---

Jinx

By Carlie St. George

---

Your first date with Jake is perfect. So. That’s fucking weird.

Not a complaint, obviously. Actually, it’s a relief: you’ve been on far too many first dates with guys who, at first blush, seemed like cute, funny, thoughtful dudes with passionate but not emotionally unstable opinions about Star Wars—only to discover that they can’t stop ranting about their crazy bitch ex (Marcus), or think cops don’t have enough power, actually (Mike), or believe that women can just . . . “hold” their menstrual blood? (Kevin, Kevin, WTF, Kevin?) There are good guys out there. You’ve even dated a few, but . . . Christ, so many of them are such volatile, whiny little babies.

Jake, though. Everything about Jake just seems . . . perfect. Your first date is casual, which is exactly what you like: bowling and beers, not fancy dinners with words like gourmand and amuse bouche. He’s not a secret Republican. He doesn’t seem upset by your spontaneous pixie cut. He isn’t embarrassed about enjoying romantic comedies—honestly, he might like them even more than you do. Jake isn’t passive aggressive and weird when you win both games by a considerable margin, and while he doesn’t like The Last Jedi, he doesn’t think that Rian Johnson ruined Star Wars, ruined it, and deserves to be hung by his fucking neck (Kyle).

Jake owns the coffee shop next to your bookstore, makes the best vanilla latte in town, has an absolutely fantastic ass, and remembers all kinds of little things you don’t even recall telling him, like your favorite romcom (It Happened One Night) or how much you despise pickles. Plenty of men claim to be good listeners. Jake actually is one. He’d been working up the nerve to ask you out for months, apparently, ever since you came into his shop and recommended Legends and Lattes—which you do remember, since he bought it the next day.

You and Jake talk late into the evening, laughing whenever you say the same thing at the same time and calling jinx automatically because some instincts are deep-rooted. And when he kisses you at the end of the night, it’s nice, it’s fun—not a kiss that makes you weak at the knees, maybe, but also no terrible breath or awkward fumbling or accidental clicking of teeth. You make plans for a second date, and you’re looking forward to it, you are, it’s just . . .

What first date goes that smoothly? Even the good ones are a little embarrassing, aren’t they? A few awkward silences, someone knocking over a glass of water, something. It’s . . . no, it’s just nerves, probably. Too good to be true, and all that. Or something much harder to shake, insidious fear, generational knowledge. A bone-deep certainty that lovers are liars, and men can be violent when they don’t get what they want.

Fucking deep-rooted instincts, indeed.

Still, you’ve always told that fear to fuck off—or at least you’ve tried to—because you want to be happy. You’re determined to be, and how happy can you be if you’re forever afraid and holding yourself back? There’s a difference between ignoring red flags and letting anxiety consume you, after all, and self-sabotage is never the answer. You know how that story goes. You own a bookstore, for Christ’s sake. That’s basic character arc shit.

You’re careful. You’re capable. You’ll know if you’re in danger.

You’ll know, surely you’ll know, if and when it’s time to go.

---

The second date gets off to a rough start because you slept badly the night before, strange dreams you can’t quite remember. You have a terrible headache and almost end up canceling, but once the Ibuprofen kicks in, it’s a lovely night: you and Jake watch Some Like It Hot at this great retro theater and later talk about crime novels and cinema history while eating your collective weight in breadsticks.

The third date goes as smoothly as the second, except you slept badly again, more strange dreams. This time, you remember a few disjointed flashes: violently throwing up in some restaurant bathroom, Jake petulantly throwing his golf club at a colorful windmill, Jake having some kind of goddamn tantrum about . . . you can’t remember what movie. Enchanted, maybe. Something about the best fantasy rom com of all time and how can you not see that, how can you not fucking SEE? As if any movie is a legitimate reason to start crying—literally crying—and storm away from a dinner table. (Shit, it probably was Enchanted. Audrey—your best friend, your person, the woman you trust everything but your bangs with—also thinks it’s a crime that you’re immune to the dubious charms of Disney movies and Patrick Dempsey, although she usually limits her ire to calling you a heathen and throwing martini olives at your head.)

The dreams leave you feeling trepidatious, like they might be some kind of premonition, some fucking . . . dark omen of the heart, Jesus, you don’t know. But you go on the date anyway, and surprise! You have not spontaneously become psychic: dinner is wonderful, not the restaurant you dreamt about. No golf clubs are thrown—there’s no mini golf at all—and the only fantasy romance you discuss is The Princess Bride, which you both love, obviously. Jake does keep humming Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” which is annoying because you barely survived that goddamn song the first time around. Also, he keeps finishing your sentences, which gets old pretty fast—but you swallow it down because it’s clear he’s trying for cute and in sync, even if he’s landing at insufferable know-it-all. Outright dickishness is 100% not okay, but allowances can be made for corny jokes and occasional irritating behavior. People are irritating as a rule, even charming people with fantastic asses and excellent barista skills.

Other skill sets, unfortunately . . .

You have sex on the fourth date, and that goes . . . well. It goes. Jake is a strangely endearing mix of nervous and overconfident; he’s also enthusiastic and flexible, things you generally like in a man. But creativity clearly isn’t his strong suit, and his earnest attempts at dirty talk—oh, oh, you barely manage to keep it together—and while a little saliva is only to be expected, Jake all but Newfoundland slobbers while sucking on your tit, leaving you wet in all the wrong ways, which . . . look, you’ve had worse. It’s just a little funny that Jake, a man who rates When Harry Met Sally as his second favorite romcom of all time, apparently doesn’t even consider that you might be faking your orgasm.

Later, during the drink-and-debrief, Audrey throws many martini olives at your head because she doesn’t fake orgasms ever. She’s a big believer in open communication, particularly when it comes to sex, which is all very well and good and healthy, but also seems like a terrible risk to you. Generational fucking knowledge again, a lesson learned from your mother, who learned it from hers, who died learning it: men don’t like to be corrected. Even if Jake gives off adorable, overgrown puppy vibes—currently now more than ever—naked honesty when you’re actually naked . . . just . . . it’s not the safest thing. People are more emotionally vulnerable when they’re naked, emotionally volatile, fragile. And bodies, bodies are such fragile things, too.

That doesn’t mean putting up with bad sex forever, of course. You’re perfectly capable of some subtle redirection, some silent course correcting. It’d be different if Jake just didn’t give a shit about what you liked. You’ve been with those guys before, and you had zero problem dumping their asses the next day. But Jake is trying; he so clearly wants you to have a good time, asks what you’re into and actually listens to the answers, even if his execution leaves something to be desired. Afterwards, too, he wraps his arms around you and nervously, fervently murmurs, if anything’s wrong, you have to tell me. You have to always tell me, so I can fix it.

But you don’t tell him. Jake is funny, and he’s sweet, and he looks at you like you hung the goddamn moon. You don’t want to hurt his feelings just because your first time together wasn’t great. Lots of first times aren’t great, and besides—just like Joe E. Brown told Jack Lemmon on that speedboat—nobody’s perfect. Right? Jake is a great guy. You really like him a whole lot, and if mediocre sex is his biggest flaw? Shit, you’ve got toys for that.

---

Only, suddenly you’ve been dating eight months and you’re living together already—too fast, but your old shitty landlord died falling down the stairs, and then your new shitty landlord decided to sell, and Jake had offered up his place, a little hopeful smile on his face, and, well, here you are—and somehow you have a whole list of things you won’t tell your own boyfriend. Little things, inconsequential. How you wish you hadn’t accepted Jake’s offer, if only because it’s nice to imagine a world where you don’t wake up to Aerosmith. Every. Fucking. Morning. (That cursed song is his alarm clock because he considers it your song, apparently. You have no idea why, but it’s too late now to confess that you hate it.)
Or the comedy special. It’s a comedy special, for fuck’s sake; it doesn’t mean anything. But . . . you came home one day, and Jake was watching some standup with all the usual terrible jokes: men, don’t try to understand women, they’re a completely different species; men, just nod and suffer, nod and suffer, to keep from upsetting your easily upsettable wives. And Jake was nodding along, too, like he was well versed in the art of masculine suffering, and you—it’s nothing, really. You just didn’t think he was the kind of guy who’d laugh at jokes like that. Who’d want such a shitty marriage, anyway? Who would even be happy? It reminds you too much of your mother, only she’s the one always nodding, always suffering, always dancing around this thing or that to avoid upsetting her easily upsettable husband. That’s just what marriage is, she says, because that’s what she believes: this relationship isn’t unhealthy, can’t be, because it’s not violent like her last one. Acquiescence is commonplace. Placation is the norm.

That’s not what you want out of marriage. That’s not what you want out of any relationship—but still, you don’t talk to Jake because it just . . . it feels perilously close to making a Thing. And if you make a Thing, aren’t you proving all those terrible jokes right?

Audrey threatens to dump her whole martini over you for that one. But she gets it, at least. It’s easier to explain than . . . everything else. The impossible knowledge. The headaches. The dreams.

Because Jake knows things, things he shouldn’t, things he couldn’t. A good listener? No. That ship has fucking sailed. Sure, you told him that your grandmother was murdered—but how does he already know her name (Cristin) or how it happened (stabbed six times) or why it happened (a man decided she was laughing at him). Of course, Google exists. True crime podcasts exist. But how does Jake know every guilty pleasure, every embarrassing story? You absolutely do not lead with the lepidopterophobia, so how does he know you’re secretly terrified of moths and butterflies? You told me, Jake says, laughing it off—but you wouldn’t have forgotten that. Everyone thinks you’re joking at first, and you would’ve remembered the hasty apologizing, the backtracking—or else the irritation that anyone would be so frightened by such tiny little wings. Who would have told him? Your mom? One of your friends?

Not me, Audrey protests during your latest D&D, which, obviously. So . . . what? We’re thinking your Nice Guy Jake isn’t so nice? Accidentally fell in love with your stalker?

That’s hard to believe. It hurts to believe. But you almost wish you could believe it because at least that would be rational; at least it would make sense. But Jake also predicts the weather, even when the forecast is wrong. He hums songs right before they begin to play and catches falling wine glasses before they can shatter. He finishes everyone’s sentences now: friends, strangers, the desk clerk at the surprise getaway you planned—not that Jake had been surprised, really. Oh, he’d pretended to be, but nothing really surprises him anymore, and you can sense his boredom, his impatience. Not with you, exactly—he still looks at you like you hung the goddamn moon—but still, there’s something.

(So, a psychic stalker, then, Audrey says, raising her eyebrows, and you bury your face in your hands because that sounds insane, because you sound insane, and because even a psychic stalker doesn’t explain your headaches, your dreams.)

You thought they’d get better with time; instead, they’ve only grown worse. Jake does know about the headaches and always has extra Excedrin on hand, encourages you to rest, insists he’ll take care of whatever thing needs doing. And Audrey, bless her goddamn heart, never makes you feel like shit for anything, volunteers to yell at the doctors for you until they actually listen. But you’ve pretty much given up on doctors because they can’t find anything wrong and always insist it has to be stress or hypochondria or drug addiction or Munchausen Syndrome or (somehow?) your BMI. Even some of your friends don’t believe you anymore, or at least find it too exhausting to deal with your exhaustion.

And you are exhausted, all the time, because if it’s not the headaches, it’s the dreams, and while they’re not always about Jake, they’re . . . mostly about Jake. In one dream, he’s pissed off that you don’t want to move in with him. In another, you’re at a picnic, hyperventilating, and he’s telling you breathe, breathe, I’ll fix it, I always fix it. In another, Jake is pacing, red-faced and screaming that he loves you, he loves you, and how long will it fucking take before you say it back? (You’d already said it, by that point, but it is true he said it first. It was lovely when he said it, and you told him so, and held him, but . . . it’s a heavy tether, love, and it was a week before you were ready to tie it round. Jake had sulked like a child, and you’d pretended you didn’t see. There are compromises you’re willing to make, but not that. Never that.)

It just, none of it makes sense. Dreams are dreams. Jake didn’t cause them. You certainly can’t blame him for the headaches. You’re not allergic to him, for fuck’s sake. And the small details he knows, the strange things he predicts . . . what are you really saying? He’s curious? Intuitive? You want to break up with the best boyfriend you’ve ever had because he’s intuitive?

So, you DO want to break up with him, Audrey says.

And fuck, fuck, because you didn’t mean to say it. Mostly, you don’t even mean it. You love Jake; you do. He’s so kind and funny and wonderfully supportive. Sex has definitely improved over time—although Christ, the talking, can you get him to roleplay as a pizza delivery boy who’s taken a vow of silence or something—but more than that, Jake never forgets anything you ask him to do. He surprises you with waffles in bed just because and always knows exactly what to say when you’re having a bad day. He’s fantastic with dogs, fantastic with kids. Your mom loves him, and so do most of your friends. You’re so fucking lucky, everyone tells you, and it’s true: you are lucky. Nobody’s perfect, but Jake is nearly everything you’ve always wanted. You don’t want to sabotage yourself just because you’re . . . neurotic, emotional, paranoid, fucked up.

But you can’t shake this feeling, somehow, that you need to break free, that everything is about to get much, much worse.

Audrey doesn’t throw her martini olives at you. She doesn’t even eat them, which, that’s serious. Look, she says. I know you love Jake, and you never fight or whatever, but—first, that’s fucking weird, ALL couples fight sometimes, that’s normal—but also. I don’t know if Jake’s a psychic, or a stalker, or a psychic stalker or what. But I know you, and you aren’t any of those shitty things you’re thinking about yourself, and if he’s making you feel that way—whether he means to or not—that’s a problem, okay? You never had these dreams before, and you definitely never had these migraines, and if you’re having them six nights out of seven? Either your brain’s trying to tell you something, or the goddamn universe is. Either way . . . bitch, maybe you’re in love, but you’re not happy. And in my book, that’s all the reason you need to leave.

And hearing that, it . . . it’s like fresh air after years in the basement, a validation you can feel in your lungs. Just that permission to be unhappy, even if everyone else says there’s no reason to be. It’s such a relief that—to Audrey, at least—you don’t need to prove your pain or anxiety, that you can just feel it, and that’s enough. That you can just go.

That doesn’t mean you’re going to go, necessarily. But one way or another, something needs to change. You hate living like this, hate your ever-growing list of secret fears. You need to confront Jake, or leave, or—something. You have to do something. It’s just that . . . change is terrifying. Change means consequences, repercussions, and you don’t yet know what those repercussions will be. You know women are in the most danger when they try to leave. You know the color of your mother’s blood, how it dripped off your father’s knuckles. You’ll never forget her face, purple and swollen in the ICU. That knowledge lives inside you. It’s grown through your bones; it won’t be weeded.

Jake isn’t violent, of course. The idea is almost absurd. His idea of aggressive is shaking his fist at loud birds. But in the worst dreams, like the one where he strangled you with his bare hands, fingers digging into your throat even as he wept, I love you, I love you, how many times have I told you—

But dreams are just dreams; they don’t mean anything. And anyway, none of your dreams have ever come true.

---

Now it’s Saturday, and you’re waking up to some terrible wailing noise piercing through your brain—ah. Aerosmith. Again. Jake, still asleep at your side, barely stirs; he’s slow to wake in the morning, which means the terrible noise will continue until either Jake claws his way to consciousness, or you reach over and turn it off yourself. You can only handle so much shrieking before eight in the morning, so you turn off the alarm, glancing down at Jake’s closed eyes, and think to yourself, today.

For two weeks, you’ve been practicing the conversation. Jake, we need to talk—Christ, not that. Jake. Can we talk? I think you’ve been keeping things from me. I know it sounds crazy, but—no, don’t undermine yourself. Jake. I have these headaches. I have these dreams, and you know things I can’t explain, things I haven’t told you. Why are you lying to me? I really need you to be honest. If you can’t be honest, I’m going to leave.

Practice isn’t going great, honestly. But after two weeks, it’s become abundantly clear that it’s not going to get any better, so. Today. You’ll get up and go to work. You’ll drive home in the evening, and over dinner you’ll say—

Jake, can we talk?

Jake, you scare me sometimes.

It’s not an amazing plan, but it is a plan, and—one way or another—you’re doing something about this. You’re taking back some goddamn control. You even feel vaguely optimistic all the way home, right until you open the door, and—

White rose petals, everywhere. Christ, the carpet is drowning in them; you’ll be finding petals between couch cushions and beneath bookshelves for days—and there’s Jake in the hallway, down on one knee, holding a hideous ring with a diamond the size of a fucking grape.

He looks up at you. He smiles. He says softly, “Hey.”

“. . . Hey,” you manage, barely, in lieu of screaming.

His smile widens. “I know it’s . . . a bit much. But I wanted this moment to be perfect. I’ve rehearsed this so many times, Andie. You don’t know; you can’t possibly know how long I’ve loved you. I’ve wanted to ask this for so long—”

And something inside you just—snaps, bursts, absolutely loses its shit, panic and laughter clawing at your throat because you can’t, you just can’t—

“I can’t marry you, Jake.”

There. It’s out.

Jake’s whole face crumples. The ring slips out of his hands as he sinks down to both knees, sitting back on his heels. A hitched breath, staring down at the roses, and you’re sure he’s about to cry—but instead he says, so quietly, “What. What is it this time?”

And there’s something in his voice—

Get out. Just GO—

But also—

THIS time? The hell does that even mean, this time?

“Jake. Come here. Let’s talk, okay?” Because you deserve an explanation, and he deserves a chance. You need to give yourself this chance before you let go of this, of him, for good.

But Jake doesn’t get up.

“I have done everything for you,” he says, still quietly.

“Jake—”

“I have done everything for you, and you can’t even see it. You’ll never see it. I keep expecting . . .”

Well, fuck that. Jake’s been good to you, sure, but everything? Bullshit. You started your own bookstore and have kept it running all these years. You buy your own groceries and pay your own bills and get wherever you need to go. You are self-sufficient. No one will ever do everything for you; no one will ever be your everything. And anyway, are we just pretending you don’t compromise for Jake, too, like you haven’t held your tongue about the maybe-psychic bullshit, the comedy specials, the incredibly mediocre sex?

You inhale, determined to keep a cool head about this. “Hey. Don’t do that. Don’t talk about us like that, like you’re the only one putting work into this relationship—”

“Work,” Jake says, disbelieving.

“Yes, work. You think you’re the only one trying here? That I can’t tell when you’re lying to me?” You give him a chance to deny it, but he says nothing. “How did you know about the butterflies, Jake? The lepidopterophobia, how did you know? Don’t tell me I told you. I wouldn’t have forgotten that—”

And then Jake starts laughing. Almost silently, shoulders shaking. You stare at him.

“You would,” he says, still not looking up. “You always do.”

You—what?

For a moment, your mind flashes to 50 First Dates—not one of your favorites, although Jake likes it—and you wonder if you’re the Drew Barrymore to his Adam Sandler. Could anterograde amnesia explain any of this shit? No, Jesus, you’re being ridiculous. Focus.

“Don’t do that,” you say again. “Don’t lie to me, okay? You have to be honest, if you want this to work. How did you know about the butterflies? How did you know about my grandmother, whatever I’m about to say, any of it? There was that freak rainstorm, and Mom almost got hit by that car—how did you know? Sometimes, it scares the hell out me, Jake. If you knew what I’ve imagined, what I’ve dreamt—”

Fuck. You hadn’t meant to bring that up yet. You brace for the inevitable, some crack about your sanity—but Jake only continues to silently laugh. It’s starting to freak you out.

“Dreams,” Jake says. “I’ve changed everything for you, Andie. I’ve given you years, and you’re upset I saved your mom’s life? You’re mad about butterflies? You’re talking about dreams?”

Years? What the fuck does he mean, years?

“Jake—” you start, and Jake finally looks up.

You take a step back.

That’s a Jake you’re not supposed to see, not while you’re awake.

The front door is several feet away, not quite in reach. “Jake,” you say. Steady, calm. Utterly reasonable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but . . . maybe we should do this later.” When we aren’t alone. “When you’re less . . . upset.”

Jake smiles, eyes wet. “No,” he says, standing. “No, let’s talk about this now.”

“Jake—”

“You don’t like nice restaurants. Fine. I’ll take you to whatever two-star diner you want. You chop off all your hair before our first date and think I’m weird, I’m unreasonable for being disappointed—you didn’t even give me a heads up! But you want to look like a boy, fine. That’s fine because I love you. I keep my mouth shut because I love you. You overreact if I lose my temper, or when I ask you to move in, or when I tell you Audrey isn’t your boyfriend; why aren’t you spending that time with me? But I love you. I want to be perfect for you, so I loop back again and again, erasing everything, becoming exactly who you want me to be—and that’s not enough? Most women would be happy their boyfriends proposed. They’d be happy their boyfriends loved them, but you dumped me because ‘it’s only been a month, Jake’—for you, it’s only been a month. So, I start the day over, try again in two months, then three, and still, ‘it’s just too soon, Jake’—and you’re angry I punched the wall? I change for you; I change for you every day, but when have you ever changed for me? When? WHEN?”

And—fuck trying to make sense of that. Jake steps forward, and you’re spinning; you’re sprinting for the front door. You’re lunging forward, one hand on the knob—

And a sharp, sudden agony pierces your lower back.

Your legs cut out. You drop hard to your knees and scramble, gasping, reaching for the doorknob again. Your back is on fire, your legs barely responsive. You open the door—and Jake slams it shut again, catches you from behind and tugs out whatever sharp thing is inside you. Then—

In, out—

In, out—

In, out—

And your arms go numb, fingers spasming. Jake lets you go, and you collapse forward, hitting the ground with your face. You need to move. You need to move. But you can barely breathe, coughing red spatters into white flower petals. The world turns upside down. He’s flipping you over. Wet, gentle hands. Cool metal against your cheek.

It’s a paring knife, and all you can think is how ridiculous. All you can think is I’ve never dreamed of a paring knife before. But you aren’t dreaming, even if everything is . . . vague and narrow, disconnected and surreal. This isn’t a nightmare. This is blood loss.

This is dying.

You start crying because this is dying, and you don’t, you don’t, you don’t want to die.

Jake closes his eyes. Exhales slowly, calming down. Something like regret crosses his face, except it’s not regret. It’s . . . disappointment. Mild chagrin.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “This isn’t real. Nothing’s real until I say it’s real.”

“. . . you’re psychotic.”

A sad twitch of a smile. “I thought so, too, once. I blew that first date; I knew it was over—but then I woke up, and Armageddon was on again because it was Friday again, somehow. I had a second chance.” Jake laughs ruefully. “Blew that one, too. But I kept getting chances. I lost track of how many, until finally the date went right. I did everything right. And I woke up, and the TV was off because . . . it was Saturday.”

You try to slide back, away. Jake grabs you by the arm without even looking.

“But then it was Thursday,” he says, “and one bad round of mini golf later—I lost you. After all those fucking Fridays . . . you just left me. I begged for a do-over, a chance to fix it, and you didn’t listen—but the universe did. I woke up, and it was Thursday again, and it kept being Thursday until it was perfect. Until we were perfect.”

He leans down low, face hovering just over yours. “Do you see, Andie? The universe wants this. It wants us together. We’re going to be so happy.”

“You’re psychotic,” you whisper again, but not because you don’t believe him. You do. You’re not sure why, but you do. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe it’s the desperate, clawing hope that you might survive this, somehow, that you’re not dying, just falling asleep.

Time loops, sure. It explains a lot.

But the universe doesn’t want this, and if it does, fuck the universe. And fuck Jake, too. You have to stop him. You have to remember, somehow, and stop him—

Suddenly, Jake frowns. “That rainstorm was over a month ago.”

You blink at him, slowly. It’s hard to think. Rainstorm. Rainstorm? What—

“You’ve been unhappy since—no, even before then, right? I thought we were . . . but you’ve been keeping things from me.” Jake sounds wounded. “You promised you wouldn’t do that. You said you’d tell me if anything was wrong.”

You have to always tell me, so I can fix it.

You laugh, without meaning to, a fine mist of blood. Some of it hits Jake’s cheek. He doesn’t react. But—he can’t fix this, right? If he can only loop back to this morning, then he can’t erase the months of anxiety, of dread; he can’t take your list of secrets away. All you have to do is remember. You just have to hold onto something, anything—

Jake grips you by the face, thumbs digging into your chin.

“You must have talked about it,” Jake says. “If you’ve been unhappy this long, you must have told someone, you must have . . . Audrey. You told Audrey.”

You stop laughing.

He nods. “Of course. Of course, you told fucking Audrey.”

You choke, panic. He can’t do anything to Audrey. He can’t; you won’t let him. “I’ll stop it,” you whisper. Wheeze. Tiny, hitched gasps: in, in, in.

“I’ll remember—”

“This time,” Jake murmurs, just as you say those same words. “I’ll remember this time, Jake.”

You stare at him in horror. He smiles at you, madly, eyes still wet. He skims the paring knife up your chest and slowly, tenderly, sinks it into your throat. Out. In. Out.

“Jinx,” Jake says.

---

Now it’s Saturday, and you’re waking up to some terrible wailing noise piercing through your brain—ah. Aerosmith. Again. Jake, still asleep at your side, barely stirs; he’s slow to wake in the morning, which means the terrible noise will continue until either Jake claws his way to consciousness, or you reach over and turn it off yourself. You can only handle so much shrieking before eight in the morning, so you turn off the alarm, glancing down at Jake’s closed eyes, and think to yourself, today—

And then blink in surprise because Jake is awake, after all, smiling up at you.

“Creepy,” you tease, and he laughs.

Six months ago, that wouldn’t have been particularly funny. When Jake did creep you out, when you suspected him of . . . honestly, you don’t even know what. The headaches had been so awful back then, and the nightmares too, and when Audrey—

—but it still hurts so much, thinking about Audrey.

Still, your relationship with Jake is so much healthier now. He actually sat you down that day you were going to confront him, said don’t lie to me, okay? Said you have to be honest, if you want this to work. So. You told him everything. (Nearly, anyway. You still can’t quite break his heart about Aerosmith.) And he didn’t laugh or get angry or call you crazy. Of course, he couldn’t explain the headaches or the dreams, not back then, but he did tell you how he’d always been weirdly intuitive about some things and never talked about it much because it had weirded out women before. He’d also admitted he’d done what, in hindsight, was a creepy amount of social media stalking before your first date. He’d wanted to impress you so badly, show you how much he paid attention, how much he cared—but that desperation to please, that deep-rooted insecurity, led him to breaking your trust instead. Especially—and he’s ashamed to admit this—when he found a few of your old journals early in the relationship and read them cover to cover.

It still upsets you, if you’re being honest. It was a complete violation of your privacy, and privacy is extremely important to you. But it makes sense, at least, and Jake’s been going to therapy—actually made an appointment even before you sat down and talked—and your mom and friends and Billy Wilder all remind you that nobody’s perfect, Andie. Jake owned up, and he didn’t have to, and you’d be crazy not to forgive him. You wonder what Audrey might say—

But Audrey will never say anything again. She’ll never throw martini olives at your head or crush on Patrick Dempsey or give you permission to be unhappy. She’s dead because some asshole hit her in the crosswalk. They never caught him, and there was a time when a desperate, grieving part of you—a paranoid, batshit part of you—wondered if maybe Jake . . .

But you’re doing better, these days. Therapy, obviously. Also, Jake refused to give up on doctors, took you from specialist to specialist until one finally found evidence of brain abnormalities. Not that anyone knows what’s causing them. Actually, you’ve become something of a medical mystery. The condition might even be named after you someday. You’re trying a few experimental treatments; some weeks are better than others. They don’t think your brain will kill you, but it’s hard to say. Jake cried more than you did, hearing that.

Sometimes, comforting him frustrates you. The diagnosis, Audrey, rebuilding trust with Jake . . . it’s been a lot, and you’re ashamed to admit you’ve taken your frustration, your grief, out on him before. But Jake always forgives you. Sometimes, you just have to let the anger out, he says. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. You just need a release—and that’s okay. And if you ever find yourself doubting that, doubting him—well, it’s just your bullshit brain working against you. Generational knowledge. Childhood trauma (apparently). Fucking cerebral shit. Everyone agrees, it’s all in your head. It’s not your fault, but—it’s all in your head.

Well, you’ve told that fear to fuck off before. You can do it again. You’ll do it today. Jake is being cagey about tonight’s romantic getaway, and you already stumbled over the tiny, lovely ring poorly hidden in the dresser drawer. Change is terrifying, will always be—but you’re finally ready to take back some goddamn control. Because you want to be happy; you’re determined to be, and how happy can you be if you’re forever afraid and holding yourself back?

You’ll know, surely you’ll know, if and when it’s time to go.

---

Host Commentary

PseudoPod, Episode 904 for February 2nd, 2024.

Jinx, by Carlie St George

Narrated by Alethea Kontis; hosted by Kat Day audio by Chelsea Davis

---

Hey everyone, hope you’re all doing okay. I’m Kat, Assistant Editor at PseudoPod, your host for this week, and I’m excited to tell you that for this special Groundhog Day episode we have Jinx, by Carlie St George. This story is a PseudoPod original.

Author: Carlie St. George is a writer and Shirley Jackson Award finalist from Northern California. Her speculative fiction and poetry has been published in Uncanny, Nightmare, The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, and several other anthologies and magazines. Her debut short story collection You Fed Us to the Roses is available from Robot Dinosaur Press. Find her talking about television, horror movies, fanfic, writing, and other nerdy things on Bluesky or at her blog mygeekblasphemy.com.

New York Times bestselling author Alethea Kontis is a princess, a storm chaser, and a geek. Alethea narrates stories for Escape Pod, PseudoPod, and Cast of Wonders and contributes regular book reviews to NPR. Her award-winning writing has been published for multiple age groups across all genres. She is host of “Princess Alethea’s Fairy Tale Rants” and Princess Alethea’s Traveling Sideshow every year at Dragon Con. Born in Vermont, Alethea currently resides on the Space Coast of Florida with her teddy bear, Charlie. Find out more at aletheakontis.com

And now we have a story for you, and we promise you, it’s true.

---

Well done, you’ve survived another story. What did you think of Jinx by Carlie St George? If you’re a Patreon subscriber, we encourage you to pop over to our Discord channel and tell us.

I remember watching Groundhog Day at the cinema, back in 1993. It was pitched as a romantic comedy at the time. It even had Andie MacDowell on its publicity poster, smiling ruefully with her chin resting on her hand, while Bill Murray grinned from the face of a clock. Does anything say quirky romcom more than that?

Ah, the 90s. There are people now who say society worries too much about everything these days, but one thing’s for sure: we didn’t ask enough questions then.

In the film, TV meteorologist Phil Connors is forced though the same day – February 2nd, Groundhog Day – over and over again until he learns his lesson and gets it ‘right’. Getting it right involves being a better man and, crucially, persuading Rita Hanson, played by Andie MacDowell, to date him. He does all sorts of things in his time-looped days, including driving a stolen truck into a quarry, causing both himself and kidnapped (rodentnapped?) Punxsutawney [punk-sah-tawn-ee] Phil to die in a fiery explosion. He dies by suicide on several other days. Death doesn’t break the loop.

Death doesn’t break the loop.

A reminder that this is supposed to be *check my notes here* a romantic comedy, not horror.

Since then, of course, the phrase Groundhog Day has become synonymous with repetition, so much so that many people don’t even realise where or how that came about. It didn’t exist before 1993 – that film started the whole thing.

But our author, Carlie St George, knows the origin. And she’s woven the horror of the whole situation expertly into this story. A man who literally forces a woman to love him, by doing everything over and over and over again until he gets it right. He WILL have her. There will be no escape for her. He’ll destroy everything, even her mind, if that’s what it takes.

In this story, Andie – and the name choice is certainly no coincidence – knows that something is wrong. Early on she even ponders, “A bone-deep certainty that lovers are liars, and men can be violent when they don’t get what they want.”

And, a little later, as she thinks of her mother’s marriage to her father, “this relationship isn’t unhealthy, can’t be, because it’s not violent like her last one.”

Andie tries to get away, but she can’t. Jake, and perhaps the universe, won’t let her. She won’t be hurt, at least, not permanently, but she can’t leave Jake.

Her grisly murder scene isn’t the horror here. No, the horror is that she cannot escape, not even through death. There’s no way to get away from Jake.

None.

This is a brutal, heartbreaking and desperately true story. Thank you, Carlie St George, for sharing it with us.

I do, at this point, want to stress in real life there are options. If you’re in the UK, one organisation that offers help is Refuge. Look them up at refuge.org.uk. Different countries have different services, but the important thing to remember is that they’re there. If you need support, please reach out. We’ll put some links in the show notes.

---

PseudoPod is funded by you, our listeners, and we’re now formally a non-profit. One-time donations are gratefully received and much appreciated, but what really makes a difference is subscribing. A $5 monthly donation on Patreon will go farther than you would believe. Subscribers give us way more than just money, they give us stability, reliability, and dependability. Monthly donations give PseudoPod a well-maintained tower from which to operate, because trust us, you don’t want anything escaping our walls.

If you can, please go to pseudopod.org and sign up by clicking on “feed the pod”. If you have any questions about how to support EA and ways to give, please reach out to us at donations@escapeartists.net.

If you can’t afford to support us financially, and we understand, times are tight – then please consider leaving reviews of our episodes, or generally talking about them on whichever form of social media seems the least awful this week. By the way, we now have a Bluesky account: find us at @pseudopod.org. And if you like merch, Escape Artists also has a Voidmerch store with a huge range of fabulous hoodies, t-shirts and other goodies. The link is in various places, including our pinned tweet. Check it out!

PseudoPod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Download and listen to the episode on any device you like, but don’t change it or sell it. Theme music is by permission of Anders Manga.

Next week, to mark Saint Valentine’s Day – patron saint of Terni, epilepsy, beekeepers and, oh yes, courtly love – we have Phoenix Claws by Lee Murray, narrated by Amanda Ching and hosted by the always wonderful MM Schill.

 

[Also optional, look up quote, add here:]

And finally, PseudoPod, and Phil, know:
You want a prediction about the weather, you’re asking the wrong Phil. I’ll give you a winter prediction: It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.

See you soon, folks, take care, stay safe.