And I was. I was proving it right now, walking away, retreating to my apartment full of exes and chaos instead of standing my ground.
The bakery door opened and a woman walked out with a box of pastries, giving me a strange look. I probably looked insane—crying on the sidewalk first thing in the morning, phone buzzing like an angry hornet in my pocket, having a breakdown in front of the croissants.
I didn’t care.
Because something was shifting inside me. Something that had been stuck for five years was finally, painfully, starting to move.
No.
I turned around.
The walk back to the antique shop felt different. Shorter. More certain. My phone was still buzzing—7,156 matches, 7,201, 7,243—but I barely noticed. I was too busy figuring out what I was going to say.
Not excuses. Not explanations. Not “I’m sorry” or “can we talk” or any of the weak, hedging things I’d been saying for two days.
Something real. Something that proved I meant it.
The shop came into view. Still dark. Still closed. But I could see movement behind the blinds now—Marcus, pacing. Or maybe just my imagination, hoping he was as unsettled as I was.
I raised my hand to knock.
And then my phone screamed again.
Not buzzed. Screamed. The same digital shriek from the almost-kiss, except louder, more desperate, like the magic knew what I was about to do and was mounting one final assault.
The match count exploded—8,000, 9,000, 10,000—climbing faster than I’d ever seen it.
And then they started appearing.
Jimmy Kowalski materialized on the sidewalk beside me, still eighteen, still holding his corsage. “Diane! The universe says we’re meant to be!”
Greg popped into existence near the lamp post, leisure suit gleaming in the morning light. “The cosmic vibrations are OFF THE CHARTS, foxy lady!”
More of them. Appearing out of nowhere, surrounding me, blocking my path to the door. Ryan with his frosted tips. Derek with his red pen. The weekend fling from 2008. The coffee date from 2014. Faces I couldn’t even put names to anymore—every romantic possibility I’d ever entertained, summoned by a magic that was desperate to keep me from choosing.
“No,” I said. “Not now. Not TODAY?—”
“The universe brought us here,” Ryan insisted. “It’s fate!”
“It’s a MALFUNCTION?—”
The shop door flew open.
Marcus stood in the doorway, taking in the scene—me, surrounded by a small army of men from my romantic past, all of them clamoring for my attention. His expression cycled through confusion, recognition, and finally settled on something that looked a lot like despair.
“You came back,” he said flatly. “With an entourage.”
“I didn’t bring them. They just—the magic is?—”
“I know what it is.” His voice was tired. Defeated. “It’s you. Your magic. Doing what it always does.”
“Marcus, please?—”
“The universe wants her to choose!” Jimmy announced helpfully. “We’re all here so she can pick!”
“She’s not going to pick,” Marcus said, and the certainty in his voice was devastating. “She never picks. That’s the whole point.”
“That’s not?—”
