Cicadas at Thirty

I kept every promise I ever made to Marcus. Including the stupid ones. Especially the stupid one.

We were seventeen, drunk on wine coolers we'd stolen from his mom's fridge, sitting on his back porch one summer evening, listening to the cicadas buzzing in the woods out back. Like we were hot shit. Like we had the whole world figured out.

"Okay, but Agnes, seriously," Marcus said, gesturing with his neon blue bottle in a way that suggested this was, in fact, not serious at all. "If we're both still single at thirty, we should just date each other. We already know we don't find each other annoying."

"Wow, Marcus. Your romantic proposition has swept me off my feet."

"I'm saying we're compatible! We like the same movies. You laugh at my jokes—"

"I laugh at most of your jokes."

"See? That's realistic expectations right there. That's a foundation." He held up his bottle. "So? Deal?"

I clinked mine against his, rolling my eyes. "Sure. Deal."

In a few moments, his mom would come home early and catch us mid-sip, ending our little rebellion. But right then, it felt like we were the only people in the world. The cicadas buzzed throughout the night, the stars twinkled in the distant sky, looking down on two stupid kids with their futures well ahead of them.

Here's the thing nobody tells you about stupid promises you make at seventeen: sometimes you're the only one who remembers them. Sometimes you spend twelve years being the best friend, carefully maintaining that role while privately, pathetically, counting down to thirty like it's New Year's Eve.

And sometimes, three weeks before your thirtieth birthday, your best friend calls and asks you to coffee because there's "someone he wants you to meet."

I knew what that meant. Obviously I knew. But I went anyway, because that's what best friends do. They show up.

Rachel was lovely. Like, genuinely, frustratingly, impossibly lovely. The kind of person who laughs with her whole face and asks thoughtful questions and makes you want to like her even though you desperately don't want to.

The cafe door opened, the chime tinkling like a summer breeze, announcing Marcus' arrival. He wore this easy grin he used to when we were kids as he proudly showed me his drawings. That damned smile. It made me momentarily forget what we were doing here in the first place.

Then she walked in.

"Agnes!" She said my name like we were already friends, pulling me into a hug, "I've heard so much about you. Marcus says you basically taught him how to be a functional human."

"Well, someone had to," I said, smiling so hard I thought my face might crack. "He was eating cereal with orange juice when I met him."

"I was eight," Marcus protested as they both took their seats.

"You were clueless."

Rachel laughed, bright and easy, and touched Marcus's arm. That casual intimacy. The "we're together" language of small gestures. I drank my latte and it tasted like sand.

"So, we've been dating about four months now," Marcus said, glancing at Rachel with this soft expression I'd never seen him make. Not at me, anyway. "I wanted you guys to meet before my birthday. You know. Since you're my oldest friend and this is—" He squeezed Rachel's hand. "This is important to me."

"That's amazing," I said. Even though my throat felt hollow, my voice sounded normal. Good job, voice. "I'm so happy for you guys."

I was not happy for them. I was dying inside, like something was poking my heart with a spork. I braved through it with a smile. They kept telling me stories—how they'd spent weekends together, how they were moving in next month, how everything was getting serious. I barely heard them, heart pounding as seconds ticked by. My eyes began to water. But that's fine. Everything's fine. No, seriously... I. Am. Fine.

I dashed inside my car before the crying started. I wanted to collapse right then and there, but I saw Rachel and Marcus chase after me, concerned. So I gunned it, peeling off the curb like some maniac. I bawled my eyes out then, turned the radio up so loud, I could barely hear myself think. Some random power metal track blared through the stereo as I flew down the street. Just your average heartbreak soundtrack.

It must have been some sort of temporary psychosis. Time flew by so fast, the sun had set when I finally decided to stop driving. I had no recollection of which roads I'd taken, or where I had stopped. All I knew was I didn't want to go home. Home was where you spiral. I rested my head on the steering wheel, defeated. Yeah, because I'm obviously doing peachy right now.

The neon sign in front of the store depicted a wine bottle, flickering red in the gloom. I stared at it, the only sound was my car engine running.

Ding! went the chime as I went inside the liquor store, because if there was ever a time for bad decisions, this was it.

The clerk glanced at the counter, then at me, then at the armful of cheap wine I dropped in front of him.

He blinked. "Party?"

"Existential crisis,"

He nodded like that explained everything. "Paper or plastic?"

Drunk Agnes is significantly less rational than Sober Agnes, which is saying something because Sober Agnes once tried to dye her own hair at 2 AM and ended up orange for a month.

Drunk Agnes thought it would be meaningful to go back to the old neighborhood. To the street where Marcus and I grew up, where we'd made that stupid pact on his back porch. Maybe I was looking for closure. Maybe I was looking for evidence that I'd mattered. Maybe I was just really, really drunk.

A different family was living in that old house by now. It's a strange feeling, looking at your old haunts like a ghost. The memories were so crystal clear in your head, and on the surface, everything still looked the same, but you barely recognize the place anymore. A quiet ache settled in my bones. The light was on, the scent of home-cooked meal was inviting, and the laughter of children cut through the quiet of the night like a lighthouse in a storm. I couldn't be here. How much time, exactly, did I spend imagining my future with Marcus? I chugged from the wine bottle, forcing down the chalky, bitter-sour grape juice, grimaced and walked away.

The park at the end of the street looked different at night. Creepier. The swings moved in the wind like something out of a horror movie, and I was just drunk enough to think, Yeah, perfect, this matches my vibe.

I stumbled my way through the merry-go-round, lying on my back, staring at the distant sky, that same sky that bore witness to our pact. The stars twinkled down at me. That's when I saw it. Right above me—this weird shimmer in the air, like a lens, bending the stars from where I'm looking. Like heat waves, except it was October and I could see my breath.

"Okay," I said to the shimmer. "Okay. I get it. I've finally lost my mind. This is rock bottom. This is where I'm at."

The shimmer didn't respond, because it was a shimmer.

I reached out to it anyway.

It felt like the merry-go-round started turning slowly. It was odd. Like falling in a dream. Then it spun faster. The world twisted, my stomach lurched, and everything went sideways.

Then darkness.

I woke up on the merry-go-round in broad daylight to children pelting me with ice cream. I immediately sat up, looking around confused. I squinted at the brightness of it all. Somewhere in the background, an extremely peppy pop song blasted through a speaker.

Was that Carly Rae Jepsen? A student walked briskly by, sporting a backpack and multi-colored skinny jeans. Her hair swept in a deep side part, with volume up top, which is definitely a choice. I tilted my head. Wired earphones? I fished for my phone and was mortified—my phone's a brick with a window. Bulky. Thick bezels. A physical Home button. The tiny screen said it was September 2013.

My world spun. I checked my arms, my clothes. Finally, I turned my camera on.

I was seventeen years old again, wearing my old field hockey uniform and sporting a hangover that should not exist because teenage me hadn't even been drinking last night. Except I had. Would? Time travel grammar is confusing.

I shook my head, trying to regain focus. 2013. I was in high school. And I still had all my memories from 2025, including the part where Marcus was about to move in with his girlfriend.

Wait, My drunk brain was still playing catch up. That hasn't happened yet. Which means... "I have to find Marcus," I stood up and dusted myself off.