Chapter 1: Graduation Night Gone Wrong

On the night of my high school graduation—right after finishing the SATs, like every American teen anxiously does in spring before senior year wraps up—I found myself doing something reckless: I downed half a bottle of whiskey, nerves fraying as I prepared to confess to my longtime crush, Carter Whitman. Even as the burn hit my throat, guilt twisted in my stomach. What if I got caught drinking? What if my parents found out?

The whiskey’s burn left my throat raw, and I remember standing in the corner of the gym, clutching my phone so tightly my knuckles ached. The gym was decked out in blue and silver streamers, graduation banners hanging from the rafters, a “Class of 2012” balloon arch over the photo booth. My friends in their caps and gowns snapped selfies, laughter echoing under the basketball hoops, and the smell of cafeteria pizza mixed with the sweet scent of roses from parents’ bouquets. My hands shook, and the world seemed to tilt even before the alcohol hit me full force.

But when I finally tried to confess, everything went sideways. My vision blurred, the gym’s bright lights turned to halos, and my ears filled with the muffled thump of the speakers. I stumbled toward Carter, the words catching in my throat—and then, nothing. The world slipped away.

One minute I was pushing through the crowd, the next, everything faded to black. My last memory was the sticky summer air clinging to my skin and the crowd belting out "Sweet Caroline"—the whole gym singing along, everyone swaying with arms around each other, just like every graduation party ever.

When I came to, a small child was tugging at my sleeve, calling me "Mom," and Carter Whitman was sitting beside me, his eyes soft with unmistakable tenderness. “Honey, you’re awake,” he said, his voice low and achingly familiar.

His voice wrapped around me, gentle and close. The kid—dark curls, huge brown eyes—kept pulling at my sleeve, and the room was nothing like my high school bedroom. Sunlight striped across a king-sized bed, a framed family photo sat on the dresser, and the sheets felt crisp and cool against my skin. My body felt heavy, strange, like it didn’t quite belong to me. I blinked, struggling to make sense of it all.

I was completely dumbfounded, my mind spinning in a way that had nothing to do with last night’s whiskey.

I tried to sit up too fast, my head swimming. I stared at Carter like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix rom-com. He looked so at home here, so effortlessly domestic, that it was almost more surreal than the kid calling me "Mom."

“What are you spacing out for? Don’t you have a book signing today? Hurry up.” He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek. Instinctively, I reacted—my hand shot up and I smacked him across the face.

The slap echoed, sharp and humiliating. My palm stung. Carter’s eyes went wide, his hand flying to his cheek in disbelief, as if he couldn’t process what had just happened.

He held his cheek, looking at me like I’d grown a second head.

The kid’s eyes grew even wider, and my own face went hot with embarrassment. My stomach dropped as the horror of what I’d just done sank in.

I swallowed, my voice shaking. “I—I—I didn’t mean to. You just startled me—you got too close.”

My voice was thin and squeaky, nothing like the grown-up, put-together woman I apparently was supposed to be. All I wanted was to crawl under the covers and disappear.

My name is Mariah Brooks—just your average student at Maple Heights High. I’d just finished the SATs and was finally going to confess to my crush, Carter Whitman. Yes, the same Carter I just, apparently, slapped in the face.

I’d spent four years watching Carter from a distance—varsity basketball, National Honor Society, the guy who always had it together. I’d never even worked up the courage to ask him for his notes, let alone slap him.

But now he was calling me his wife.

My mind reeled. Yesterday, I was just an eighteen-year-old girl, nervously plotting my confession. After one wild night, I’d woken up married to Carter Whitman—with a child.

What on earth happened?

“Honey, are you okay?” Carter’s concern was genuine—no hint of anger over the slap, just worry in his eyes.

He spoke so gently, like this was an everyday occurrence. The kid—my kid?—watched, thumb in his mouth, while my hands trembled.

Just hearing Carter call me "honey" made my cheeks burn and my heart pound.

“I’m not your wife.” Tears threatened, my throat tightening. Sure, I’d dreamed of marrying Carter, but that was supposed to be some distant, impossible future.

I looked down at my hands, searching for proof. Sure enough, a slim gold band glinted on my finger. I twisted the band, feeling its unfamiliar weight. If this was a prank, it was a pretty elaborate one.

We hadn’t even dated, let alone held hands. How could I possibly be his wife?

Was this some kind of prank? A reality show stunt?

I tried to slow my breathing and took a good, hard look at Carter. He was in pajamas—handsome, clean-cut, tall, and lean. But there was something new: a grown man’s confidence, a maturity that hadn’t been there in high school.

He had a little stubble on his jaw, his hair just tousled enough to look intentional. He looked less like the boy-next-door heartthrob and more like the kind of guy who’d give a TED Talk or run a Silicon Valley startup.

Wait a minute—did my dream guy just level up overnight?

Still dazed, I felt him lean in, his face so close I could see the faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. He smelled like fresh laundry and coffee, and for a second, I wanted to reach out and touch his face, just to make sure he was real.

“You’re, um, way too close,” I managed, pushing at his chest. “Let’s just… talk this out, okay?”

My voice cracked, and I looked away, feeling more like a gawky teenager than ever.

“Talk about what?” he asked, brow furrowing the same way it used to in AP Chem when someone asked a dumb question. Only now, all that concern was focused on me.

“Is this some kind of game? Or maybe it’s an elaborate prank show?” I asked, my voice hopeful and desperate. Was Ashton Kutcher about to jump out and yell Punk’d?

I glanced around, half-expecting my friends to burst out from behind the door with a “Gotcha!” banner. But the room stayed quiet, just the soft sound of the kid playing with a stuffed dinosaur.

Even if this was some kind of prank, shouldn’t someone have checked with me first?

I was pretty sure there were laws about this sort of thing—at least, there should be.

“Game? What game? Honey, you’re acting strange today. Did you not sleep well last night?” His eyes were so sincere, it made me feel guilty for doubting him.

He knelt down, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. He looked so genuinely worried that I almost felt bad for suspecting him.

I staggered off the bed, desperate for some space. “I—I—I need to use the bathroom.” My mind was spinning, so I made a beeline for the bathroom, locked the door, and splashed cold water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, I froze.

I gripped the sink, staring at my reflection. The face looking back was mine, but… not. My cheeks were sharper, my hair longer and styled, my brows more defined. It was like I’d run my face through a decade of Instagram filters and top-shelf skincare.

I’d changed, too.

There were faint lines at the corners of my mouth, but my eyes looked brighter, more sure of themselves. I touched my cheek, half expecting my reflection to wink at me in solidarity.

The woman in the mirror had shed her baby fat, her face now a refined oval, bright hazel eyes shining with something like confidence. She wore a silk robe—definitely not my usual Target pajamas—and her nails were perfectly manicured. I checked for the wedding ring again, twisting the band and feeling its unfamiliar weight.

It was me, but older—a full decade older than the eighteen-year-old I remembered.

Did I just get an overnight upgrade, too?

My mind was racing. Was this a coma dream? Did I hit my head? Was I trapped in some weird Netflix original?

A knock came at the door. “Honey, are you okay?” Carter called, his voice so close and familiar it made my chest ache. I took a shaky breath, smoothed my hair, and cracked open the door.

I opened the door groggily, glancing at the clock—and my heart nearly stopped. “What year is it?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Carter’s face softened with concern. The kid peered around his legs, clutching a plastic spaceship.

“2022,” Carter replied, his worry clear. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

He reached out as if to check my forehead, but I stepped back. My head spun. Ten years? Where had the time gone?

Alright? How could I possibly be alright?

I had just gone to sleep in 2012, and now I’d woken up in 2022.

I was twenty-eight. Married. With a child.

I needed a minute—no, a lifetime—to process.