My mind goes to an old episode of The O.C., the rain episode where Ryan hits his head and then finds himself in an alternate universe. One where he never moved to Newport.

I inhale deeply and remind myself that I am not in an episode of The O.C. or Brilliance or a William Powell movie. I’m in reality. Where things like that simply don’t happen. There’s an explanation. There has to be.

I get the door of the cottage open, throw on the lights, and toss the keys on the entry table without looking.

I hesitate for a second, feeling like something strange happened, but unable to put my finger on what.

I need something a little stronger than that beer I had at the pub. My nerves are rattled and my mind is racing.

I go to the kitchen and then directly to the middle left bottom cabinet, open the door, and crouch to reach to the back for the good bottle of whiskey. Then I stand and reach up to the right cabinet above the sink and get out a rocks glass—

“Oh my God,” I say, dropping the bottle. It lands on the rug beneath the little kitchen table and miraculously does not break.

I slowly set down the glass and put my palms to my temples and step backward, looking at the open cabinets and the bottle on the ground, its agitated bubbles pooling at the side-turned-top.

How did I—how did I know that?

How did I know that’s where the booze would be? How did I know where the good whiskey would be? Somewhere in my absent mind, I knew that I was reaching for the bottle of Green Spot hidden there.

And how did I know where the rocks glass would be, much less which of the mismatched glasses I had in mind to use? Because I had. I’d known I was reaching for the cobalt blue one with the thin lip.

I stare at the glass on the counter. It’s familiar and yet there is no reason in the world it should be. Much like how I’d felt looking into Cillian’s eyes earlier or hearing about that girl’s date. It didn’t feel like the first time I had done it.

Okay. Okay. I can figure this out.

I pick up the bottle and pour some whiskey into the glass. I have a sip, then, over the rim of the glass, I see that I am not alone.

There is a dog sitting on the sofa, staring at me, sleepily wagging its tail.

I cough, choking on the hot, undiluted alcohol.