I look down at my hand. Well, at least this is different. Not everything matches my nightmare Monday.

“Your interview is today, right?” he asks.

I lift my gaze to his. “Have you ever had déjà vu?”

His brows lift. “Yeah, sure.” Head tilts. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay? “I had a terrible nightmare and it’s like . . . it didn’t end.”

A wrinkle forms between his brows. “Is there anything I can—”

What am I doing, telling Alex about my problems? Like he needs a reminder about how pathetic I am. “It’s nothing. I gotta go. I’m late.”

I step around him and make it to the bathroom, once again engaging in a futile attempt to fix my hair and makeup. I take a few deep breaths. I can do this. But can I? Can I handle being fired again? What if it doesn’t happen the same? Maybe it will be different. It has to be different. With Alex, it was different.

Then it’s back down the pristine hallway of doom.

I open the conference room door, holding my breath.

Stacey, Blade, and Drew are all there. Dressed the same, sitting the same on those damn pillows.

“Good morning. Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s fine, Jane. Please, have a seat,” Stacey says.

I don’t sit. There’s no way I’m repeating the fart noise from yesterday. I hand out the materials and loom over them like some kind of awkward overlord.

This is the worst.

Don’t panic, Jane. Breathe.

But my newfound psychic ability doesn’t cease the inevitable conclusion.

I give my pitch. The same, practiced pitch.

And it’s the same exact shit show where everything they said in my dream is repeated nearly verbatim.

I don’t fit in.

Okay, universe, got the message during middle school but feel free to keep it coming.

I leave the conference room just as I did yesterday, but the shock and dismay and depression—which are all still there but not as prevalent—are being shoved aside in favor of confusion and panic.

I have to get out of here. I need space to think.

Even my thoughts are the same.

Then Mark is there, grabbing my hand. I follow him on autopilot. Again I’m tugged into the closet. Even knowing the conclusion of this particular story line, I don’t say no. I don’t put up a fight. I let it happen.

I should tell him no. After all, he’s using me. I’ve known, probably the whole time, and just didn’t want to believe it. I shouldn’t do this. Logically, I know it, but the truth is I crave the contact, such as it is. I’m using him as much as he’s using me. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make sense.

And I still do it.