CHAPTER ONETHE VELVET FORTUNE COOKIE
My name is Sana Merali, and I am a self-identifying, card-carrying, cheese-loving,hopelessromantic.
I’m actually quitehopelesslyhopeless. There’s nothing in the world I love more than love. Reading about love. Talking about love. Seeing people in love. I even love helping peoplefallin love. I’m a total romance girlie, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
It’s inevitable that I would turn out this way because Iliterallylive on Love Street, a quiet side street in east Toronto. I technically didn’t grow up here—Mom bought Morgan Ashton Flowers and the apartment over it after my parents divorced when I was nine—but I spent my formative years on Love Street.
And I’ve been a superfan of everything love and romance since I first set up my bedroom. I painted the walls pink and covered them with hand-painted hearts and rainbows. I threw out my chapter books and switched to YA romance. I plastered my walls with pictures of couples from my favorite movies and TV shows. To this day I have a two-book-a-week romance novel habit, and I watch holiday rom-coms year-round.Seriously. I freakingadorelove.
And that’s why I was happier than a raccoon on trashday when Priya, my ex-girlfriend, told me today that she couldn’t go to prom with me anymore because she’d fallen in love.
“She’s so smitten!” I tell my friend Cara. We’re at Cosmic Vintage, the store where Cara and I work part-time. This job is perfect for me because not only do I almost exclusively wear vintage, but it’s also on Love Street, right across from Mom’s flower shop. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but Priya and Amber aremadefor each other. Somehow they hadn’t even met until I introduced them last week!”
“You introduced them?” Cara asked. “That’s odd. She’s literally your ex. Now you don’t have a prom date.”
Cara is standing behind the counter with me, helping me sort through donations for Cosmic Vintage’s annual prom drive. The store partners with a local youth drop-in center to donate prom clothes to kids who need them. It’s my favorite thing to do at the store because going through other people’s prom memories feels like getting a peek into their happiness. Cara pulls a pale blue off-the-shoulder tulle gown out of a garment bag. It looks a lot like my prom dress, except mine is dusty rose.
I run my hand over the cloud-like fabric. “Prom is weeks away. That’splentyof time for me to find a new prom date.”
Cara wrinkles her nose. “I still think it’s bad planning to set up yourprom datewith someone else. Even if you two are only friends now.”
I shrug. Priya and I broke up four weeks ago, after being together for four months. I liked Priya a lot, but I was definitely putting more energy into the relationship thanshe was. I even staged the most epic,romantic, perfectly executed promposal our school had ever seen, complete with a dancing flash mob, a chocolate heart with her name in flowery script, and roses from my mom’s shop. Priya was delighted with the spectacle and, of course, agreed to be my prom date.
After the promposal, I scoured every vintage and thrift store in the city to get coordinated dresses in the same dusty-rose shade that flattered both our brown skin tones. I did so much work, but I think I always knew that I deservedmoreout of the relationship. More heartflutters, more can’t-get-enough-of-each-others, and more this-could-be-forevers. And there was no way I would meet myactualperfect person while dating Priya. We still agreed to go to prom together with our matching dresses after I broke up with her though, because we’re friends. Even in my wildest dreams I wouldn’t have imagined that Priya would fall headfirst in love with Amber Reynolds only a week after I introduced them. I’m genuinely delighted for them both.
The fact that I don’t have a prom date now isn’t a problem. It’s anopportunity.
I smile as I inspect a deep red dress with rhinestones on the straps. “Oh, this is pretty! Whoever wore it must have lookedstunningat their prom.” The dress smells a bit like mothballs, but it’s nothing an airing out can’t fix. I hang it on a rack. “Anyway, I can’t be mad at Priya. Amber’s a catch. It’s funny, though. I’ve actually been ditched for Amber before. In grade ten Dawson Claymore dumped me for her because she had better boobs than me.”
Cara snorts. “Did he actually say that to your face?”Cara pulls out another dress, a long navy one with a slit up one side. She checks it for stains or tears.
I nod. “Yep. And honestly, theyarebetter. So how do I find a new date? I asked some friends at school, but everyone’s already paired up. Should I try apps?”
“Why do you even need a date? Go solo!”
“Because this is prom, Cara! I don’t want my prom memory to bealone. You remember who you went with, right?”
I only ask that because I already know the answer. Cara will never forget her prom date, and the dreamy look she gets whenever she thinks about her on-again, off-again girlfriend isadorable. I turn to look at her and yep, there it is. “Of course. I went withHannah.”
Cara is also a hopeless romantic, but she’d never admit it. All her romantic energy is funneled to one person: Hannah Weatherspoon. They started dating in high school, but Hannah went to university in Massachusetts on a hockey scholarship while Cara stayed here in Toronto to study physical therapy at the University of Toronto. Cara and Hannah have broken up a few times, but they always get back together. I’ve never met Hannah, but I know Cara has it bad for her.
“You just wait,” I say. “I’m going to find someone like Hannah to go with. Or…” Hockey players aren’t really my type. “Or someone as unforgettable tomeas Hannah is to you!”
Cara shakes her head. “Careful, Sana. I’m worried you’d settle for just about anyone right now to get your cutesy,couple goalsrelationship.” Cara reaches into the garment bag that had the navy dress in it and takes out a navyfloral fascinator. “Wow. Do you think someone really wore this to their prom?” She clips the fascinator to her black hair and bats her eyelashes at me. With her tidy pixie haircut and smoky eye makeup, she looks like a 1920s femme fatale.
I laugh. “You look hot. And I’m not going to settle. I can’t end up with a prom story as bad as my mother’s.” Cara raises a questioning brow as she takes off the fascinator. “My mother’s prom date was a twenty-two-year-old she met at a coffee shop,” I explain. “She only went out with him because she liked his dog.”
Cara laughs. “Your mom has thebeststories. Seriously, she’s epic. She should write a book.”
Yeah, Mom is epic. Epically bad at modeling healthy, loving relationships for her only child. Which is why I want theoppositeof what Mom wanted.
“How do I manifest a meet-cute? I saw on TikTok that burning bay leaves can help you meet a new love.” I’m pretty sure Mom has dried bay in the apartment.
Cara rolls her eyes. “Sana, you’re not in a romance novel. Real relationships don’t start with cinematic meet-cutes.” Cara wheels over another rack stuffed with more donated prom clothes, her chunky black boots reverberating on the old wood floor. Cara mostly wears vintage too—she’s wearing a nineties rayon floral dress today.
“Relationships have to start somewhere. Why can’t they start with a meet-cute?” I grab a garment bag from the rack. “I don’t even remember how Priya and I first met.”
Despite having a decent number of exes, I’ve never had a meet-cute worthy of the books and movies I inhale. I’ve had a fewalmostmeet-cutes. I was once rescued by a veryfit lifeguard when the cheap plastic oar on my inflatable boat snapped in half at Woodbine Beach. He had gleaming brown skin and white teeth. Plus, perfect abs. When we locked eyes after he dragged me and my sad little boat to shore, I was positive our story would end with a barefoot sunset walk with an alt-folk song playing in the background. But I never saw him again.
