I eye her. “You know what happened.”
“The curse?” she asks, eyebrows lifting.
I sigh, leaning my head against the back of the couch. “Yes. The curse.”
Sam is the only person besides my mother and Grandma Gigi that I talk to about it. I don’t think she actually believes me, but she plays along.
“What happened?” she asks.
I tell her about the date, and she listens intently, scrunching her nose when I tell her about the garlic/mint situation, and then gives me a sad smile when I give her all the details about the terrible good night kiss.
“Are you sure he didn’t have somewhere to be? An emergency situation?”
I pull my head up from the couch to give her my best scowl. “We’ve been over this.”
“Yes, I know,” she holds out a hand, trying to placate me. “But—”
I shake my head. “Notherapy.”
In her two semesters of college, Sam only took two classes for her major: Intro to Psychology and Developmental Psychology. It was definitely not enough to be giving any kind of professional advice. It’s become a running joke between us—Sam will often preface her attempts to psychoanalyze me with, “When I was studying to be a therapist,” as if two semesters and an intro course gave her any right.
Besides, she’s just going to tell me—in some version or another—that it’s possible I’m subconsciously pushing people away or something else therapy-sounding.
If it had been only a handful of botched first kisses, I’d definitely be doing some self-reflection. Because in that scenario I could be to blame. But forty-nine of them? That’s a pattern. And I’ve got the stories from Gigi and my mom to prove it’s real.
It’s simple, really: one kiss, and if he isn’t the one for you, then all attraction, whatever was there, is gone. In an instant. Like it was never there to begin with.
My brother Ryan seems to have missed out on this particular gift. He’s on his third long-term relationship. I try not to hold it against him. He’s never had to count his kisses. While I’m staring down the barrel of number fifty, Ryan is probably on kiss number five thousand with Sienna, and that attraction has never gone poof. Not yet, at least.
“Well, he sounds like a loser to me,” Sam says.
I give her a closed-mouth smile. “I’m hanging up my dating shoes at number fifty.”
She slumps. “Not this again.”
“I’m serious. I can only take so much rejection.”
“So you’re just going to give up?”
I shrug. “Maybe not forever. We’ll just have to see.”
I told myself that at fifty kisses I would need to reassess this whole situation. I’ve been trying to end this curse for too long, and I think I need to take a step back, get off all the apps, stop going on dates, and focus on something else. I might dust the shoes off later, but after one more try and no luck, I’m taking a much-needed break from it all. Do I think a kiss count of fifty is too much? Not really. Do I think a rejection count of fifty is too much? Definitely.
“So what you’re saying is number fifty needs to be the one,” she says.
I give her a sarcastic-sounding chuckle. “Not the one, just someone who’ll kiss me more than once.”
I’m not looking for “the one.” I’m not sure I believe there is just one person out there for me. I just want someone to break this curse so I can choose for myself—fall for someone on my own terms. Without a stupid curse making the decision for me.
“Okay, then I think you should let me set you up with Colin from work.”
I scrunch my face. “No setups,” I tell her. Not because it’s a rule of mine, but because Sam gets too invested and it makes itawkward when it’s not a match. And of course, it never has been. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“Claire,” she chides. “He’s perfect for you.”
She says this every time.
“I think I’ll stick to my dating apps,” I tell her.
