it: the mini couple from my Movie. The one Sawyer had shown me on my bed, the one that’s supposed to be us. He didn’t throw it away. It’s here.

Only now, tiny Dixie doesn’t have pink hair.

Her hair is orange.

“When you told me about kissing Sawyer in Central Park yesterday—the yesterday at the airport, I mean—I remembered the ceiling. I’d seen the little people after he finished putting everything up here, but it didn’t make sense until you told me what you were going to Rewind.” Bunny stands over my shoulder, his words hushed, as though not to disturb me. “That’s how I knew I had to get you a second chance.”

That’s why Bunny had left the airport so quickly.

“But if you saw it yesterday before the Rewind, that means…” The sentence trails into nothing, my brain still unable to process it all.

“He never got over you, even before the Rewind,” Bunny finishes for me gently.

Everything in my head feels fuzzy again, words and images blurring together. I lean back against the table, steadying myself. Little Dixie had pink hair in my Movie, because that’s how Sawyer knew me then. But now, her hair is orange, which means he repainted it this summer. He still wanted to kiss me this summer. He still put us up there, even after he found out about my parents. Even after our fight.

“But why—why didn’t you tell me this? You didn’t need to use your Rewind. You could’ve used it on so many better things than me.”

“You were leaving, and I needed you to see how wrong you’ve been,” my cousin says. “And as for better things—I love you. We all love you. My Rewind has nothing to do with Sawyer; if he’s even half as cool as I think he is, I know he would’ve forgiven you eventually. You don’t care about someone as much as you two care about each other and just stop because of something like this.” He pulls his mouth into a half-smile. “I used my Rewind because you deserve to finally have the power to make decisions over your own life. If that’s not the best thing I can use it on, then I don’t want it.”

The binoculars are brand new, the rounded lenses reflecting back a dim, warped version of my face. I twist them around in my hands, letting their solid metal body catch the light from above. With my dad, I’d believed over the last ten years that he’d picked work over me because he wanted to. Everything I saw pointed to it: the weeks he spent away filming, the missed birthdays. But only now do I have the faint memory of his tearstained face, the strain in his voice as he apologized, when he told me he wasn’t gone so much because he wanted to get away from me; it was for me. Unpicking the threads that held his life together helped me make sense of his decisions. It didn’t make them right, but with that understanding came something like peace. Compassion. And maybe now, after everything, I can start to have compassion for myself.

Kate leans over the candy counter and slides a steaming mug toward me. “Don’t judge me on my latte art.” She gestures to the coffee. “I’m still learning.”

I take a shaky step toward her. “You,” I say. “You knew Bunny was going to use his Rewind for me and you … agreed with it?” I blink down at my coffee, its creamy beige foam crisscrossed haphazardly. “But why?”

Kate’s eyes crinkle as she smiles. “It’s like the boy said,” she says, nodding her chin at Bunny. “I love you. And I went along with not telling Sawyer too.” She rounds the candy counter to stop by my side. “I’m sorry about what I said, that night after we watched The Middle in the backyard. I just steamrolled you with my own problems. I should’ve heard what you were trying to say. None of this is your fault.”

I furrow my brow.

“Okay, technically, some of it might be your fault,” she concedes. “But you had your reasons for not telling people about your parents, same as me. I didn’t want to just become Mich’s sister, Charlie Roman’s sister-in-law, out here. I thought I’d had enough of that back in LA. But letting that fear power me has meant that not only am I not being honest with the people around me, people I care about, but it’s meant I’ve lost out on a relationship with your mom and dad, and that’s even worse. I’ve realized recently that’s everyone else’s problem, if all they want to see me as is Mich and Charlie Roman’s family, or whatever. The people who know us, who care about us, know who we really are. And love us for it.”

She doesn’t need to say Sawyer’s name for me to know she’s talking about him.

“Is he here?” I say quietly.

“He’s not coming in ’til nine,” Bunny says. “But, Dix, you don’t have to tell him now. Like I said, this is your decision. He’s probably gonna find out one day, especially when you’re all in New York, but you should have some say in it.”

I push my lips together. Maybe Bunny’s right. Maybe things aren’t so black-and-white. He’s given me my power back, control over my own life, to make things how I want them, how they should have been. I stare at my cousin, still standing on the other side of me, watching what must be my dazed expression with an amused smile. This is the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for me.

My eyes are clouded with tears. “I can’t believe you did this,” I say, almost a whisper.

Bunny’s smile widens. “Yeah, well, I’m kind of a romantic,” he says.

I laugh through my nose, rub my eyes with the heels of my hands until the feeling of imminent tears disappears. “Yeah, right.”

He leans against the candy counter and folds his arms across his chest. “The hickeys on your boyfriend’s neck yesterday would suggest otherwise.”

Kate throws her hands up and takes a giant step backward. “And this is the part where I leave,” she says, pacing toward the hallway to PR One.

I straighten up, my spine suddenly ruler-stiff. “Oh my god, Harvey,” I say, turning toward my cousin. “Does this mean you guys never got to hang out?”

For the first time all morning, Bunny’s smile falters. “Yeah,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “But this just means I get to seduce him twice.” He shrugs. “It’ll be fun.”

I slump back against the candy counter next to him, my brain on overdrive. My parents haven’t been here. Harvey hasn’t been here. Technically the last two days are complete rewrites. But if the last two days are rewrites, does that mean—

“What about my Rewind?” I blurt out. “If I didn’t have lunch with my dad, does that mean I used it?”

“No, no,” Bunny says quickly. “I checked with Grandma. Since you’d already told her you didn’t want to use it before I used mine, she agreed it would be way too uncool if me now using my Rewind made it so you lost yours.”

“She can do that?”

Bunny shrugs. “It’s Grandma,” he says. “She can do anything.”

He has a point.

I launch my entire body toward Bunny and wrap my arms around his neck. He eases into me, his own arms circling my waist and his chin resting on my shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say into his hair.

When Bunny pulls away, his eyes are wet, but he blinks the tears back and rubs his nose. “So, what happens now?” he says, clearing his throat.

What happens now? The words are simple enough. Warranted, even.

“What happens now is…” I trail off, nodding slowly. As I speak, a plan is already starting to unfold in my head, as though it’s been there all along. Waiting. Because technically, it has. It’s what I should’ve done a long time ago. Fists clenched at my sides, I turn determined eyes up to meet my cousin’s gaze. “I need to find a computer with PowerPoint.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I know you don’t want to hear this, but Rewinds aren’t always necessary. Sometimes all a situation calls for is basic problem solving.

—COMMENT REPLY BY LOIS MULLIGAN ON “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY”

The carpet in Screen Three is decorated with a swirly pattern in reds, blues, purples, and greens that used to be vibrant but have since been muted with years of dirty shoes, spilled soda, and popcorn butter. I stare at the pattern for so long the shapes start blurring together, the sound of the door shutting at the front of the theater almost too soft for me to register. Without looking up, I know who’s there. It’s six o’clock, which means he’s right on time.

Sawyer’s thudding footsteps make their way across the carpet toward me. “Have you seen the line out there? It’s practically—”

He pauses as I stand, turn to face him. Even though the lighting in Screen Three is dim, I can see his eyes dip to my feet, the chunky black sandals caged over my toes. His gaze drags all the way up the length of my black, spaghetti-strap dress whose open sides plunge down to my waist and full skirt swishes when I walk. His eyes finally stop when they reach my face, where my hair is pulled back into a low, slick ponytail.

“Hey,” he says, and that’s how I know he’s nervous. Not from the way his hands are shoved in his pockets, or the softness to his voice; Sawyer never bothers with greetings unless he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Hey,” I say back.

He’s wearing a black suit jacket and matching pants with a plain white shirt buttoned all the way to his neck. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling on the curls. Since we’re technically working tonight, both of us are wearing our name tags.

“You look…” Sawyer says. He bites his tongue. “Yeah.”

My smile is small, the hesitation from the last two days of this new reality somehow, confusingly, there in my chest. There was no longer any mention of my parents and me anywhere, no articles. I’d checked this morning; everything was gone. The new memories had come in gradually: setting up the new furniture for the café, cleaning the Trip, me and Sawyer in the lobby. It’d happened as Bunny said: we were there, my cousin came out, he suggested we all get bubble tea, and we left. But just as it had been in the previous reality, the moment between me and Sawyer was gone. That night, I helped him assemble the rest of tiny New York City. Sawyer put it up on the ceiling the next day while Kate and I cleaned the Trip and apparently went shopping for something to wear tonight. He’d waited until after I left to put up the people around tiny NYC, which made sense at the time; they were the finishing touch. But now I realized maybe he’d done it because he was the one who was embarrassed for not moving on.

Sawyer finally looks away, eyes darting to the empty chairs above us. “So, what’s up?” he says.

“Can you sit down?” I say. “I want to show you something.”

“Yeah, sure. But we only probably have, like, ten minutes, tops. The crowd up there is—”

“This won’t take long.” I gesture to the seats. They’re all empty except for seat fourteen, row D, which has a paper with the words Reserved for Sawyer Cook handwritten on it. “The staff here were kind enough to save you a seat.”

“Oh, thank god,” Sawyer says. “I was worried this was gonna sell out.”

He climbs the stairs and sits. I pull in a deep breath, eyes fixed on my hands, which are knotted at my stomach. The fact that this is something I have to do, something I know I have to do, should make this easier, but it doesn’t. Fear swirls in my stomach, brain spinning with all the ways this could go wrong. But if I don’t do it now, things will only be worse.

Tilting my chin up toward the panel of glass at the top of the theater, I nod. A shadow behind the glass moves, Bunny throwing up some kind of hand gesture. The projector light flickers on, beaming at the screen so it goes white. I squint into it, at the blocky black writing that says THINGS SAWYER SHOULD KNOW. The contrast is too severe, the white background too bright; even Sawyer holds up a hand to block the glow.

“Hello, and welcome to my presentation,” I say, swallowing, “‘Things Sawyer Should Know,’ brought to you by me.”

I clear my throat. My voice can’t shake for the entire thing; it’ll be too distracting. Sawyer is watching me with a mixture of confusion and a laugh; I can tell he’s finding the formality of it all amusing, which was kind of my plan. Maybe if he found the whole thing vaguely hilarious, he wouldn’t get so upset.

“So, we’ve known each other for four years now,” I say. “And while I still maintain that you’re my best friend, there are some things about me that you don’t know. Things I should’ve told you a long time ago, and that I’d like to explain. Starting with…”

I nod up at Bunny again, and the screen changes. On this new slide is a picture of me and my parents, one of the only pictures we’d taken together in the last two years. It’s a selfie my mom took of us after my graduation ceremony, sitting at the computer, me throwing two thumbs up as my parents smile into the camera.

“My parents. You may recognize them as Mich and Charlie Roman, because— Yes?”

Sawyer has raised his hand. “Hi,” he says, then points to himself. “Sawyer. I have a question.”

“Can you please save all questions until the end?” I say. Sawyer squints, as though considering whether or not he’s capable of this, but ultimately, he lowers his hand and nods. “Thank you. As I was saying, my parents are Mich and Charlie Roman, making me Dixon Louise Mulligan-Roman. I thought Kate and Bunny would’ve told you, but that first summer, when I found out you didn’t know, I—” I swallow again. “Before I met you, I didn’t really have friends my own age, because whenever they found out who my parents were, things would change. And when they knew who my parents were from the beginning, they were just always weird. But with you, I could just—have fun. Be myself, not have to worry about whether or not there was any kind of ulterior motive.” I’m careful to follow this up, rushing through my words. “And I know you aren’t like that. I know you’d never do anything like that, but that kind of thing takes time to figure out, and I was scared. Scared that I would lose you if I told you, and scared that I’d lose you if I didn’t, and then the longer I waited, the worse it was that I hadn’t told you, and the more scared I got. But the bottom line is, I should have told you, and I’m sorry.”

I look down at my hands again. For a second, I wish I’d brought notecards. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because at least then I’d have something to do with my hands. I glance up in Sawyer’s general direction again, but I can’t read his expression. His eyes are glued to the screen, the picture of me framed by my parents. Only when we’re lined up is it obvious we’re related; my mom’s eyes are mine, same as my dad’s hairline and his nose. I wonder if Sawyer is putting the pieces together, all the things I didn’t say about my parents starting to make sense.

“And I’m not just sorry to you,” I continue. “I’m sorry to my parents too, but that’s a whole different thing. ’Cause, like, I’ve spent all this time hating my dad for not being around, and while yes, that sucked, he should’ve been with us more—I sorta get it now. And I think he might be kind of cool? Not actually cool, he’s really embarrassing, but—yeah.” I shake my head. “I don’t know, it’s weird. I feel bad for them, too, because I kept the fact that they’re my parents a secret. Yes, I had my reasons and I just wanted to be myself outside our house, for, like, ten seconds of the year, but all the stuff they’ve ever done, they’ve done for me, and shouldn’t that count for something?” I’m getting too off track, my thoughts spiraling down avenues I haven’t even begun to explore yet, and now’s not the time. “But the bottom line is, I trust you. With this. With everything. And if I’ve ever done anything to make it seem like that isn’t the case, I’m sorry. You’re my best friend, and I don’t want to keep secrets from you. Ever. Which brings me to my next point.”

Another nod, and the slide changes. This time, it’s a picture of me and Harvey from Memorial Day, his arm wrapped around my waist and me resting my head on his shoulder.

“Technically, I have a boyfriend. His name is Harvey and he’s my dad’s assistant. We’re not dating because we like each other like that—we’re not even really dating at all. It’s a cover-up. For what, I can’t actually tell you, but you should still know. And also, not tell anyone about the fact that it’s a cover-up.” I splay my arms out, like that’ll make any difference. “So, there you go. Harvey, ladies and gentlemen.”

Bunny takes this as enough of a cue to move on to the next slide, which is just a thumbs-down emoji.

“The next thing you should know is, my life in New York sucks.” My voice catches on the last couple words. I can’t help it. “I don’t go out, my dad is always working, and I have no friends. Things used to be great, when it was the three of us, before my parents had to go to London for The One Who Wasn’t, but after that, I just—I shut them out. They hurt me so much, leaving me behind. We did everything together up until that point, and when they left, I didn’t have anyone. My family was far away, I couldn’t go outside by myself without getting my picture taken or people following me. I told you what it was like trying to make friends. It sounds like such a cliché, because it is, but the only people I ever wanted attention from were my parents. For them to protect me. I’ve never felt like I had any control over my life until I came here.”

My eyes flutter closed as I lose myself in the memory of that first moment I stepped into Cielo Springs and felt the searing hot air in my lungs. The purple hair dye was a last-minute decision to help me get through the airport, but standing in the bus station with approximately zero people staring at me, I felt so free. Nobody lingered near me in the hopes of seeing my parents, nobody asked for a selfie, like I’d always feared. It was amazing.

“I could finally be myself,” I say. “I could go to movies as myself, have a job as myself. Argue with you about Marvel movies as myself.”

Sawyer chuckles. The sound of it brings me back to the room, where I’m almost startled at the fact that I’m here, in this theater, with him. Not the bus station, my pores expanding to the size of pennies at the sudden assault of heat. But seeing Sawyer again, I remember why I’m here, what I have to say.

“So much of that was because of you.” I lift my hands a few inches in his direction, as if I could be talking about anyone else. “The things you say, the things you do, the way you are—you just get me. And that only makes the fact that I didn’t tell you about my parents even worse, and that’s something I’ll never stop feeling guilty about. But I come out here to Cielo Springs because of you. I mean, yes, okay, I love Kate and Bunny, seriously, I do, but I don’t think about them the way I think about you. I don’t feel a gaping hole in my chest whenever I’m not around them the way I do with you. I don’t spend all day hoping I’ll see their names on my phone the way I do with you. Because Sawyer, I—”

The screen shifts to the final slide, just a blank block of white. I didn’t want to take away from what I needed to say with dorky pictures or unnecessary words. This part, I need to say on my own. Just me.

“I love you.”

These three words linger in the air, the theater completely silent except for the sound of my breathing.

“I’ve loved you this summer and last summer and probably both before that. Every second in between. That day in Central Park—I was there.” I force myself to stare at him for this part. Sawyer has gone very still, his hands folded loosely in his lap. “I saw you sitting by the fountain and I bolted, but it wasn’t because I didn’t want to kiss you. That’s all I wanted. I got scared because of what it would mean about my parents. I knew I’d have to tell you.” I rub my forehead. “It was so dumb. I was so dumb. I pushed you away, and spent the whole last few months feeling miserable because I was too big of an idiot to call you. I did all this to myself, and worse, I hurt you.”

Sawyer stands, and for a panicked second, I think it might be because he’s going to leave. He sidles back across the row and slowly makes his way down the staircase, his expression frighteningly blank.

“I’m really sorry I kept all this from you,” I say quickly as he takes the final step to the floor just underneath the screen. “All of it, but especially the last part. The part about being in love with you. Not that it necessarily would’ve made a difference, but still. And if you never want to talk to me again, or you don’t want to be friends in New York, I get it. Genuinely, I do, because I—” Sawyer finally stops a foot away from me, one eyebrow bent, as though I’m speaking a different language. I take a tiny step back from him, my voice barely a whisper as I say, “Is this the part where you yell at me?”

There’s no denying that Little Dixie and Sawyer being in the lobby gave me the push I needed to tell him everything, but after what I’ve just admitted, the fact that I kept the truth from him for so long, his feelings might’ve changed. It might be him at Claire’s party all over again, the look of pain on his face, the tears that lingered on the edge of his jaw before falling onto his T-shirt. I can’t bear the thought of seeing him like that again, but I know that if he does pick up where we left off, I’ll have to take it, because this was my decision to tell him. And it was the right one.

But Sawyer simply intertwines his fingers, teeth creeping over his lip. “Is the floor open to questions yet?” he asks.

I nod. Swallow deep. Say, “Sure.”

Sawyer sucks in his cheeks and takes the final step toward me, his face hovering above mine as he says, “Can I kiss you?”

This time, I nod without thinking, as though my body and what it wants is completely separate from my brain. Without hesitating, Sawyer reaches up both hands to hold my cheeks and kisses me, my entire body dissolving into his. Every nerve in me is electric and aware of him, like a flower turning to the sun. My hands slip around his waist to underneath his suit jacket while his wander to the back of my head, pulling me deeper into him as the theater, the screen, all of it, disappears. The only thing I’m vaguely aware of is the sound of someone applauding loudly, which I suspect is coming from the projector room. For once, I let myself enjoy the feeling of Sawyer and nothing else, my thoughts empty of everything other than my hands running across the smooth muscles of his back, the taste of his mouth on mine.

His hands are still holding my face and so I know he can feel my cheeks heat when we finally pull apart and I glance down at my feet. The only nail polish options Kate had were black or a loud red called Kiss Me, You Fool, and so my toenails are currently the color of a stop sign.

“You don’t hate me?” I say quietly.

Sawyer shakes his head, a breathy laugh escaping his throat. “I don’t think I could ever hate you,” he says. “I mean, obviously it sucks that you felt like you couldn’t tell me about your parents and your fake boyfriend, but I don’t hate you for it. People can be weird and creepy as hell, especially with celebrities and stuff. I know you already know this but it’s worth saying anyway that I would never do that to you.” Sawyer skims the pad of his thumb over my lips, which are still buzzing from kissing him. “I’m really glad you told me, though. It would’ve been way harder if I found out from something or someone else.”

I try not to flinch. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“But even still, I couldn’t not be around you,” he says. “I would’ve been mad, fine, but I would’ve gotten over it. My life with you not in it—that just doesn’t work.”

And this, out of everything, is the one thing that, as I stand here with tears springing to my eyes, I needed to hear. I would’ve gotten over it. It’s what Bunny said, and there’s obviously no way to know for sure, but just hearing those words from Sawyer gives me hope that they could be true. That his pain wasn’t simply erased for my own good, that he would’ve come back to me anyway. And that if we fight in the future—which we obviously will, if he’s going to be so shady about the Thor franchise—things will be okay.

“Oh god, am I being too much?” Sawyer says, his gaze widening at the sight of the tears now streaking my face. “I’m being too much. I just sort of, like—I’ve thought about this moment a lot in my head and each time I say something different, but now that it’s actually happening, and I’ve just found out your parents are, like, my idols, everything is sort of coming out all at once.”

I wrap my hands around his wrists. “Not too much,” I say, shaking my head.

“But why didn’t you tell me you wanted”—his gaze flicks to his hands, still on my face—“this … sooner?”

“I wanted to—I was going to, when I first got here. Then I saw you with Claire.”

Sawyer sighs through his nose. “Stuff with Claire … it was nice sometimes, hanging out with her, but it just never felt right. Not how it feels with you.”

“But you said you were over us.”

He screws up his face in confusion. “When did I say that?”

“At summer movie night, in my room.”

He squints down at me, clearly trying to remember, then laughs. “I meant I was over you not showing up to Central Park, not you in general,” he says. “I don’t think I could ever be over you, not when everything I love makes me think of you. You’re kind of like … intertwined with all my favorite things, because they’re either your favorite things too, or they became my favorites because of you. They all infect each other, kinda.”

My forehead creases. “Are you comparing me to a parasite?”

Sawyer grimaces. “Oh, you didn’t think you’d actually enjoy this whole thing”—he gestures between us—“did you?”

Standing on tiptoes—an act made way too hard with the stiff, unforgiving leather of my new sandals—I kiss him. Sawyer sighs into me, and when my feet cramp from their awkward angle and I have to flatten back down, he follows me, his mouth never leaving mine.

“Guys, I’m really sorry to break this up.” Bunny crashes through the doors to the theater, Sawyer groaning in frustration as we break away. “But the crowd out there is getting straight-up rabid. Dix, when are they getting here?”

Bunny is wearing a red corduroy suit jacket over khaki cargo shorts and a white button-up he doesn’t bother tucking in. His hair is pulled high in a floppy bun, his nails painted black.

“Their flight landed at five thirty, so they should be here any second,” I say.

Sawyer gives me a look, his hands finally dropping from my face.

“My parents may or may not be coming to the reopening,” I say, the sentence sounding more like a question than a statement of fact.

“Your,” Sawyer splutters. “Your what?”

After talking to Bunny this morning, I called my parents again as I paced around Screen Three. By that point, my mom had filled my dad in on everything: the Rewind; how at first, they hadn’t actually left Cielo Springs; that he and I went to Romeo and had lunch at Maria Taverna. He burst into tears at the mere sound of my voice on speakerphone. He didn’t remember anything about our talk, his apologies for the last ten years waterfalling out of him all over again. For the first time since I’d been coming to Cielo Springs, it felt weird that he and my mom weren’t here. The reopening was a big deal: for me, for Kate, for our family. That included my parents. Them crashing my summer had forced the two halves of me together, and now that it’d happened, there was no going back, at least not for me.

I explain everything to Sawyer as quickly as I can. How, with Kate’s permission, I’d invited my parents to the reopening and they’d flown in. How we were going to use one of the screens to show The Middle for one night only, followed by a live Q&A with my parents. None of it had been officially announced, but Harvey had done some light PR magic, hinting to the “Where in the World Is Charlie Roman?” Instagram account that his boss might be headed to a little-known desert town in Southern California for an old theater’s grand reopening. The internet did the rest.

“Shit, does your mom know she was my first crush?” Sawyer says suddenly. “Oh my god, I’ve had dreams about my girlfriend’s mom.”

My first instinct is to squash my eyes closed against the thought, but something in his confession makes my whole body go still. One tiny word.

“Girlfriend?” I say.

Sawyer gives me a look that says Duh. “Well, yeah,” he says. “I mean, two single best friends who love each other and enjoy making out—like, it makes sense we’d be together, right? Unless that’s not what you want.” He runs a hand through his hair, his expression suddenly panicked. “Is that not what you want? Fuck, I’m sorry. I should’ve asked, obviously. God, why am I being so freaking weird right now?”

“No, I want it,” I rush. “You, I mean.” I gesture between us. “This. But … you never said anything about love.”

Sawyer’s eyes dart up to the ceiling, as though he’s rewinding through his memories. “Jesus,” he says after a few seconds. “Did I not mention I’m in love with you?”

“No,” I say. “You kinda left that part out.”

He shakes his head. “God, I’m doing this all in the wrong order.”

Sawyer swoops in again; this time his hands go straight for my waist as he pulls me into the deepest kiss of my life, the kind you feel in your toes, the kind you think about in quiet moments on the subway, for years and years and years.

“Dix, I love you,” he says when he pulls away. “Like, a lot. Like, enough to sit through all the Ant-Man movies and not say a single thing.” He kisses me again, lighter this time. “You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

“Guys,” Bunny says from behind us. “This is so fun. Like, so fun. But remember that rabid crowd I was telling you about?”

My lips smile against Sawyer’s. “We’re coming,” I say.

When we break away this time, Sawyer’s hand finds mine. We follow Bunny back into the lobby, where Kate waits behind the candy counter, staring straight ahead at the glass doors. Standing in front of the ticket booth is a line of people that looks like it wraps around the block. Some have bright pink hair, others are wearing T-shirts from The Middle, ones with cartoon sketches of the couch or the Sunshine Burger logo on them. And then there are the rest of them, just normal people from Cielo Springs looking confused by the sudden interest in their local theater, and who have just come here to see a movie in which Owen Wilson says something witty.

Hearing us approach, Kate glances over. Her eyes flicker down to mine and Sawyer’s hands, still twined together, but she doesn’t say anything. Only her mouth, twitching up into a barely there smile, gives any indication that this means something to her.

“Well, folks, this is it,” she says, turning back to the doors. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

Sawyer looks down at me and smirks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

To close, here is a quote from Lois Mulligan’s most recent Christmas card: “After my seventy-eight years of life, the biggest thing I’ve learned is this: the most important thing for a Mulligan isn’t Rewinds. Life has thrown natural disasters, world wars, tragedies, and more at us. The one constant that has gotten us through it all has been our family.”

—EXCERPT FROM “A REWIND THROUGH HISTORY” BY FRANK MULLIGAN

The last movie doesn’t get out until almost midnight, but we’re all too wired to go home. Kate grabs a few bottles of wine she’s had stashed in PR One while Sawyer and I fill a box with bags of Sour Patch Kids, Cookie Dough Bites, and Mike and Ikes—even though nobody ever eats them—and head up to the roof. My uncle Rob put a couch up there years ago so he and Kate would have somewhere quiet to rest in the evenings between screenings. Someone has strung white Christmas lights around the chest-high wall lining the edge of the roof, so the couch and a few extra lawn chairs that have appeared are actually visible. An overturned crate acting as a coffee table sits in the middle, a small candle that smells like roses positioned on top. Next to it is a mug holding someone’s phone, the sounds of The Middle soundtrack amplified by the porcelain enough to echo across the roof.

Sawyer deposits the box of candy at the foot of the couch and gets caught in a conversation with Claire, Frank, and my grandma as I make my way over to the edge of the roof. Next to my mom, my aunt is sitting on one of the lawn chairs across from Aaron, who closed the AV Alley early so he could help with crowd control and taking pictures of the reopening. When Kate laughs loudly and touches Aaron’s arm, my mom and I lock eyes over the candlelight, her eyebrows raised. Across from them on the couch sit Bunny and Harvey, who have barely stopped speaking or staring at each other since they were “introduced.” It was kind of hilarious, watching Bunny shake his hand, nod along as Harvey answered questions Bunny had already been through. I could practically see the bow and arrow reflected in Bunny’s eyes, an imaginary target plastered to Harvey’s forehead.

“Harvey seems to be taking your break well.”

My dad appears at my side in a dark suit, a metal pin with the Sunshine Burger logo on his lapel. He nudges my shoulder as we watch Harvey on the couch, where he’s currently leaned in so close to my cousin that his chest is practically on Bunny’s shoulder.

“We’re both being really mature about it,” I say.

My dad snorts. Harvey was unbelievably cool when I told him about Sawyer on the phone this afternoon. We agreed we’d tell my parents we were on a “break” but not say anything to his dad or anyone else in New York. I said I was willing to keep the act up when we were home until we moved out for school in August, and Harvey said he’d think about it. But judging by the way he casually props his arm up along the back of the couch and dangerously near Bunny’s neck, I doubt very much he’s thinking about anything other than my cousin right now.

My dad pulls an opened box of Mike and Ikes from his suit pocket and pours a few candies into his hand. “Aaron says we can have the entire bowling alley tomorrow if we want,” he says. “What do you think?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna become one of those old guys that gets super into bowling.”

Dad laughs. “I don’t know.” He glides a hand through the air. “If I’m being honest, I think I’m entering the point in my life where I can comfortably admit that I could see myself owning my own bowling ball.”

He and my mom are staying for the next few days at the El Cielo, a spa hotel that’s out by Old Hill Thrift. Kate and my mom talked out in the lobby for the entire duration of The Middle. Both their faces were puffy and red from crying when they took the stage together after and waved for the crowd, holding hands.

The screening of The Middle was completely sold out, with some people driving all the way from Santa Barbara to see it. Sawyer and I watched from the projector room so as not to take any seats from paying customers, and also so we could make out during the parts of the movie we knew by heart, which, admittedly, was most of it. As she and my parents sat at the front of the screen on fold-out chairs, Kate ran the Q&A like a pro, keeping the audience so riveted, they audibly groaned when it was time to wrap up.

“I meant to tell you,” Dad says. “I was thinking about getting in touch with the film department at NYU, ask if they needed any visiting professors.” He glances over at me. “We could hang out on campus together. That’d be kind of cool.” Though I try to keep my face neutral, I must give off some kind of grimace because my dad smiles and says, “Dixie, I’m kidding. I’ll at least wait until your second semester and you’ve had time to settle in before I ambush you in class.”

He slings an arm over my shoulder and bumps me with his hip. This morning on the phone, we’d more or less rehashed our conversation from Maria Taverna, except this time, I had apologies of my own. My parents and I talked through the Barracuda deal together; it was my dad who was the first to say he’d call tomorrow to tell them the deal was off. For good. Instead, he’d take the next few months off to figure out his next move, have some downtime at home, and, apparently, stalk me at school.

“What about lunch once a week?” Dad says to me. “We can try out all the Lebanese places in the city and report back to Eli and Maria. They’ll love it.” He waves and calls across the roof, “What do you think, Sawyer?”

Sawyer’s head snaps up at the sound of his name, but he looks around as if to check there aren’t any other Sawyers nearby. My dad gestures for him to come over.

“Do you like Lebanese food?” he says once Sawyer reaches us. “I’m trying to get Dixie to join me on a tour of New York City’s Lebanese restaurants. You up for it?”

Sawyer’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets as he turns his panicked expression to me. All I can manage is a shrug. He’s barely been able to say two words to my parents all night, his face going a startling shade of eggplant when my mom first stuck out her hand for him to shake. I know I should throw him a lifeline here, interject with something helpful or try to deflect the attention back onto me, but this is too hilarious to watch.

“Um, yeah,” he finally manages. “I like Lebanese food. I mean, at least I—I think I do. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had it before. But I like food, so that—that’s something.”

My dad laughs loudly and claps a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “That is something,” he says.

After tonight, everyone will know who I am, but not because my parents made some big announcement. I was the one who, after the audience finished the third minute of their standing ovation, approached my parents and called them Mom and Dad. I could see the looks I was getting from people in the first few rows, noting the surreptitious photos they were taking. My identity would be all over blogs and stuff tomorrow, maybe even tonight, but this time, I didn’t care. Standing up at the head of the screen with my parents’ arms looped around my shoulders as hundreds of people who loved The Middle just as much as I did cheered, I was proud. Proud of the fact that so many people were there to see my parents, proud of what they were doing for the Trip. For once, I wasn’t afraid of this knowledge being out in the world and me having to face it. Because I wasn’t alone anymore.

“I said I wanted to hang out with you,” I say to my dad. “Not that I wanted you to steal my friends and follow me around New York.”

He kisses the side of my head and laughs. “Bet you’re wishing I had the Barracuda deal to keep me busy.” Dad nods toward the overturned crate and the half-empty bottles of wine and Diet Coke beside it. “I’m gonna grab a drink. Do you guys want anything?”

“I have one,” Sawyer says quickly. He looks down at his empty hands. “I mean, I did. Have one. At some point. I think I left it over by the couch but, like, I don’t need another one. Unless you want to. Get me one. But, like, I’m good.”

My dad’s face stays remarkably neutral as he patiently listens to Sawyer. “How about we see where the night takes us?” he says, patting Sawyer on the shoulder again.

“Okay, yeah,” Sawyer says. “Good idea.”

As my dad walks away and my mom rises from her spot on the other side of the roof to meet him, Sawyer spins around to face me, his cheeks a deep shade of red.

“Oh my fucking god, could I be any more awkward?” he gasps. “All they say is Don’t meet your heroes. Nobody says anything about what to do if you’ve been making out with your heroes’ daughter.”

I can’t help but cackle. “Stop thinking of him and my mom as your heroes,” I say as I turn toward the wall overlooking Cielo Avenue. “My mom watches Wheel of Fortune every night and my dad wears two pairs of glasses at the same time to read his iPad. As far as heroes go, they’re pretty basic.”

Sawyer slides both hands to either side of me and rests them on the wall. “Yeah, but they made, like, my most favorite thing in the entire world,” he says as he plants a kiss on my bare shoulder. “I’m talking about The Middle, obviously, not you.”

“Obviously.”

Cielo Springs is one of those cities that unless you know about it, you’re unlikely to cross its path. Looming out in front of me and almost completely framed by mountains, it’s like some lost city at the end of an epic quest, a pinprick of light in an otherwise dark desert. And yet here I am, calling it my second home. On the surface, it’s straightforward, my arrival here the result of a series of decisions: I wanted to get out of New York City in the summer, Kate offered to host me, I came here. But really, there’s so much more to it than that.

This thought had hit me like a blast of cold air as Sawyer and I half-watched The Middle from PR One. As Stella and Sam got back into their car and drove one last time away from the farmhouse and Sunshine Burger, finally leaving limbo forever.

“You know what I realized when we were watching the movie tonight?” I say. “The Middle was wrong. I mean, at least partially wrong. Like, all this time, I thought Stella and Sam were to blame for ending up in limbo, but it wasn’t all their fault. It was also the deer.”

If the deer hadn’t been standing in the road, the movie wouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t necessarily fair to blame any single result on any one decision. Sure, there were some situations in which cause and effect was pretty clear, but for the majority of cases, that just wasn’t true. This was one of them.

“Well, yeah,” Sawyer says. “What else would it have been?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Their decisions. Their relationship.”

Even though he’s standing behind me, I can hear Sawyer’s frown when he says, “That sounds both overly simplified and super complicated.”

I laugh through my nose. “Tell me about it.”

Though there are still cars weaving along the roads, their engines are drowned out by the din behind us, the hollow sound of the music playing from its makeshift speaker, Bunny and Harvey giggling, the gravel crunching beneath my parents’ feet as they hold each other close and dance. There are so many things that brought me here, to this exact moment. Just as many outcomes that would’ve happened if I’d made different choices. All I know now is the unpredictable path I went down. And that I’d never take it back.

Sawyer’s mouth is pressed against my hair. “Why was your dad talking about Barracuda?” he says into my scalp.

I lean into him, the back of my head resting against his sharp collarbone. “They wanted to give him three hundred million dollars to make movies for them and stream all his stuff,” I say. I don’t have the energy to go into the rest, not when it’s already behind us.

Sawyer straightens up behind me. “Three hundred mil?” he says.

“He turned it down though, don’t worry.”

“Damn,” he says, deflating a little. “Think of all the cool shit he could’ve done with that.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What, like buy a small island?”

“No,” Sawyer says. “Scholarships and stuff. Events. Reinvest back into the movie theater industry. Hell, you could buy a bunch of old movie theaters with cash like that.”

I turn around slowly, my back now pressed into the pebbled wall lining the roof. From the way Sawyer’s eyes are searching my face, snagging on my lips, I can tell he’s already moved on, but something in my brain is only now slotting into place. All that money didn’t have to sit forgotten in the corner of some bank account along with the other countless millions my parents already had. What if it could do more?

Grabbing Sawyer’s hands, I lace his fingers with mine.

“Maybe he still can.”

EPILOGUE

“Dinner!”

I wrench myself up from my place on the living room’s wraparound couch, Sawyer stretching his arms toward the ceiling beside me. Harvey turns off the TV and the weird home renovation show we’d been watching, the one where the contestants have to convert a barn into a house while the animals are still living in it.

Before we can cross into the kitchen, my mom cuts us off in the doorway. “Okay, remember,” she says in a low voice, “happy faces. He’s been working on this for two hours, so just eat it quietly and I’ll pay your hospital bills later, okay?”

The three of us nod back.

She turns around and clasps her hands at her heart. “Well, doesn’t this look good?” she exclaims cheerfully as we make our way into the kitchen.

Scattered across the kitchen island are five identical salad bowls filled with a gloopy helping of rice. My dad stands over them sprinkling shavings of parmesan cheese, his face far too bright and excited considering the amount of times he’s set off the fire alarm tonight.

“So, what’s on the menu?” Sawyer says once we’ve all taken our seats at the tall barstools.

My dad rubs his hands together. “Lemon and pea risotto.”

That would be why the kitchen smells like a combination of burnt butter and cleaning products. I look down at my bowl and try not to grimace. The grains of rice are so sludgy they almost look like soup, with yellowing, overcooked peas stagnating on top.

“Looks great,” Harvey says, fear glittering in his eyes.

Since the three of us started classes a couple weeks ago, Tuesday has become family dinner night at my house. So far, my dad has made us lamb that looked way too similar to the sludge you see at the bottom of the subway tracks (the meal Sawyer referred to as “garbage lamb”), French toast casserole still soggy with uncooked eggs at the bottom, and a Tikka Masala curry that, for some reason, made all our hands burn for hours after we ate it. Cooking is one of the only new hobbies my dad has taken up since having a break from filmmaking that’s stuck around. The others—pottery, woodworking, photography—he’d tried once and decided they weren’t for him. Same with the running club he’d joined and quit after the fourth block. Next week, he’s going to a community gardening club on Roosevelt Island. All those, I could get behind, mostly because they weren’t at risk of killing me. But my mom insisted we had to be encouraging of his new ventures, even though I knew Dad being home so much was secretly driving her out of her mind. She’d recently started pretending to take afternoon naps just so she could have five minutes without my dad offering to make her coffee, do a crossword, ask if she wanted to go for a walk. It was hilarious and kind of cute.

Mom is the first to brave a taste of dinner. “Mmm,” she says, flashing my dad a tight-lipped smile. He beams at her and digs into his own meal, giving Mom enough time to chug at least half her glass of wine.

I dip my fork in and get a few grains of rice and a pea, but when I put them in my mouth, the taste of lemon is so overpowering, my eyes water. Fortunately, Dad is only a few seconds behind me; after taking his first bite, he coughs loudly and drops his fork onto the table.

“Well, that’s inedible,” he says with a long breath.

Mom stands. “I’ll get the takeout menus.”

The usual shuffling and relieved sighing ensues.

“Sorry, guys,” Dad says sheepishly. “The recipe called for four tablespoons of lemon juice, so I figured that was one lemon per tablespoon, right?”

“I don’t—” Harvey starts to say, but I shoot him a look. Encouraging. We’re supposed to be encouraging. He smiles tightly instead. “Don’t worry about it.”

Mom returns with a handful of takeout menus and spreads them across the island. We only argue for about seven minutes—a new record—before deciding on a Chinese restaurant a couple blocks over.

A phone rings. We all pat our pockets but it’s my dad who produces his cell, grimacing down at the screen before declining the call and turning it face down on the counter.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“Just Candace,” he says. Candace is my dad’s new PA that he hired to replace Harvey once he started at Columbia. She’s sixty, lives by herself in an apartment above a pizza shop, and only wears neon leggings underneath chunky sweaters. She is my hero. “She’s chasing me to confirm the Midwest tour dates for November, but NYU want me there promoting the scholarship. Plus, she’s mad I didn’t take her to Cole Sprouse Barracuda party, so that’s a whole mess.”

As of two weeks ago, my dad had signed a deal with Barracuda. It was completely different from the one they’d initially approached him with: they’d have the streaming rights for all past Roman Numeral films, but all future ones would still go to theaters before eventually ending up on Barracuda. Dad wouldn’t be directing them, but had launched an appeal for new, younger voices to join Roman Numeral and he’d executive produce from afar, until the company could keep going without him. As a result, the deal was for less than the original three hundred million, but it was still a lot. Plenty to keep us going and create a scholarship at NYU to help people without the means to study film. Plus, he’d started touring movie theaters in New York on the weekends, holding surprise events with me in tow, where I took pictures for the group chat we now shared with Mom and Eli. But most of the time, he was home. Reading the newspaper on his iPad, meeting me for coffee between classes, and cooking terrible food.

He’d understandably been confused at first, when I floated the idea to take the Barracuda deal. But when we’d started brainstorming all the things he could do with the money, a bright light had shone behind his eyes. There would be work involved, obviously, and he’d have to go away every now and then. But for the first time in ten years, I understood what that meant, and that he’d always come back because me and my mom were his home.

“What about the Trip?” I say. “Are you doing something when we go to Cielo Springs for Thanksgiving?”

Me, Mom, Dad, and Harvey are going for a week this fall, staying at the El Cielo so my grandma can stay with Kate. It’s more or less guaranteed to be a shit show in the best kind of way.

“Didn’t you hear?” Sawyer says. “The Trip is booked up on events until, like, February. Kate says they have stuff on almost every night.”

Ever since The Middle screening in the summer, the Trip has been overloaded with visitors. The publicity my parents brought was overwhelming, making national and international news. Since then, people have been using the Trip as an events space, a place for private screenings, and somewhere to congregate during the day. Kate and Aaron are even talking about teaming up and starting Cielo Springs’s very own film festival.

A phone rings again, but when my dad flips his cell around, he frowns down at the darkened screen. “Not me,” he says, shrugging.

“It’s me.” Harvey holds his phone out in front of him. “Hey, skater boy,” he says, face splitting into a wide grin as Bunny appears on FaceTime.

When he and my parents flew back from Cielo Springs, Harvey came out to his dad and told him about our “breakup.” He didn’t give us many details about what happened next, but when he called my parents to ask if he could stay the night at their house, they not only said yes, but cleared out my dad’s office and converted it into a bedroom. Now, Harvey lives with them, at least when he’s not at school or visiting his sister.

It didn’t take long for him and Bunny to pick up exactly where they’d left off after my mom used her Rewind, sneaking into PR One when they thought nobody was looking and touching each other’s hair way more than was normal. At first it was weird to think of Bunny calling New York for anyone but me, but now we were spending our first holiday together as a family in forever, so I got over it.

“I’m here with—” Harvey starts to say, before his smile slides away. “Oh my god,” he exclaims. “What happened?”

At the sound of Harvey’s panic, Sawyer and I scramble to stand behind him so we can get a better view of the phone. Bunny is propped up on a bed, his blond hair limp and his usually giant shirt replaced with an equally ill-fitting hospital gown.

“Hey, guys.” Bunny sounds as though he’s just swallowed a handful of gravel. He swivels the phone around so we can see the bottom half of the bed, where his right foot is so wrapped in bandages, it’s almost four times its normal size. A couple of purplish toes poke out of the top. “I broke my foot.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sawyer says. “What happened?”

“I was trying to grab some Skittles from the Tower of Doom,” he says. “I stood on the desk chair, but the box was too stuck and the chair went all crazy and spun around and I fell off. My foot got twisted, so when I went down, I snapped the tendons that’re—”

“Stop talking,” I shriek as I cover my ears with both hands.

Kate appears in the hospital room doorway just beyond Bunny’s foot, holding a paper coffee cup in either hand. “Is that Harvey?” she says to my cousin, before the camera shifts back to Bunny’s face with Kate leaning in close. “Hi, gang,” she says to us all, waving.

“But what about the skateboarding tournament thing?” I say. “Isn’t that, like”—it’s supposed to be at the end of September, which would make it—“now?”

He sighs. “It’s whatever,” Bunny says, but even I can tell from the way he shakes his head that it’s far from whatever. “There’s always … never.”

“Dude,” Sawyer says sadly.

My parents have appeared behind us. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” my mom says.

Harvey looks like he might cry.

My chest constricts as I grind my back teeth together. I push away from the counter so I can pace behind the phone. “Why did we stack those boxes so high?” I say. “We knew it was too high, otherwise we wouldn’t have called it the Tower of Doom.”

Bunny had been practicing so hard for that stupid tournament. Almost every night, every free second he had, had been dedicated to skateboarding. Sawyer and I went to watch him a couple times after work at the skate park, and while I knew from seeing him on the makeshift ramp in his driveway before that he was pretty good, I didn’t know he was that good. He made it look so simple, throwing his legs up over his head, gliding through the air as though gravity didn’t exist. This was so important to him, and while the logical part of my brain knows we could probably still buy him tickets to the X Games, it won’t be the same. All because of some boxes. Boxes I knew were stashed dangerously, that I contributed to stashing dangerously. Even on my last day in Cielo Springs, I watched as Sawyer literally pounded a box into the top left corner of the wall with his fists. If I had just said something, if we’d just taken the time to organize things like normal people …

My brain goes quiet, the rest of the room stilling. I know what I have to do.

Only when I tear down the hallway toward my room do I register Sawyer’s voice.

“Dixie,” he shouts after me. “Where are you going?”

I can barely catch my breath enough to yell back, “I have to call my grandma.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As ever, this book didn’t make itself. And for that, I’ve got a lot of big thank-yous to dish out.

The first goes to my agent, Chloe Seager, whose patience and wisdom I value so, so much.

To the wonderful team at Wednesday Books, thank you for making my work look, sound, and feel so much cooler than I ever thought possible. Eileen Rothschild, Char Dreyer, Rivka Holler, Zoë Miller, and Kerri Resnick, I’m so grateful to you all. Same goes to Christina MacDonald, spotter of inconsistencies big and small.

An author is nothing without booksellers, librarians, and educators. Thank you to the team at Waterstones in Norwich and Kett’s Books in Wymondham for your endless enthusiasm and support.

The Trip wouldn’t have come to life were it not for the fantastic folks at Cinema City in Norwich. Thank you to Ciaran Dunsdon for helping me get a behind-the-scenes look at such a beautiful theater, and to Dilys Goodridge for answering all my silly questions.

Friends near and far, thank you for your continued willingness to travel down this weird path that is my writing/me. Abby Erwin, Anna Pappas, Becky Nissel, Bikram Sharma, Caroline Parry, Dani Redd, Harrie Johnson, Helen Finn, Kara Estelle-Powers, Mary Sollosi, Mitch Johnson, Neil Rao, and Rowan Whiteside, I’m lucky to know you. Ditto to my T&H book club, you depraved, sordid bunch.

To my parents and my sister, Emily—my day one hype club. You are what gave me the courage to start writing these silly stories in the first place. Margot, you’re the reason I still do it, and Adam, you’re how I know I can. I love you all.

ALSO BY MOLLY MORRIS

This Is Not the End

Annie LeBlanc Is Not Dead Yet

Praise for
Annie Leblanc Is Not Dead Yet

“It’s such a brilliant, witty novel about friendship and has really stayed with me.”

—Author Kate Weston, writing for The Guardian

“This is a beautifully poetic YA work about female friendships, with a touch of magical realism and laugh out loud humor.”

—NPR

“The novel is a charming, mostly realistic story with a supernatural twist … both sweet and sad but will leave readers feeling hopeful.”

—School Library Journal

“The continual countdown to Annie’s return to the afterlife gives the story tangible stakes … This is a clever, lightly magical title.”

—Booklist

“The story is fresh and well executed, simultaneously feeling both perfectly convincing and truly bizarre.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Morris’s deft handling of the teens’ intertwining histories and the little mythologies that make up the language of adolescent friendships imbues this speculative rom-com with well-timed comedy and plenty of angst.”

—Publishers Weekly

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MOLLY MORRIS is the UK-based author of the young adult novels This Is Not the End and Annie LeBlanc Is Not Dead Yet. Originally from San Diego, California, Molly moved to England to study for her master’s in the University of East Anglia’s prestigious creative writing program, and it was only afterwards that she began writing young adult fiction—her writing and reading true love. Nowadays, she spends most of her time rewatching Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The X Files while doing up her very old house. You can sign up for email updates here.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in the United States by Wednesday Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

REWIND TO US. Copyright © 2025 by Molly Morris. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

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First Edition: 2025