Cicadas At Thirty

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

We were seventeen, drunk on stolen wine coolers, when he said: "If we're both single at thirty, we should just date each other."

I laughed and clinked my bottle against his. "Sure. Deal."

Twelve years later, three weeks before my thirtieth birthday, Marcus calls. There's someone he wants me to meet.

Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: got drunk, stumbled into our old neighborhood park, and found a shimmering portal that sent me back to the night we made that pact.

I have one shot to fix this. One chance to rewrite our story.

I just hope I don't fuck it up.