The Loop

The front door closed behind him. For a moment, Evan just stood there on the front step, staring out at the street. The afternoon sun was warm. Birds chirped somewhere nearby. A lawn mower droned in the distance.

Everything looked normal. Which was ridiculous. Nothing about his life was normal anymore.

Behind him sat a house containing his former stepmother, his current wife, and enough emotional baggage to crush a small country. A few minutes earlier she'd told him she hated him. A few minutes before that she'd been crying. A few minutes before that she'd been offering to take him upstairs for a blowjob to make him feel better.

And somehow all of it was his fault.

With a sigh, Evan headed for the car. The moment Stacy entered his thoughts, a pulse of arousal hit him.

"Jesus."

He immediately shoved the thought away. Didn't help. The image remained. Stacy standing in the foyer. Stacy yelling at him. Stacy crying.

The sensation intensified. Not enough to create a problem, thankfully, but enough to be irritating.

It happened every single time. Think about Stacy. Get aroused. Notice the arousal. Think about Stacy even more. Get more aroused. A perfect feedback loop from hell.

He slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. Maybe some distance would help. Maybe he could clear his head. Maybe he could spend a few hours somewhere that wasn't orbiting around Stacy Mercer.

The car pulled away from the curb. Three minutes later he drove past a park. A familiar park. Evan frowned. Something caught his eye near the road. A large tree. Carved into the bark.

EVAN + STACY

Inside a heart.

"What?"

His head snapped around. The carving disappeared behind him. That couldn't be right. No way. Nobody carved things into trees anymore. Especially not him. Especially not Stacy.

The thought of Stacy brought another surge of unwanted arousal.

"Stop."

Both hands tightened on the steering wheel. This was getting ridiculous. Five minutes later a different problem emerged. A strange feeling. Not physical. Not exactly. A craving. Something was missing. Food? Maybe. He checked the clock. Noon. Could be hunger.

Except it didn't feel like hunger.

Drink? No.

Whatever it was, it persisted, a nagging in the back of his consciousness.

The car continued forward. A right turn. Then a left. Then another left. Ten minutes later he looked up. His stomach dropped.

The familiar blue mailbox sat on the corner. His mailbox. His street. His house.

"What the hell?"

He slowed. Drove past. Kept going. A minute later he hit another intersection. Turned right. Turned left. Straight for several blocks. His street appeared again. This time from the opposite direction.

"No."

The word came out loud.

"No. No. No."

Another glimpse of the house. Another glimpse of the driveway. Another glimpse of the front window. And another involuntary thought about Stacy. Another surge of arousal.

"Damn it."

The craving had gotten worse too. Not stronger exactly. More noticeable. Like a song playing quietly in another room. Something wanted his attention. Something important. Something waiting.

Evan accelerated. Fine. If reality wanted to play games, he'd play games. Twenty minutes passed. He drove across town. Past the university. Past downtown. Past neighbourhoods he'd never visited. Every route eventually curved. Bent. Looped. Folded. And somehow returned him to the same street.

The same house.

The same driveway.

Every single time.

By the sixth attempt panic had begun replacing frustration. This wasn't coincidence. This wasn't bad navigation. This wasn't even magic behaving badly. Reality itself appeared to be cheating. Roads connected incorrectly. Landmarks repeated. Entire sections of the city seemed determined to redirect him.

As though some unseen **** kept insisting:

No.

Try again.

Your destination is Stacy.

The thought made him angry.

And scared.

And unfortunately a little aroused.

"Enough."

The word echoed inside the car. Evan slammed the accelerator. The engine roared. Street after street blurred past. Intersections flew by. At one point he was almost certain he'd crossed the river. Ten minutes later he was somehow staring at his own neighbourhood again.

His hands shook. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. Yet there it was. His street. Again.

A hollow laugh escaped him. Maybe Madame Ruth had undersold the chaos potion. Maybe reality itself had decided his marriage needed more attention. Maybe he was losing his mind.

Eventually exhaustion won. The fight drained out of him. He turned onto a random residential street he'd never seen before and parked in front of a small grey house. Not his house. Definitely not his house. Perfect. He climbed out. Walked up the driveway. Approached the front door. Then stopped.

The doorknob looked familiar. A second glance revealed the welcome mat. The flower planter. The brass numbers. Every detail shifted subtly before his eyes. Like wet paint rearranging itself. Grey became beige. Different became familiar. The stranger's house became his house. His stomach dropped.

"Holy shit."

Evan backed away. The house remained unchanged. His house. His front door. His porch. His life.

Hands trembling slightly, he reached into his pocket. Pulled out his key. Inserted it into the lock. Turned.

Click.

The door opened. Warm air drifted out from inside. Home. His home. There was no point running anymore. No point pretending. No point fighting whatever insane **** had decided that every road led back to Stacy.

Slowly, Evan stepped inside. The door shut behind him. Silence greeted him. For a few seconds he simply stood there. Then he took a deep breath.

"Stacy?"

His voice carried through the house.

No answer.

Evan swallowed. Whatever happened next, they couldn't keep doing this. They couldn't keep hurting each other. They couldn't keep pretending things weren't getting worse.

"Stacy," he called again. "We need to talk."