The Past-Life Chronicles

6

My bleary eyes scan the cover of the journal on my nightstand. I recognize the shape of the white wolf with glass beads for eyes, and reach for it. There's a ribbon marking my last entry, and I flip to the next blank page and groggily jot down the remnants of my most recent dream before I forget.

Flat land. Field. Dairy cows... Convenience store?

My phone vibrates loudly, startling the bejesus out of me. The time flashes with the incoming message. Who is texting me at seven forty-three in the morning?

I set down the dream journal and pen, glance at the message on my screen, and groan.

Flopping back against the pillows, I hope to postpone the decision I'll have to make by snatching maybe another hour of sleep. But the phone goes off again, vibrating the entire nightstand with it. I reach for it and hold it up.

It would mean a lot to her if you came.

The air hisses out of my mouth like a deflating tire. Blinking the final film of sleep from my eyes, I consider my response.

The messenger is Bradley, my brother-in-law. The one married to my estranged older sister. He rarely contacts me, and when he does, it's to guilt me into some kind of reunion or favor for my sister.

Because, of course, it's October the first. How could I forget Heather's birthday?

Brad is no more comfortable with the situation than I am. The rift has always been between Heather and Mom, with the likes of me and Heather's husband fidgeting awkwardly on the sidelines. And now he's inviting me to meet them for dinner at Savory tonight, and what choice do I have but to punch out, Okay, I'll be there, on the screen and hit send?

When I see my response has been delivered, I don't feel any better about myself. There's no fanfare in my conscience waving pompoms and chanting, Ra, ra! Willow did the right thing! Instead, I just feel resigned. I'm surprised Heather would even want me there. Wouldn't she rather celebrate her birthday alone with her husband?

Realizing I won't be falling back asleep at this point, I sit up. Work is always waiting, and then at one o'clock today, I have my regression scheduled with Mason.

I can't believe I'm actually going to do it. Apart from keeping the dream journal, I haven't done much preparation. Every time I think about going back to...wherever it is that's lurking in my subconscious, it makes me shake. So I've tried not to think about it.

Business first, shower later. I fire up the laptop, snatch yesterday's thermos of cold tea, and respond to a request to conduct a backlink audit that takes about an hour, then on to the next task. My fingers flit over the keys as a few hours turn, until I find the clock approaching noon. I head into the bathroom, shower, and then, wrapped in my bath towel, begin the agonizing process of deciding what to wear to my appointment.

I've never put so much thought into my clothing before—which is atypical for a girl, I know. But I've also never hung around a guy like Mason Rychards before, and I promised myself I wouldn't be caught in food-smeared blue jeans and a wrinkled H.I.M. band shirt around him ever again.

I try to squeeze into a pair of last year's black pants, but I must've put on a few pounds, because I can barely pull the waistband past my ass. Flustered, I peel the slacks from my thunder thighs and toss them onto the bed. Fishing in my closet again, I find an ankle-length, wraparound hemp skirt I'd forgotten about. It's a light, autumny umber color—fits the season perfectly. I unclip it from the hanger and pull it on. I still feel like my butt is bulging, but a long, beige, form-fitting button-down compliments the skirt nicely, and smooths down some of the junk in my trunk. At last, I feel satisfied with my reflection.