I don't have flashbacks as our limo rolls across town. Cam breaks out a bottle of champagne, and we drink a premature toast to the newlyweds as we pull up to the reception hall. I cast Carlow's a longing glance as I step outside, knowing Amy is in there. But it doesn't matter. I'm only here until tomorrow, and whatever she is to me...she deserves more than one night.

Cam tugs me toward the reception hall, and I follow without resistance. I don't even complain as I sit between him and Connor, trying to dodge their knees under the table because they aren't aware of how much space they take up. Nessa must be a tiny sleeper, because there's no way an average person could fit comfortably in a bed with Connor.

Of course, a healthy amount of wine helps me get through. I'm moving on. Still in the process.

The tinkle of silverware against glass doesn't throw my heart into a tailspin. My throat isn't closing up as I stand. I take the microphone with confidence and open my mouth.

And realize that it's been days since I've even thought about my toast, and it's completely fled my brain.

I only remember the first few words—the ones I couldn't get past the first time—but that's a start, right? And who needs rote memorization for a toast, anyway? It's supposed to come from the heart. From feeling.

"I've known these two since college," I say, then pause. This is good, I've already made it farther than the first time and I haven't started airing any dirty laundry yet. It's amazing what a week's worth of constant wedding will do for you.

"And knowing them both, I can say that Nessa is..."

Beautiful. Funny. Kind. Defensive of the people she cares about like a lioness.

"...brave."

The audience laughs, and it's not that awkward kind of "when will she stop" chuckle that people do when you're making offensive jokes. That seems like a good sign. Connor, for his part, only humors me with a thin smile, but it was sort of a jab at him.

"You're both brave," I hurry on, speaking to them now. "This is an endeavor full of unknowns. A road that not everyone has the courage to travel. If I remember correctly, the only thing Connor and I agreed on when we met was that marriage was overrated."

It's a lot easier to tell these stories when they feel like they've just happened yesterday.

"So it must have taken someone really special to convince you otherwise," I finish. "I'm glad that you're both happy." And I really am, this time.

I sit down before I ruin it. I pass the microphone to Cam. That was a good toast, right? It didn't have "I'm in love with the bride" anywhere in it, nor "I slept with the groom." Not even "I'm a time traveler fresh out of 2013!"

That would be a good story to tell at parties. It's too bad it makes people question your sanity.

Cam stands. "So before I start, I just want to point out to my parents—next time you start wondering where your grandchildren are"—he points at Connor and Nessa—"you can ask these two."

The audience laughs again. I force a smile, remembering the wedding where Cam had in fact been the one with a grandchild.

"In all seriousness, I could never wait to get rid of my little brother." He pauses to let them chuckle again. "But I didn't think there was anybody who would take him."

Nessa and Connor are both laughing now. Apparently joking insults are more palatable coming from siblings. Or maybe I'm not as good at joking as I thought.

"I'm glad to know there's someone who will."

Cam's voice fades into the background as I take a sip of my drink.

When Cam is finished, the cake is cut. This time I'm not bitter as they feed it to each other, not even when I remember that the best I ever got was late nights when Nessa and I would throw jelly beans across our dorm room and try to catch them in our mouths. I remember one night, while slightly drunk, mentioning that we looked like goldfish. She had laughed so hard her face turned the same shade as her hair.

It would have flared the jealous monster in my chest before. Now, it's just a fond memory.

I take another drink from a passing waiter. Progress.

The music starts up. A slow song. I sigh. Personally, I think a heavy metal first dance would be awesome.

We can't all be trendsetters.

Someone tugs on my arm, and I stumble a few steps as Cam pulls me out onto the dance floor. I keep waiting for the song to speed up—any time now would be lovely, thank you—but unfortunately, I'm trapped.

I start to wish I'd walked out during the toast again. Not that Cam is a bad dancer—just the opposite, actually, for someone I remember playing football in college. But he's a Mariani. He's too tall, dark, and handsome. Too broad. Too muscular.

Too masculine.

Then again—and this might be the wine talking—but maybe that's exactly what I need tonight.

That, and more to drink.

Somewhere around the fourth glass, Amy pops back into my thoughts. She's right next door, probably pouring some frat kid a drink. Maybe she's thinking about me. Probably not. She's had years to move on—from something that never happened in the first place—just like Nessa.

I always lose them.

The slow songs have turned into Mr. Brightside, and the only way I can think of to forget how much I can relate to the narrator is to become the girl he's losing to some other guy. Not that anyone here wants me. I could touch anyone's chest, no one's jealous eyes would follow us out of the room.

Fortunately for Cam, I don't really care, and his chest is the one in front of me right now. I catch his eye and tilt my head an inch toward the door. He shoots a few glances at the dancers around us and then follows me as I weave between them.

Nessa catches my wrist on the way by. "You're a little gone, don't you think?" she calls over the music.

I pretend I can't hear her, giving her a fleeting thumbs up and a smile. "Congratulations!" I shout back, leaving her and her husband behind as I tow his brother away.

I mean, she knows I'm a loose cannon. She knows Cam is a total ladies' man.

I push open the door to a bathroom without bothering to check the sign on the wall beside it. For some reason, there's a long cushioned bench sitting against the wall opposite the stalls. I do a double take—who needs a bench in the bathroom? Are they anticipating two-hour lines?—and then turn back to Cam.

I take a deep breath. Under my sad attempt to numb my conscience with alcohol, I know I'm going to regret this. Cam seems like a decent guy. He deserves more than to be a poor substitute. But I take a step forward anyway—and Cam reaches out to wrap his hands around my shoulders, keeping me at arm's length.

"I don't really know how to say this, but I think you drank enough earlier that it might not matter...." Cam stares over my head for a few seconds and then sighs through his nose. "I don't really want to do this with you."

"Thank god." I sag in his hold. "I don't really, either."

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. "I'm going to try not to take offense to that."

"You literally just told me the exact same thing," I point out.

"Well, it's a bit different—"

I raise my eyebrows, but he refuses to continue. "Okay," I say to fill the silence. I gesture vaguely at the door. "Well, everybody thinks we're hooking up. I'd hate to disappoint them."

Cameron releases a breath he's been holding. "Yeah," he agrees. "I guess we both kind of have a reputation from college."

I'm halfway through glaring at him before I realize I can't really argue. I did get around a lot back then. Connor might have been the first, but he wasn't the last.

"I'm not judging," Cam adds. "It was your college career, if you've no regrets then no harm done, right?"

I sit down on the oddly-placed bench and press my hands into my face like they can iron out the crinkled feelings behind my eyes. "My only regret is that they were all men."

Oh, wow. That was not supposed to come out. I was not supposed to come out, least of all to the flirty best man. What if he's one of those guys who likes the idea of girls kissing?

"Oh," is all he says.

Great. He's reduced to one-syllable answers. Typical.

But I don't wish I could take the statement back. I did hook up with only guys in college. It wasn't until I moved away from this town that I branched out. I always tell myself that it was just easier to keep it under the proverbial covers when I wasn't surrounded by nosy peers who delighted in knowing everyone's business, but deep down I know the truth. When I left, Nessa stayed here. And it was easier to look at another woman like that with the distance between us.

"I guess you getting drunk makes a lot more sense now," Cam observes.

I shoot him a questioning look. How could he possibly know the real reason? Is it that obvious?

"It must be hard coming back. This isn't the most forward-thinking town," he adds.

No, it isn't, and that was part of the reason I never stepped outside of everyone else's comfort zone in college. But it's not really why I'm drinking.

Cam doesn't seem to mind having a one-sided conversation, because he sinks down onto the bench beside me and keeps talking. "You know I grew up here. Everybody already knows how their life's gonna play out. Go to school, maybe. Find a nice girl to start a family with. Locals preferred. Don't wait too long."

I shudder at the thought. I've never wanted any of that.

"And here I am getting shown up by my little brother." Cam heaves a sigh. "He jokes he's taking the pressure off me, and maybe, in a way. If Mom and Dad have grandkids maybe they won't harass me to fall in line. But it's a different kind of pressure, you know? 'Your brother's already settled, why aren't you?'"

"I had no idea you guys lived with that," I murmur.

"It's not bad, if you're...normal, I guess. I don't think Connor even notices it. It's kind of like no one here outright says you'll be shunned for liking girls, but the hunting rifles and Trump signs and old Proposition 8 banners still stuck in front yards make you think twice about opening your mouth about how different you are."

"That's...actually a really good way of putting it," I comment, trying not to insult him by sounding too surprised.

If I fail, he doesn't seem to care. He turns to me in earnest now. "Can I tell you a secret?"

I shrug. I'm the one who just came out to him. "Only seems fair."

"I'm married."

I lean closer, sure I've heard wrong. "What?"

Cam nods, producing a shiny black ring with silver rims from his left pocket.

I screw up my face in confusion. "Wait, so—if your parents want you to get married, why are you third-wheeling it with me at your little brother's wedding?"

"Because," he says, and then falls silent for so long that I think he's just reverted to third-grade retorts. But then he takes a deep breath. "My parents wouldn't like my husband."

I blink. "Oh." I'm starting to understand how my confession hit him. "Does Connor know?"

Cam gives his head one small shake.

"Does he, you know...care about that stuff?" I ask, wondering if the conversation we'd had at the bar this time around had been a product of alcohol or genuine care.

"No." Cam bounces in place, adjusting his weight. "It's just one less secret he has to keep."

"Your parents?" I venture.

Another head shake, but this time it's a different kind, and I don't press.

"I think he'd want to know. Connor, I mean," I suggest. "He is kind of annoying, but he's still your brother."

"Maybe." He leans forward, elbows falling on his thighs. "He try to set you up with guys?"

"Constantly," I laugh. "I've rejected so many he's probably questioning my sexuality." I pause. "Or he would be, if he had to question."

He nods. "This town has a way of forcing you back into yourself. I spent my whole time here trying to run away from something, trying to be something I wasn't. Maybe you did, too. But we escaped."

I'm quiet, remembering how we nearly didn't.

Cam shifts, giving me a thoughtful look. "And I guess it's kind of poetic that we came back, but it couldn't keep us locked away this time."

"Yeah, I guess it is." I let the silence separate us from our memories for a moment. Then I punch him lightly in the bicep, grinning. "I never took you for a poetry guy."

He grins back. "I think you and I both know what assumptions do."

I let my head fall against his shoulder. "You really are a superhero, Mariani." Then I stand up. "Do you want to go next door and get drinks?" I ask. "There's a back exit we can take."

Cam's eyebrows disappear under his hairline. "Haven't you had enough?"

I laugh. "Not even close. Come on."

This time when we enter, Amy doesn't approach right away. She's too busy wiping down the counter. Then she finally looks our way and comments, "You're late."

"Oh." I suddenly notice the bar is almost empty. "Sorry if it's too close to closing time...."

She eyes the two of us, then sets her rag down. "You're lucky you look good in formal wear. What can I get you?"

"Manhattan, please," Cam requests.

"Hi, Amy," I offer brightly, the alcohol I've already had merging all the timelines in my head. Do I know her name? Do I not know her name?

She doesn't seem surprised either way, only gives me a small smile as she starts to make Cam's drink.

"Do you two know each other?" Cam asks, looking between us. I don't like the knowing tilt of his mouth.

"It's a long story," Amy says.

I stare at her. What does she mean by that? It's a short story, or it should be. She could probably summarize it in one sentence. "She came in for a party five years ago mooning over some girl." That's it.

Unless she remembers more than that.

Before I can ask, Amy turns back around with Cam's drink in hand. "So," she says, setting it down in front of him. "Wedding party too boring for you?"

"I don't think that party ever stood a chance against us," Cam says, raising his glass to me. I nod in return.

Amy tilts her head at me. "You don't want anything?"

I flail under her gaze. Not anything alcoholic, no. But I can't say that out loud. I've already outdone myself on the creepy-stalker scale for the last five years.

"Um," I mumble, my tongue thick. "What do you recommend?"

"Do you trust me?"

I keep my focus on her dark eyes, though I feel Cam shift beside me. I nod.

Amy grabs the orange bottle and starts pouring. I watch clear liquid splash up around the edges of the shot glass, creating a tiny vortex at its center. Around and around, with no beginning or end. Like a time loop.

I take the proffered glass, but I don't drink it right away. Every ending to this story always has this little drink in it. Everything goes blurry, then black.

I narrow my eyes up at her. "Are you trying to send me back in time?"

She laughs. "It's strong, but it's not that strong."

The shot clanks as I set it down with trembling hands. Am I just being paranoid? I still haven't even decided if any of this is real. It could still be a dream. I could still be dead. Or drunk enough to hallucinate.

Or Amy could be sending me on this wild ride.

I look up at her again. She only blinks, her expression unreadable.

Before I can make up my mind, the door behind us slams open. Both Cam and I jump, swinging around, and I hear Amy let out a tiny sigh as she goes back to her bar.

Connor wobbles in, looking considerably more drunk than when we left the party. He walks up to the bar and looks down at us, frowning.

"Hey, guys," he says slowly, still processing our presence. "What are you doing here, I thought you were...."

Cam and I both wait patiently for him to finish.

"You know what, never mind. I don't want to think about it."

"What are you doing here?" Cam asks.

"I just wanted a drink." He runs a hand through his hair, obviously distracted, and points at me. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure."

"Alone?"

Cam shoots me a questioning look, and I shrug. He stands up and heads for the door, throwing another glance over his shoulder at us as he exits.

Connor sits on the stool beside me. Amy has suddenly become transfixed with the rows of bottles behind the bar, and the absence of many other customers leaves an uncomfortable silence. But it seems wrong to break it, so I wait.

"I can't stop thinking about what you did for us," Connor says. "All these years...how selfless you were. And—"

"Stop right there," I interrupt. "I'm not selfless. I'm the most selfish person on the face of the planet."

He leans down, slumping over the bar, and squints up at me. "No," he says, shaking his head. "No, you're the best person I've ever met."

"Okay," I say, patting him on the shoulder awkwardly. "You've obviously had too much to drink."

"I'm not drunk," he protests.

"Half your face is paralyzed, and you just told me you don't hate me," I inform him, just in case he forgot already. "You're drunk."

I stand up, intending to help him out of the bar, back over to the party where he can be Nessa's problem. She did just promise to take care of him in sickness and health, and he definitely looks on the verge of being sick.

"I've never hated you," he blurts. "Just...never got the chance to tell you that. You've always kept your distance, you know?" His mouth twists. "Never felt right. We have a lot in common."

"Maybe too much." I grimace as I clap a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Connor, you should go back to your party."

Instead, he slumps even farther forward. His forehead hits the bar. "I don't deserve this," he whispers.

"Connor!" I bark, giving my best drill sergeant impression. "Get up. Your wife is probably wondering where you are."

He just sinks deeper, becoming one with the bar.

"You know what?" I sigh. "No. You don't deserve it. Not like this." I gesture at his pathetic body. "But you can."

He lets out a sigh, and I echo it. Is this really our happy ending? Him drunk and vulnerable and—if I'm reading the situation correctly—regretting his own marriage just hours after committing to it? And for what? My sake, the sake of the woman who's ruined his wedding four times now?

I haul him to his feet and attempt to hold him there by throwing his arm over my shoulder. You know how that works in the movies? Yeah. It might work in real life if you're not half a foot shorter than the swaying giant above you.

Connor's hand lands on the bar as he tries to keep his failing balance. That's when he sees the shot.

"No!" Amy shouts as he lifts it.

I whip my head toward her, my thoughts lagging behind the events as they happen. She looks on, stricken, as Connor lifts the drink to his mouth. My first instinct is to shout "Aha!" like I've solved some great mystery. She wouldn't care if it was just a drink. But if Connor's about to go back in time—

Connor is about to go back in time.

"No!" I echo, but I'm just in time to watch Connor swallow. Too late, I reach up to slap it out of his hand. He teeters. I teeter. In slow motion, he falls toward me like a drunken whale on the downward end of its breach.

Pain splits the back of my skull as it collides with the bar on the way down. Stars erupt like fireworks, leaving blackness in their wake.