After toeing off my shoes, dropping the paper towels into the garbage, and flipping on all the lights, I walk to the fridge and grab myself a black cherry club soda. After three months of living here, it’s finally starting to feel like home. The kitchen cabinets look like they were stolen from a house before it was demolished and then sloppily painted a shade of faded green. The appliances were old ten years ago, dingy, yellow, and loud. The space is too small for a table, but there’s a peninsula with two barstools where I eat all my meals on the faux-butcherblock countertop. Opposite the kitchen is the living space—a cozy nook with a couch that’s far too big for the room, a reasonable TV, and those tiny little windows you get in basement suites that barely let in any light. I had to invest in good lightbulbs when I moved in to reduce the “dungeon” feel. Thankfully, with the pops of colour from my cushions and art I’d found thrifting, the space has a cozy vibe. If only I could rid it of the dank basement smell.
After lighting yet another eucalyptus candle, I cross into the bedroom and change into my oversize comfies, wash the makeup (and Winston’s slobber) off my face, and pull on some fuzzy socks. My bedroom is similar to my living room—crowded and with no concept of interior design, but homey and comfortable with a fluffy duvet and far more pillows than any one person should have.
After retrieving a Tupperware with chicken and rice I’d eaten most of yesterday and heating it up in the microwave, I beeline for my spot on the couch next to Winston and flip on the TV, navigating to Netflix. After scrolling past all the shows and films I added to my list long ago, I opt for an old Ben Stiller rom-com I’ve seen over a dozen times. With how chaotic and unpredictable my life is, I need the comfort of the familiar.
As I munch on my dinner, not heeding Pat’s warning of giving chicken to Winston and immediately regretting it, I watch as Ben fumbles his way through his romantic endeavours, clumsily falls in love, and finds someone who is willing to see past all his flaws and love him back. My dream.
Inspiring as it is, that would mean going on more dates, and I’m over it. After the fiasco the curse put me through last night, I’m done. Just me, my old dog, and cringey rom-coms for life.
I last exactly one month of loneliness before I cave and let Linda set me up on a date with the guy from her gym.
Pickleball Guy is far more into pickleball than she originally let on. I’d assumed he played to stay in shape and socialize, like most people do, but this guy’s so invested he believes pickleball should be an Olympic sport—and, if it were, he’d be on the team.
“...it’s all the best parts of tennis, badminton, and Ping-Pong all in one. Anyone can learn how to play it, which is how it gets you. It sucks you in. But it’s not played on a worldwide stage, which is why it should be in the Olympics, because then more people would take it seriously, like I do, and...”
I flag down the server and point at my empty drink, and they give me an understanding nod. I stopped paying attention to this guy about fifteen minutes ago. I don’t quite rememberhis name—started with anM, I’m pretty sure. Matt? Mike? Mitch...? It’s too late now to ask. I’ll wait for Linda to question me about our date on Monday. He seems kind, polite. Reasonably attractive, good teeth, hairline beginning to recede, decent build (thanks, pickleball). He’s not my type at all, but he does have a pulse and a penis. Two points for him.
“...my agility has improved so much, my reflexes are killer, and I’ve met some amazing people. Just last week I partnered with a guy who was in the armed forces, and he’s been all around the world, and he said pickleball’s kept him sharp as a tack well into his seventies...”
The server returns and replaces my club soda with a fresh glass. “Ready to order?” she asks.
I don’t think I can make it through a whole meal with this guy. Besides, the more time we spend together, the more at risk we are of succumbing to the powers of the curse. I give my head a shake, then offer her a polite smile. The server continues to her next table, and my eyes, in desperate need of something more stimulating than the man in front of me, scan absentmindedly to the other side of the room where I spot—
“Shit.” I twist in my chair so fast that the table rocks.
“You okay?” Pickleball Guy asks.
Shielding my face with my hand, I turn carefully back to make sure I saw who I think I saw. My eyes did not deceive me. Sitting just two tables away is Olsen’s sister. Lex is by herself, dressed in jeans and a loose grey shirt, with a thick book propped on the table in front of her. You’d have to be living under a rock to not instantly recognize theACOTARcover.
Of all the places Lex could be on a Friday night, she had to choosethisrestaurant. There’s no possible way that this is a coincidence. The curse has fully kicked in and is here to ruin my night and rob me of my chance for mediocre, disappointing sex.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, still shielding my face. “Was just thinking we could get out of here.”
“We haven’t even ordered dinner.”
“I know, but there’s someone over there I’d really rather avoid,” I try to explain without getting into too many details. I don’t want him to fear for his life, or the well-being of his genitals. I really should be getting guys to sign a waiver.
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Pickleball guy seems genuinely concerned.
“I was thinking... we go back to your place, order some takeout, and get more comfortable?” I try to make my voice seductive rather than panicked.
It works. Pickleball Guy’s countenance immediately shifts intosuavemode as he leans forward and gives me an exaggerated wink. “I can show you some footage from my last match while we... relax.”
Oh, god, no. I mean, yes?I force myself to smile. “Sounds great.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the bill,” he says, as if he’s doing me a huge favour by paying for my thrice-refilled club soda. Pickleball Guy reaches across the table, picks up my hand, and brings it to his lips for a kiss. I do my very best not to cringe at the verym’ladyshow of affection. If he had a fedora, he’d be tipping it.
As soon as he’s gone, I wipe the back of my hand on my pants. If I’m this turned off by him kissing my hand, then maybe I shouldn’t be having sex with him. Maybe once we’re paid and outside I’ll tell him that I need to go home to water the dog and walk my plants, and it was very nice to meet him, and—
I look toward Lex at exactly the wrong time and we lock eyes. Hers widen with immediate recognition and, dare I say, a hint of fear. Her steely blues are arresting in their intensity, sharp and focused and penetrating. With effort, I manage to ripmy gaze from hers and turn back in my seat, opting to pretend I never saw her at all, but in my haste I bump into the table and knock my freshly refilled soda over right into my lap. I gasp in shock at the cold, wet sensation. The glass rolls on the table toward the edge, but I manage to grab it before it falls and shatters on the ground.
My head whips to Lex, who saw the whole thing and is sitting there with her mouth slightly agape and eyes wide, then over to Pickleball Guy, who is at the host stand using the debit terminal as a paddle to demonstrate a proper swing to the poor server held captive trying to get a tip out of him. Then, finally, I look down at my lap, my white pants soaked through. I grab all the napkins on the table and try to sop it up. With only seconds left before Pickleball Guy returns, I rub vigorously at my damp crotch, hoping I can soak up enough liquid that my white pants won’t be completely see-through. Nobody needs to know that I’m wearing my lucky purple striped panties.
“Mommy, that lady is touching herself in her no-no place!” a little girl’s voice announces from the table beside me.
I turn to look, and the mother stops halfway through cutting up her child’s chicken tenders to cover her daughter’s eyes, mortified. I look down at my hands busy rubbing at my pants, to the distraught family confused by the attention I’m paying to my crotch, and back to Lex, who is frozen in place as she watches the curse in action.
“It’s not, I’m just, I—” I stutter, trying to explain what happened, when another server approaches.
