There’s a long pause, then a muted scuffle.
“She had to attend to a customer,” Chantel says. “But yes, that’s what she’s saying.” That final sentence is coated in stifled laughter as if Chantel is enjoying this as much as I am.
“That’s what I like to hear,” I say. “I can start right away.” I set the phone down. “Andthat’show it’s done, boys.” I shoot Beau a look, itching to get under his skin once more. “Tell Maggie not to fall too hard for me,” I say, rolling my shoulders back and puffing my chest. “My brother tells me she’s off limits.”
6
Maggie
Dart Number One: Cupid’s Clash
Anger and passion, baby—you can’t have one without the other.
I scarf down chapter one like it’s the first meal I’ve had in years. And then I devour it again while hovering over a steaming bowl of leftover pho.
Lovely dips into the topic playfully at first, mentioning memorable scenes from literature and cinema alike. Next, she goes deeper, quoting brilliant scholars like Harriet Lerner, who wrote TheDance of Angerbecause,apparently, there is one. Lovely speaks of the way we rise to it, fall from it, and even become addicted to it. She sneakily points out that our mishandling of this emotion might just be the downfall of our prior relationships.But who’s interested in the past?I think,just tell me how this helps me find Mr. Right.
I decide not to read the author’s personal inscription until I’m done reading the book in its entirety—a delectable treat after a satisfying meal.
Cupid’s clash, huh?A minor quarrel might be all it takes to spark something.
I fall asleep with those thoughts imprinting on my brain.
The next morning, I hit the grocery store, somehow knowing that Cupid is ready to strike. I’ve opened the door. I’m letting him in. And since I know my track record, I need him to come quick, before I swing back to my state of aversion.
That very thought runs through my head as I spot a seriously attractive man pushing a cart filled with fresh seafood and classy produce items like butternut squash and red peppers. We pass each other mid-way down the coffee aisle when a sudden urge strikes. Call it intuition or perhaps food poisoning from the leftover pho, but soon, I’m giving in to the impulse.
I rush down the remainder of the coffee aisle, circle around to race halfway up the cereal aisle, then frantically spin the cart in place and hurry back toward aisle five at lightning speed.
I fly past instant oatmeal, countless cereal brands in boxes and bags, and a jar of Merlyn’s Marmalade, which nearly derails my flight—I thought they stopped making that. All the while, I imagine cutely bumping intoClassy Produce Guy’s cart.I’m on an unspoken, irrational mission, and not even Merlyn’s Marmalade can stop me.
I take the corner to re-enter the coffee aisle like a stuntwoman on steroids, yet before I can orchestrate a cute, bumper-car style bonk, I crash into my suspect’s cart hard enough to make the handlebar reverberate against my palms.
The crab legs in his cart leap into the air, performing a pirouette over the butternut squash.
The red peppers tumble, whirl, and fling right out of the produce bag. The blushing veggies barrel into a small, white box in the corner of his cart.
I stare at the disrupted sight for a blink, eyeing the crab legs which, from this angle, seem to be taking a bow. I glance back to the disheveled peppers and the box they’re nudged against. Two words stand out in turd-brown text:Stool Softener.
I glance back up at him, somehow feeling as if the Hallmark moment has been tainted by the stool softener but hoping it’s just something we’ll joke about later instead.Remember when we first met…
He meets my gaze at last, and my hope for the meet cute withers and turns to ash.
His brow furrows, which hardens the rather bloodshot eyes beneath. I can’t help but wonder if he spent an unproductive night on the toilet, longing for the stool softeners now resting in his cart.
There are no clever words coming to mind at this moment. No ‘watch where you’re going’ dialogue or snarky quip from Mr. Red Eyes. He simply gives me a leery nod, venturing cautiously past me, and heads toward the cereal aisle.
“Sorry,” I manage after he passes.
At the gym, I spy Gorgeous Goatee Guy, AKA Triple G, pacing beside the rowing machine. I’ve noticed him here before—who hasn’t?—but I’ve never dared strike up a conversation. I’ve also failed to gain his attention by working out nearby. The Spin Twins, a couple of spin class diehards in neon leotards, have hit on him before, offering to buy him a smoothie at the juice bar down the street. He declined, but a nearby man in questionably thin spandex offered to join them.
Yet today, as I watch Triple G side-eye the equipment, obviously waiting for the old man—who’s in a cheetah print leotard today—to finish wiping down the seat, I get an idea. Yes, I get a marvelous, dangerous, dreadful idea.
Before I think better of it, I am dashing across the gym.
I breeze past the stair stepper, the tummy tucker, and the spazzyspin twinsas they wait to fill up their water bottles at the fountain. Cheetah-print is lazily waving a wet wipe over the grip bars. Triple G steps closer, but I move in faster, flying like a nimble nymph with my eyes set on the prize. I slide into place like it’s a home run in the final inning. It’s actually not as graceful as a slide. It’s more of a clunk that knocks the actual wind out of me.
The intimidatingly handsome man looks at me, stunned. And then his expression falls flatter than pancakes. I sense that there’s something on the tip of his tongue. Three simple words I can practically hear already—are you serious?
