July Fool’s Day

By John Leatherman

The seconds ticked by on my cell phone while I waited outside Brad’s apartment. At precisely 10:38, I rang the doorbell. This time I’d get it right.

Brad poked his head through the jamb, eyes droopy from sleep. “What do you want, Julia? I thought you broke up with me.”

“I need my photo back.” Pushing past him, I made a perfunctory glance around the living room.

Still blinking himself awake, he turned to me. “Wait—what photo?”

“The photo.” I trudged into the hallway and through the first door on the left.

He followed. “You’re going into my bedroom?”

I kicked aside a heap of dirty laundry. “Yeah, I don’t want to be here either!” Yanking the pillow and sheets from the bed, I feigned looking underneath. I dumped it all on the nightstand—and Brad’s phone—with intentional haphazardness.

Pivoting, I pretended to notice the photo for the first time, atop the dresser in its puffy white plastic frame with red, baseball-like stitch marks. “So, that’s where you’re hiding it.” I grabbed it and started for the door.

Brad called after me. “Wait, you said you wanted the photo. I like that frame. And you gave it to me.”

“I gave it to you because…” I forced a groan. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Because I like baseball?”

I held it up—a selfie from the Baysboro Mall food court that squeezed in both our grins with the Wrap Shack in the background. “When is this from?”

“Our first date?”

“Third date! You wanted a cheesesteak, I wanted a wrap—so you changed your mind. For me. That was when…” I faltered. “I can’t even say it.” I opened the frame and showed him what I’d written on the back of the photo:

“To Brad, from when I started to fall in love with you. I’m trying to like baseball because it sounds like Baysboro. Love, Julia.”

He winced, stammering.

Come on, Brad, say it…

He sighed. “I guess I stopped putting you first. That’s why you broke up with me, isn’t it? I’m—” Pausing, he glanced toward the bed. “What’s that?”

Sigh. Not again.

Digging under the sheets on his nightstand, he found his buzzing cell phone. “Ah. Thanks a lot, Julia. And you always said I was the messy one.”

It was under everything but the mattress. Guess I can’t bury that phone deep enough.

After glancing at the screen, Brad ushered me out of the apartment. “Okay, Julia, you’ve got your precious frame. Now, scram. Got stuff to do.”

Alone outside, I grumbled and chucked the photo into my car. Time for another pointless Saturday afternoon at the Baysboro video arcade beating my own high scores.

***

“Good morning, Eastville! It’s Saturday, March 31, here on ZAP 95 FM!”

Rolling from bed, I frowned at my clock radio. “That’s what you think.”

March 31 had repeated at least a hundred times, but I was the only one aware. Every morning was a total reset except for my memories. If I’d kept an accurate tally in my mind, today was effectively July 1.

I didn’t know why this was happening, but it gave me a unique opportunity. I had broken up with Brad Thursday, March 29—but tactically, hoping he’d realize he’d become selfish. If he’d apologize—without prompting—I’d take him back.

Thanks to this inexplicable time loop, I had unlimited retries for that sorry. And once I knew how to get it, I could date a contrite Brad—at least until the calendar restarted.

Over spring, I’d worked out a precise schedule. I had to ring the doorbell exactly at 10:38—late enough that Brad would be awake, early enough for a performative search before I “found” the photo.

The inscription on the back would always get him close to apologizing—until that darn text interfered. Probably from another woman because he would leave at about 11:15, fully showered, dressed, and slathered in cologne.

Somehow, I had to keep Brad from hearing the text alert, but with him hovering two steps behind, I couldn’t discreetly flip the silencer switch. My best hope was to “accidentally” muffle the phone with something. But throughout a June’s worth of Saturdays, whatever I heaped on top—pillows, blankets, laundry—only seemed to amplify the vibrations.

Perhaps I could sneak in something more effective?

I neared Brad’s apartment complex at 9:58—too early, but across the street, the home goods store BedCetera was opening. At customer service I asked, “Where are your soundproof sheets?”

Stifling an eye roll, the salesman directed me to an aisle showcasing various thread counts. After I’d wasted about an hour finding my phone alarm stubbornly muffle-resistant, he suggested I try Baysboro Mall.

Grumbling at the irony, I accepted that I wouldn’t see Brad today—but hoped to find something that would work tomorrow. I pulled out of BedCetera’s parking lot just as Brad would be leaving his apartment across the street.

A few hours at Baysboro led me to GeekFare, where I found a six-inch soundproof glass dome. It effectively stifled my phone alarm.

But only after I twisted the cap five times to activate the vacuum seal.

I shuffled to the food court, grabbed my usual Wrap Shack turkey-tomato, and slumped at a small, round table. After staring at my tray for an eternity—if that meant anything in a time loop—I realized I might never get that apology.

Why couldn’t I be happy without it? On a repeating Saturday, I’d never have another commute. I wouldn’t have to work again. Or save for retirement. Or…

“Julia?”

I looked up.

Brad stood by my table with a tray from Wrap Shack. “I thought I saw you. May I sit?”

I faltered, unable to speak.

Brad sighed. “Okay—just let me say this, and I’ll go.” He cleared his throat. “I know you broke up with me because I never put your feelings first. That was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Leatherman writes fiction, humor, and the monthly “Word Weasel” grammar column for Word Weavers International. He has won or placed in numerous writing contests. He has written book reviews for Christian Retailing, scripts for Shoestring Radio Theatre, and word games for International Puzzle Syndicate. A freelance writer, editor, cartoonist, and puzzle designer, Mr. Leatherman maintains a secret identity as a Central Florida software consultant with two kids.

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