Chapter 1: The Night I Woke Up in the Past

Eli Whitaker and I? We're practically the punchline at every old-money party in town.

It’s the kind of thing people whisper about at charity galas, snicker over cocktails at the country club—our names always come with a smirk or a raised eyebrow, like we’re the joke everyone’s in on. Funny, in a twisted way, how fast stories travel when you’re part of the city’s inner circle.

He chased after his first love in a rage, got into a car accident trying to catch her train, and lost the use of his legs. I still remember the screech of tires, the flashing lights.

People talked about that night for months. There was a whole mythology to it: the screech of tires, the rain-soaked street, the desperate sprint through the station. The kind of story that, in another life, would’ve made a great scene in a movie—except this was real, and the ending was cruel. His legs never quite worked the same after that. Sometimes, at parties, I’d catch people glancing at his wheelchair, then quickly looking away.

Ten years. That’s how long I loved my childhood friend in secret. And not once did I find the guts to tell him.

It’s embarrassing, really, how long I carried that torch. I could recite every inside joke, every summer afternoon we spent sprawled in my backyard, the way he’d smile at me like we were the only two people in the world. But I always chickened out—always convinced myself that tomorrow would be the day. Spoiler: it never was.

After we got married, Eli and I fought nearly every day. Sometimes it was over the smallest things—what to have for dinner, the thermostat, the volume of the TV. Other times, it was bigger. Heavier. The kind of things we never dared to name.

Our house echoed with snarky comments and slammed doors. Sometimes, I wondered if our neighbors could hear us through the walls—if they placed bets on who’d get the last word that day. It was exhausting, but weirdly comforting too. At least we were honest, even if it meant fighting about everything from takeout orders to the thermostat.

I’d tease him: “You can’t even stand, Eli. And you still think you can chase after your wife like the rest of them?”

My words came out sharp, but there was always a little smile hiding at the corner of my mouth. I’d nudge his wheelchair just enough to get a rise out of him, like I was daring him to snap back. It was our twisted version of flirting, I guess.

He’d snap back: “At least I’m not too chicken to confess my feelings.”

He’d lean back in his chair, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk on his face. It was like he knew exactly where to poke so it’d sting, and he never missed his mark. Sometimes, I wanted to throw a pillow at him just to wipe that look off his face.

When I opened my eyes again, everything had changed. I was back in high school.

It was the strangest sensation—like waking up from a bad dream only to find yourself somewhere both achingly familiar and impossibly far away. My room looked the same as it did a decade ago, right down to the faded posters on the wall and the stack of SAT prep books on my desk. I almost laughed out loud, just from the sheer disbelief of it.

This time, I promised myself I’d get up the courage to confess to my childhood friend.

No more hiding behind excuses or what-ifs. I swore, right then and there, that I’d tell him how I felt. Maybe I’d get my heart broken. Maybe not. But I was done living with regret.

That night, the boy with those soccer-player legs stared at me, red-eyed, pinning me against the wall. “If you’re really set on being with him, just pretend I don’t exist.”

His voice trembled, but his eyes burned with something fierce and desperate. For a second, the world narrowed down to just us and the shadows dancing on the wall. I could feel his breath, hot and uneven, as if he’d been running. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it, too.

On TikTok, I scrolled past a video of a golden-boy heartthrob confessing to his childhood sweetheart in front of everyone.

The video had that hazy, sunlit glow—two kids in matching varsity jackets, the boy holding a hand-lettered sign, the girl covering her mouth in shock. It was the kind of pure, wide-eyed moment that made you believe in happily ever after, at least for a few seconds.

Excited, I hugged my tablet. Then I spammed the like button.

I even squealed a little, kicking my feet under the blanket. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help it. The comments section was full of hearts and crying emojis. I felt like I was fourteen again, watching a rom-com with a bowl of popcorn in my lap.

“Ugh, childhood friends forever!”

I typed it out without thinking, adding a string of heart emojis for good measure. My inner teenager was alive and well, apparently.

“When I turn 19, I want a love like this too!”

I scrolled through the comments, grinning at all the hopeless romantics out there. For a second, it felt like the whole world was rooting for love.

Eli was slumped in his wheelchair, laptop snapping shut as he rubbed his brow, frustrated.

He looked like he’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at the hospital instead of answering work emails. The lines on his forehead deepened as he watched me fangirl over strangers on the internet. Sometimes, I wondered if he even remembered what it was like to be young and reckless.

“Savannah, can you chill out a little?”

His tone was half-exasperated, half-amused. He tried to act annoyed, but I caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. It was the kind of look that said, "I can't believe I'm married to this woman," but not in a bad way.

Suddenly, he sneered, like he'd just remembered something. “Back then, you didn’t even have the guts to confess. How could you ever get a boyfriend?”

He said it like he was reciting a fact from a textbook, but there was an edge in his voice. It stung more than I expected. I glanced down, suddenly aware of how silly I must look, mooning over someone else’s love story.

My finger froze mid-scroll, and my nose stung a little.

I tried to laugh it off, but my chest felt tight. It was stupid to let his words get to me, but they did. Maybe because he was right.

Ever since I was a kid, I’d had a secret crush on my childhood friend, Carter Brooks.

He was the golden boy—always the first to get picked for kickball, the one who helped me with my homework and made me laugh until I cried. I still remembered the way his hair stuck up in the back and how he’d sneak me extra cookies from his lunchbox.

But I was always too scared to tell him—afraid that if he didn’t feel the same, I’d lose him as a friend, too.

I’d rehearse what I wanted to say a hundred times, but the words always died in my throat. I figured it was better to have him as a friend than not at all. Now, looking back, I wasn’t so sure.

Five years ago, Carter left. No goodbye, nothing. Just packed up and moved to London for work.

He just disappeared—no goodbye, no explanation. I stalked his Instagram for months, hoping for a sign, but all I got were blurry photos of new cities and strangers’ faces. It hurt more than I wanted to admit.

After my family's business went bankrupt, I ended up marrying Eli Whitaker. Even though he already had someone else in his heart.

Our wedding was small and quiet, held in the backyard because we couldn’t afford anything else. He looked like he was somewhere else the whole time, and honestly, so was I. We were both running from something, and somehow we ran straight into each other.

And just like that, ten years of secret love went up in smoke.

It was like someone had set fire to all my old dreams and left nothing but ashes. I tried to convince myself I’d moved on, but some nights, the ache was still there, dull and familiar.

The more I thought about it, the sadder I felt. I got up, planning to head to my room and sleep it off.

My feet dragged as I crossed the living room. I didn’t even bother saying goodnight. I just needed to disappear for a while, maybe cry into my pillow until the world felt less heavy.

Passing Eli in the hall, my annoyance spiked.

I shot him a look, half daring him to say something. My heart thudded in my chest, the old anger bubbling up, mixing with regret and everything I’d tried to bury.

Unable to help myself, I nudged his wheelchair with my foot. “Unlike some people who keep chasing after their wives, now you can’t even stand up.”

It was a low blow, and I knew it. But the words slipped out before I could stop them. I braced myself for the fallout, feeling both guilty and weirdly relieved.

“You!”

Eli’s face darkened instantly.

His jaw clenched, and for a second, I thought he might actually yell. But he just stared at me, eyes flashing. It was the same look he gave boardroom rivals—cold, unblinking, like he was sizing me up for a fight.

In the three years I'd been married to Eli, we couldn't agree on anything—except in bed. It was the one place where words didn't matter. Where we could lose ourselves in each other and forget, just for a moment, how broken we were.

My words hung in the air—cruel, childish.

There was a petty satisfaction in getting the last word. I smirked to myself, feeling a little lighter as I climbed the stairs.

Leaving him speechless? Yeah, that put me in a better mood.

I drifted off quickly, the tension melting away. Even sleep came easier that night.

I had no idea how long I'd been out when someone nudged my arm.

I groaned, half-awake, and rolled over. My head felt fuzzy, like I’d slept too long or not enough.

I frowned, my voice cranky. “Eli, just leave me alone tonight, okay?”

I didn’t even open my eyes. I just wanted five more minutes of peace.