One Crazy Time 132w33

One Crazy Time

A Time Travel Romance Short Story STEPHANIE FLYNN

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 Stephanie Flynn

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author Stephanie Flynn, subject line "Attention: Permission Request," at the address below.

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First edition Cover design by Stephanie Flynn ISBN ebook: 978-1-952372-23-0

Table of Contents

One Crazy Time

About the Author

One Crazy Time

Fallen plaster crunched under his muddy sneakers. Debris dangled from worn walls, and whistles of a mysterious breeze tickled his arms. Dylan Fredrickson didn't worry about getting caught. He’d broken into much riskier locations for the sake of art. As a freelance photojournalist, the ambiance of this old mental institution was perfect for his newest project—breathing life back into the forgotten past. Danver's Hospital especially intrigued him, because this was where his wife died ten years ago, a beauty with years of life still yearning to be spent, the woman he promised he’d love forever. Not a day goes by that he didn’t think of her. A photo, capturing her brilliant glow, full of dreams and ambition, remained neatly tucked into his wallet, creased from frequent viewings. A tipped over chair blocked the hall, and to his trained eye, this was a fantastic angle. Dylan leaned back on his haunches, and positioning the lens artistically over the chair, he set the shutter speed on his DSLR camera and snapped a satisfying image. For a moment he pictured his wife's beaming smile and wished she were in the photo—a ridiculous thought, because if she were here, he wouldn’t be. After years of reflection, Dylan realized he wasn’t the best husband. Even if he could turn back time and get a second chance, he knew he didn’t deserve it. Dylan checked the stored image in his camera's memory. It mirrored the photo safeguarded in his wallet, except now Clara was missing, and his battered heart freshly tore again. On their wedding day, she'd held back tears of happiness. She'd waved her hands in front of her face, worrying about her makeup. Fully raccooned or not, she was still as radiant as ever in her miles of shimmering white and soft lace. Dylan had given her vows that he meant, but even now, he still couldn’t accept 'till death do us part'. The reports failed to describe the exact location where the accident happened. Was the information superfluous, or did someone want to cover up a stain on the hospital's legacy? There was no finding out any longer. Dylan had tried.

Clara wasn't the only one who'd died here, officially. But as far as he could find in the records, she was the only one who was unexpected. That abruptness and the unanswered questions still kept him up at night. Endings changed, hopes dashed, and dreams held on by a fraying thread needed to be laid to rest. Dylan wished for just one chance to tell her how much he loved her, and then he and his broken heart could sleep at night. Glass crunched under his foot, and with a cringe, he tapped his shoe against the wall to knock off the shards. Inside a patient's room, a television screen was broken, the bed was stained, and a food tray with dishes sat collecting dust as if hopeful someone would return. No one bothered to auction off the equipment, as if they were in a hurry to leave. Dylan pressed himself up against the corner of the room and snapped a photo. He returned to the musty the hallway. An eerie silence raised the hairs on his arms, but Dylan wasn't yielding. Whispers of voices swirled around him, as if warning him away, but he kept going. On his left was a door marked as restricted access. Dylan tried the knob, and it was locked. Unperturbed, he continued down the hall to the nursing station and found a discarded screwdriver. Using the metal end as a pry bar, Dylan forced the door open. Complete darkness swallowed the space. The dusty window light behind him failed to unveil the flooring. Pure and total black. Intrigued, Dylan stepped through the doorway and fell as if there was no floor. His instinct made him hug his camera, protecting it from the floor or stairs, or whatever landing was incoming. In the blink of an eye, Dylan found himself on the same hallway floor he'd just left, except now it was clean, staff bustled down the hallways, and patients shuffled in robes. Dylan stood, still hugging his camera, and brushed off his knees and hip. He'd feel that tomorrow. Dylan turned on his camera and tapped on the screen to view his images. The last shots were the abandoned patient room and the destroyed hallway. The second one matched exactly where he stood, except now it was new and clean and…inhabited. A young nurse, carrying a dish of pudding, stopped before him. Her gentle eyes swept over him and her brow furrowed in concern. Was he dreaming?

"Can I help you…?" she asked. "Where am I?" he asked, craning his neck, unbelieving his own eyes. "Danver's Hospital, honey. Which room is yours?" Her hand moved to his elbow, and she guided him down the hallway. Dylan's mouth dropped open. It couldn't be true, could it? "What year is it?" The sweet nurse chuckled as if total confusion was a normal part of her day. "It's 2011, just like yesterday, just like tomorrow. I'd like to keep strolling with you, but I have other patients to attend. Do you know which nurse is yours?" He somehow found himself ten years into the past. However possible it was, he didn't know, and if he was simply trapped in his own head, he never wanted to leave. Only one name came to mind. "Clara Fredrickson." The nurse smiled. "I just saw her this way. I'll take you to her." She guided him down the hall, and suddenly Dylan wasn't sure of his footing. Loose knees had him reaching out for the handrail. "That's it. You'll be just fine in a minute," she said. Dylan’s mind blanked. He wasn’t sure he'd be fine ever again. The nurse stopped at the station—the same one he'd taken a screwdriver from. A woman sat on a chair, face down, writing a note. Dylan's breath caught. He knew those large curls she meticulously styled each morning, the matching scrubs with the cartoon characters on them, the lines in her hands as she used cursive on the paper. "Clara, I have a patient here who seems lost." His wife's head lifted, and their eyes met. Dylan couldn't speak. Tears welled in his lids, and he blinked them back. Her smile, still as radiant as he ed, slipped from her face. "Dylan? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?" She rushed around the desk and gripped his forearms.

He was grateful for the . Dylan stared, voice so unstable, he couldn't form words. "Come with me," she said. His heavy feet wouldn't go. Dylan pulled his wife into his arms and crushed her to his chest. "I miss you so much." His words fumbled through thickening emotion. Clara pulled back. "What happened? What's wrong?" A smile lifted his lips. "I don't know." But he was glad it happened. She checked her wristwatch. "Let's get lunch. Shawna," she called behind her, "I'm taking lunch." Dylan allowed her to bring him to the cafeteria, where they dragged trays along a buffet of convenient foods, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She swiped her badge to pay, and they sat at a round table, reminding Dylan of high school so long ago. "You've never ed me for lunch, and you look so tired, like you aged overnight. Talk to me." She forked up a jiggly bite of pasta. "Why are you back from New York so soon? What happened?" Dylan just stared at her, untouching his food. Memories flooded his brain like a torrent of pain released from its locked safe. He dug around for one of their earliest dates, one of their happier times. "You that pizza place on fourth ave, where you got the—" "Pineapple and anchovies?" Clara finished and laughed. "It was disgusting." Dylan smiled. "I was being brave. Trying to impress you with my cultured tongue." Clara's face flushed a sweet shade of pink. And then he ed one of his blunders. "Valentine's day, five years ago, I was stuck waiting for a flight home..."

Clara's smile slid away, but Dylan had to tell her. "I bought a bouquet of roses for you. They withered before I could get out of the terminal, so I tossed them before boarding. I thought bringing you nothing was better than dead flowers." Dylan's vision wavered. Clara dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "I had no idea." "Because we fought right after, I never got a chance to tell you." His wife swallowed a sip of water. "What was the fight even about? I can't anymore. Must not have been too important." Dylan lifted his camera. "My job. You hated that my job took all my time but paid peanuts." She glanced at his equipment and frowned. "Looks new. When did you buy that? Is that why you came here today—to schmooze me because you emptied the savings ? I thought we moved on from this." "What? This is old—er than you think." He thought he recovered well. She'd never believe him if he told her the truth. Opened a door, fell back in time, oh sure. Nothing unusual going on here. Oh, and you're dead. For a moment, Dylan wondered if he wasn't really a patient after all. "I have to get back to work. We can discuss this later. I can't believe you'd do something like that behind my back." Clara dropped her napkin onto her tray and stood. "Wait, Clara." Ten years without her and all he managed to do was pick a fight. But she paused. Dylan exhaled a deep breath. "I didn't drain the savings. I came to see you because I miss you very much. So, so much." A lump formed in his throat, and Clara tilted her head at him, the anger having washed away. She set the tray on the table and motioned for him to stand. Clara opened her arms wide and Dylan pressed her against him. Why didn't he just

bring her the dying flowers? He'd forgotten how much he'd been a fool, but what could he do about it now? She had died. Dylan stared at his wife, flush with life and health, realizing he could make something right. "What day is it?" Clara released her warm embrace. "Friday. Why?" "Date, sorry. What's the date?" Dylan gripped her shoulders, heart thundering in his chest. Her eyes lifted as if searching for the answer. Her nose wrinkled in that way it does whenever she thought hard. The corner of Dylan's lips lifted softly. "June tenth. Are you feeling all right? You're scaring me." Dylan sucked in a breath. It was today. "Clara, listen to me. Take the rest of the day off. You and I have some catching up to do." She frowned. "What? I just saw you this morning. By the way, you left your underwear on the bathroom floor again." He had so much to make up for. "I know. I'm sorry. You need to take the afternoon off." Clara backed up, and Dylan released her shoulders, heart breaking all over again. He couldn’t leave her to her untimely fate. "Something is off about you today. You're worrying me, so I'll see what I can do." Clara returned her tray to the cafeteria, and she glanced back at him with concern. Dylan couldn’t let her die again. He fisted his camera and jogged after her. "Is it that important you follow me around?" She moved at a nurse's brisk pace, but Dylan kept stride. "Do you doubt me?" He sped up a little ahead of her. She cast him a sideways glance as if her competitive engines just roared. Ahead, a combative patient's fists were swinging. "Watch out!" Dylan bear

hugged Clara and lifted her off her feet. They spun to avoid the strike and landed on the ground with her on top of his chest. Her breath panted and loose hairs haloed her face. Annoyance creased her brow, and she said, "Don't want me to win, as always. Getting me to straddle you is so inappropriate at work. What were you thinking?" A loud thump and a metallic clang turned their heads. People gasped, and a woman shouted for emergency services and security. A man, perhaps a janitor, knelt on the floor rubbing his head. The out-of-control patient had barreled down the hallway, knocking over trays, shoving people, and throwing chairs. He’d rushed right by them. When the patient reached the corner of the hallway, security intercepted and tackled him to the floor. Clara's wide eyes bore into Dylan's. "If you didn't just grab me then, I'd have gotten knocked out." "Judging by the size of that guy, I'd say worse." That was the man who had killed Clara. Dylan was sure of it. And as the kneeling janitor rubbing his head attested, with Dylan's intervention, no one died this time. A woman bent at the waist. "Clara, you okay?" She held out her hand, and his wife accepted it. "I'm fine." Clara smoothed her scrubs. Dylan climbed to his feet, categorizing the new aches he'd feel tomorrow, and caught the woman's suspicious glare. "I'm Dylan, her husband." The woman said with a grin, "Keep that sort of thing in the broom closet, got it?" She winked and strolled toward the kneeling man, checking on his needs as well. Clara rubbed her elbow. "Let me see," Dylan insisted and checked her skin for marks. She'd have a bruise tomorrow, and a bruise was better than a body bag. Tears formed on his lids

again. After all those years of mourning, he hadn’t believed there were any tears left. "Clara!" a man's voice shouted from down the hall. "I have to get back to work," Clara said, slipping away. "How about we go out for dinner tonight?" A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. "Sounds like a date." She smiled and waved as she rushed down the hallway. Dylan lifted his camera and snapped a photo of her retreating, now wishing he'd taken more before she’d gone. What was he supposed to do now? Go home? Go back to the present? Since she was alive, he could go back to his normal time, and in theory, she'd be there. Perhaps he'd gain ten years of new memories, wiping away all the pain he'd survived. Pain that made him the better person he was now. He'd never leave his dirty clothes on the floor, drain their savings , or neglect to show how much he loved her. He was so stupid before! From small things to the big ones, what kind of man had he been? "Excuse me, sir. Are you visiting a patient?" An orderly said with a suspicious glance at his camera. "I'm leaving." Dylan brushed past the intimidating man and pushed through the front doors. Knowing he was on his way home from a shoot in New York, he had no interest in visiting his house or in meeting his younger self, so his feet took him in the opposite direction, down city sidewalks and into the freshly trimmed grass of the city park. He found his favorite vantage point—a rustic bench overlooking the visitors. When Dylan was a broke college student, he'd brought Clara here for a basic picnic on their first date. He'd been ashamed he couldn't do better, but she assured him it was sweet. Dylan uncapped his camera lens and snapped away at lucky families, wishing he could've been one of them. Something about capturing the closeness, the happiness of these strangers frozen in time, brought back that same ache after his loss. How could emptiness feel so heavy? And now that Clara was alive, when would the memories of their lost ten years come to him? Dylan lifted the camera and captured more images. He brushed

tears out of his eyes with his shoulder. He’d never let her down again. A bright faced woman with bouncy curls and cartoon scrubs approached. Dylan set the camera down. "What are you doing here?" he asked her, mouth gaping open. "I'm concerned for you, and when I called, you weren't home, so I tried your favorite park." Dylan stood, wishing he had flowers. He bent down and plucked a fistful of dandelions. He held them out to her. "If I knew I was going to see you again, I would've gotten something fancier." "See me again? What are you talking about? You've been acting strange all day." She had no idea. "I'm sorry for being inattentive, inconsiderate, and just…just not as good as I should've been. You deserved better. If I can, I'd like to make it up to you every single day for the rest of my life." "If you can? What's going on, Dylan?" She reached for his forearm in that comforting way of hers. Dylan ed his project at the abandoned hospital. He lifted his camera and flipped through the images. "See these?" He leaned down so she could see the files. She hesitated to answer. "An old hospital of some sort. That looks like Danver's." "Ten years ago," he said carefully, "you were killed by a patient in Danver's Hospital. It closed shortly thereafter. I spent years beating myself up over the 'what ifs', and when I finally returned to my ion, I decided the only project I could work on was showcasing abandoned buildings. I went to Danver’s first." "I don’t understand."

"Somehow I opened a door through time, and I won’t waste my miraculous second chance." "This can't be true, is it?" She was skeptical, and Dylan would've been worried if she weren't. "Either that or I've lost my marbles. You can be my nurse, and I promise to behave." He shot her a steamy glance, and she smacked him on the shoulder. "This isn't funny. How can this be real? I know you. I know you only believe what you can see, but time travel isn't real. It's just not." Dylan hadn’t been worthy to be her husband, but what did he risk by asking? "If I could prove it to you, will you believe me?" "To the future?" Her voice was thick with disbelief. "Ten years. You'd leave my other self behind, just like what was supposed to happen, and I still become the man I am today after living with your loss for so long. You wouldn't have your job anymore, but we can work around that. This is assuming I can even go back…" he trailed off. "And you'll go with me." Clara shook her head as if fighting logic. "I deal with crazy every day. What you're saying is impossible, and you've lied to me before. How is this any different?" "I showed you the pictures." Sweat broke on his brow. "And as a photographer, you have professional photo editing skills." She placed her hands on her hips. "These are still on the camera's memory. I didn't do anything with them yet. Look, I know I've been absent. No one's perfect—" The glare she sent him changed his tone quickly. "I'm a different man now, a better man, and I will be better for you. Let me show you how I came through. If I can prove it to you, will you go with me?" If he couldn't return home, he'd always fight for Clara, even if he had to secretly share her with his other self. Thinking like that made his head spin. And if he

could go back, well, he'd give her what she always deserved—his time. "I want to trust you." Clara took his outstretched hand, and with his camera around his neck, he brought her back to Danver's, bying staff to find the restricted access door. He exhaled a deep breath, wondering what the future had in store for him. The door was locked. "Think you can open this?" He didn't want to pry it open again, fearing security tackling him before getting inside. "Is this some kind of joke? It says restricted. We can't go in there, and it’s probably a closet anyway." "This is where I came through. I swear." She pressed her lips thin and made a quick trip to the nursing station. She slipped him the keys, and Dylan unlocked the door. "If this doesn't work," she warned, "I have a lot of answering to do, and I don't know what will happen to us." "What are you saying?" Dylan dropped the keys on the floor. "I'm saying that I love you, but I can't keep putting up with you being gone all the time, and when you're home, I don't know what's true and what's a lie. This is the craziest idea you've had so far, and I'm worried it's only going to get worse. You need to see a doctor if this doesn't work." "Hey! What are you doing? Get away from there!" A security guard with a hand on his belt rushed toward them. "I have to go now," Dylan said. "Will you come with me to the future?" Clara glanced at the guard. "There's no time. Are you coming or not?" he pressed. "If I go in there and this doesn't work, I could get fired." "And if it does work?" Dylan held out his hand expectantly.

Clara stared at it. "Then you show me this new man you claim to be." "Deal." Dylan squeezed her hand and blew out a quick breath, trying to hold back tears. He opened the door to the blackened room and pulled her inside with a quick yelp from Clara's lips. When Dylan opened his eyes, they were on the hall floor in Danver's with nurses and patients filling the building with life. "Did it work?" she asked, standing and straightening her scrubs. "Don't know yet. Let's get out of here in case that security guard is around." Dylan brought her home. He hadn't kept up with most of the maintenance. The siding needed to be repainted, the landscaping was an overgrown mess, and the grass hadn’t been mowed in a month—he'd tacked the city ordinance warning to the fridge. But, standing hand in hand with her on their front sidewalk, Dylan smiled because something was now different. "What happened to my flowers?" "You know I'm no good with plants." She cast him a shocked expression, as if the reality of the time change had finally sunk in. "The house looks…like I've been gone a long time. It was true, wasn't it?" "Let's go inside. We have a lot to make up for." He led her up the path to the porch and said, "I'll take care of the mess. I wasn't expecting company." "I think I like this new you." Her soft eyes shimmered with tears. Dylan leaned down and kissed her lips with the ion that only ten years of separation could burst forth. His arms wrapped around her, pressing her against the camera hanging at his chest. He leaned back and paused the kiss just long enough to take the camera off his neck and fling it blindly into the front yard. No more living through the lens. He'd be living for today. Every day.

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Get Minutes to Live (A Matchmaker Series Prequel), the origin story to the Matchmaker series FREE here: stephanieflynn.net

About the Author

Stephanie Flynn has a bachelor's degree in ing, which has nothing to do with her career writing action-packed romance filled with adventure, suspense, and danger. She lives in Michigan, USA, with her husband and kids, and she spends her writing time surrounded by normal cats and a not-so-normal macaw, wishing she liked coffee and knew how to mix a drink. Check out her website for more books: StephanieFlynn.net

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