Every Morning, Someone Else

The first thing that hits me is the smell.

It’s wrong. It’s a vicious, impossible contradiction that makes my stomach churn before I even open my eyes.

There is the heavy, suffocating musk of stale cigar smoke, bathtub gin, and cheap jasmine perfume—the kind of scent that clings to the velvet curtains of a dive bar at three in the morning.

But slicing right through it, sharp as a scalpel, is something else.

Something chemical and distinctly clinical.

Sterile alcohol. Iodine. The metallic tang of copper.

Like the waiting room of an emergency clinic.

My eyes snap open.

The ceiling above me isn't the familiar popcorn stucco of my apartment.

It is stamped tin, painted a peeling, bruised crimson.

A slow-spinning ceiling fan chops at the thick, humid air, casting rhythmic, slicing shadows across the room.

Where am I?

I bolt upright, and the world violently tilts.

A spike of white-hot pain shoots through my temples, so intense it makes my vision white out for a fraction of a second.

I groan, clutching the mattress underneath me.

My fingers dig into heavy, gold-fringed velvet.

This isn't my bed.

This isn't my apartment.

This isn't the Uber I took after the Halloween party.

Panic, cold and absolute, floods my veins.

I scramble backward against a carved wooden headboard, pulling my knees to my chest.

My breathing sounds too loud in the quiet room.

I force myself to look around.

The room is dimly lit by a fringed lotus-shaped lamp, its warped shadows falling across velvet armchairs and a heavy mahogany vanity.

Gold-and-black Art Deco wallpaper covers the walls. On the dresser, a cigar smolders in an ashtray, sending a thin ribbon of blue smoke into the air.

Okay, Evie. Think, I tell myself, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

You were at a party. Sarah was there. You had two drinks. Did someone slip something into the second one?

I’ve been drugged. I’ve been kidnapped.

The thought is paralyzing, but survival instinct kicks in, hot and urgent.

I look down at myself to check for injuries, to check if my clothes are intact, and the air leaves my lungs in a sharp hiss.

I’m wearing a dress I have never seen before in my life.

It’s a drop-waist shift made of sheer black silk, heavily beaded with silver glass that catches the dim light. 

The fabric feels impossibly expensive, heavy with the weight of the beadwork.

There is a strange, phantom ache on the side of my head, but when I reach up to touch my hair, it’s been styled. Pinned into tight, perfect finger waves.

"What the hell..." I whisper, my voice cracking.

I tear the velvet blankets aside, patting my body, looking for pockets that don't exist.

"Where is my phone? Where is my bag?"

I slide off the bed.

My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, and a wave of dizziness nearly sends me to my knees.

I brace myself against the bedside table, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol hits my nose again, overpowering the cigar smoke for just a second, making me gag.

I need to get out of here.

I stumble toward the vanity mirror.

The girl staring back at me is me—dark eyes wide with terror, pale skin—but she looks like a stranger.

My makeup is completely different. Dark, smudged kohl around my eyes, and a deep, bruised-plum lipstick.

Sitting on the vanity, right next to a silver hairbrush, is a newspaper.

I grab it, desperate to figure out what city I’ve been taken to. My eyes scan the bold, black typeface.

THE NEW YORK TIMES

October 24, 1929

PROHIBITION AGENTS RAID BROADWAY CLUB; DOZENS ARRESTED

I stare at the date.

I stare at it until the numbers blur.

"Very funny," I breathe, my voice trembling.

"It's a prop. It's a stupid frat party prank."

I drop the paper like it burned me. I need a weapon.

I scan the room frantically.

The lotus lamp is plugged into the wall, too clumsy. The chair is too heavy.

My eyes land on a heavy, solid brass candlestick sitting on the mantel of a small fireplace.

I cross the room in two strides, my beaded dress swishing heavily around my legs. I grab the brass candlestick.

Cold. Heavy. Perfect.

I turn toward the heavy oak door. I take one step toward it.

The brass doorknob turns.

A jolt of pure adrenaline shoots through my system.

I don't think.

I retreat to the center of the room, raising the candlestick over my shoulder like a baseball bat, planting my bare feet firmly on the floorboards.

The door clicks open.

He isn't wearing a ski mask. He isn't some grungy college kid from the party.

He looks like he just stepped off a vintage Hollywood movie set.

He is tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece charcoal pinstripe suit.

The jacket is unbuttoned, revealing a silver pocket watch chain draped across his waistcoat.

His dark hair is slicked back, save for one rogue curl that falls over a sharp, bruising brow.

He’s carrying a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, and the moment he sees me standing there, weapon raised, his dark eyes widen with immediate, desperate relief.

"Evie," he breathes.

The way he says my name makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

It isn’t a guess. It’s an exhalation.

Like he has been holding his breath for hours, and looking at me is the only thing allowing him to breathe again.

"Don't take another step!" I scream.

My hands are shaking so badly the brass candlestick rattles.

"Who the hell are you? Where am I? If you come near me, I swear to God I will cave your skull in!"

The man freezes, his expression morphing from profound relief to utter confusion.

He sets the tumbler down on a nearby dresser with deliberate slowness, keeping his hands where I can see them.

"Evie, sweetheart, put that down," he says.

His voice is a low, gravelly baritone, entirely too calm for the situation.

And his accent—it’s strange.

Clipped, sharp, heavily stylized. It sounds like a transatlantic radio broadcast. "It’s me. It’s Julian."

"I don't know a Julian!" I back up until my spine hits the floral wallpaper. "Did you drug me? Did you change my clothes? Where are my friends?"

Julian takes a slow, measured step forward, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Drugged? What are you talking about? You collapsed downstairs in the lounge. You’ve been out cold for two hours.

I’ve had the boys turn the whole club upside down looking for whoever gave you bad hooch. I thought you were dying on me, doll."

Hooch? Doll?

My brain scrambles to process the terminology. It’s too committed.

The clothes, the newspaper, the accent. It’s terrifying.

"Stop talking to me like that!" I grip the brass tighter, my knuckles turning white.

"I'm calling the cops. I don't know what kind of sick roleplay you think this is, but let me out of here right now!"

"The cops?" Julian lets out a humorless, breathless laugh, though his eyes remain glued to mine, tracking my erratic movements.

"Evie, if the bulls come knocking at my door right now, we’re both taking a ride in the paddy wagon. Just... breathe. Look at me. You hit your head on the bar when you went down. You're confused."

"I'm not confused, I'm kidnapped!"

He takes another step.

I swing.

I aim right for his jaw, a wild, terrified arc of heavy brass. But Julian is impossibly fast.

He doesn't flinch, and he doesn't hit me back.

His large hand shoots up, catching my wrist mid-swing with a grip that is like an iron vice. The momentum jerks me forward, right into his solid chest.

He smells like tobacco, expensive cologne, and—there it is again.

A sharp, phantom whiff of rubbing alcohol.

"Let me go!" I shriek, thrashing against him. I kick at his shins, twisting my body, but it’s like fighting a statue.

"Evie, stop!" Julian says, his voice rising, thick with a panic of his own.

He easily wrestles the candlestick from my fingers, tossing it onto the velvet bed, and grabs my other wrist, pinning both of my arms between us.

"Stop fighting me! I’m not going to hurt you. God, Evie, I would never hurt you."

"Help!" I scream at the top of my lungs, turning my head toward the open door, hoping beyond hope that someone, anyone, is in the hallway.

"Somebody help me!"

Julian suddenly shifts, moving us backward until he kicks the heavy oak door shut with his heel.

The lock clicks into place.

"Shh, shh, you're alright, I've got you," Julian murmurs rapidly, his chest heaving against mine.

The sound of the lock clicking shuts something off inside me.

The fight suddenly drains out of my muscles, replaced by a dizzying, suffocating wave of exhaustion.

The adrenaline crash is instantaneous.

The room spins violently. My knees buckle.

Julian catches my weight effortlessly before I can hit the floor.

"Hey, hey, I've got you," he says, his voice dropping an octave, losing the sharp edge of panic.

He guides me down, sitting me on the edge of the velvet mattress.

He kneels on the floor in front of me, his expensive pinstripe trousers dusting the floorboards, indifferent to the dirt.

I am hyperventilating, tears spilling over my cheeks, terrified of what he’s going to do next.

I am completely at his mercy.

My chest heaves as I try to pull in oxygen, waiting for the strike.

Waiting for him to push me down.

But Julian doesn't reach for my clothes. He doesn't try to restrain my hands again.

Instead, his expression softens into one of pure, unadulterated concern.

It is a look so deeply intimate, so entirely raw, that it makes my breath catch in my throat.

He reaches up, his large, calloused hand surprisingly gentle, and firmly brushes the sweaty, styled hair back from my forehead.

He holds his palm flat against my skin.

For a split second, the speakeasy around me flickers.

The heavy jazz music drifting up through the floorboards cuts out, replaced by a high-pitched, panicked voice shouting,

“Apply pressure! Somebody get a towel, she’s bleeding!”

I blink, gasping for air, and the jazz music rushes back in.

The velvet room solidifies.

Julian’s brow furrows as he keeps his warm hand pressed firmly to my cold forehead.

"You're burning up," he mutters, his thumb gently stroking my temple. He looks genuinely terrified.

"Your pulse is racing like a spooked horse. Look at me, doll. Are you with me? Evie, look at me."

I stare down at him.

My vision is swimming.

The sheer terror in my chest is suddenly complicated by a bizarre, heavy weight in my gut.

He is a stranger. He has locked me in a room. I should be fighting for my life.

So why does his touch make me feel so incredibly, undeniably safe?

"Who..." My voice barely works. My head throbs with that phantom ache again.

"Who are you?"

Julian pulls his hand back slightly, a look of genuine heartbreak crossing his handsome features.

He looks like a man who has just been told the world is ending. "It's Julian," he says softly, his voice cracking. "Julian Vance. You don't remember me?"

I shake my head slowly. "I don't know you."

He swallows hard, his jaw clenching.

"Okay. Okay, that's fine. The doctor said you might be confused. You took a hard hit to the head, sweetheart. You just need to rest."

"I need to go home," I whisper.

Before he can answer, a breeze cuts through the suffocating heat of the room.

I look past his shoulder.

The heavy drapes covering the room's single window have been pushed aside in our scuffle.

The glass is slightly cracked, propped open to let the air in.

I push myself up from the bed. Julian reaches out to steady me, but I ignore his hands.

I stumble past him, drawn to the window like a magnet.

If I can just see the street. If I can just see a Starbucks, or a Honda Civic, or a streetlight, I will know I am sane. I will know this is a prank.

I press my hands against the cold glass and look out.

I don't see the modern, glowing skyline of my city. I don't see LED billboards or glowing traffic lights or the sleek lines of modern cars.

I see the towering, smog-choked silhouette of a city being built in steel and ash.

I see the jagged framework of the Chrysler building, half-constructed against a starless night sky.

I see the glow of gaslamps flickering on wet cobblestone, illuminating the boxy, archaic shapes of Model T Fords crawling through the rainy streets below.

Men in fedoras and trench coats hurry along the sidewalks.

It isn't a movie set. It stretches on for miles. It is breathing.

It is real.

I feel my heart stop in my chest.

"Evie?" Julian asks.

He has stepped up behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, but he doesn't touch me.

His voice is a tether, the only thing keeping me from floating away into the ash and the rain. "Stay with me."

But I can't.

The impossibility of it all crushes the air from my lungs. The exhaustion, heavier than anything I have ever felt, pulls me under like a riptide.

The 1920s skyline blurs into a wash of gray.

My knees give out. I don't feel myself hit the floor.

As I close my eyes, slipping into the dark, the scent of sterile alcohol returns, waiting for me in the pitch black.