The most promising of my dates was the Navy SEAL from Norfork. He was perfect, minus the fact that he was leaving for an extended operation in Japan the very next day.
I sigh, feeling the energy draining from my limbs.
No, Maggie,I tell myself.I refuse to get down. I’m determined to remain hopeful, figure out this game called love, and find what I’m looking for. He’s out there, and I’m pretty sure he still has most of his teeth.
Since Valentine’s Day is a mere fifty days away, I figure it’s the perfect season to get serious. It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m about to turn the big three-oh or the fact that all my high school friends got married years ago and have officially traded their handbags for diaper bags.
None whatsoever.
There is no clock ticking.
There is no inner voice yelling that if I don’t get serious, I could be alone for the rest of my natural-born life.
“Okay,” the class instructor yells over the music, “let’s hit the slopes. Double skis, bend at the knees, elbows back with each twist on the tramp. You’ve got it!”
I do my best ski moves, tightening my core, my fists, and my resolve to be in the best shape possible—physicallyandmentally—for finding true and lasting love.
When the class is over, I thank the instructor, who’s been dubbedJessica Rabbitby the forty-something singles in town. I met her when the Coffee Loft hosted the meetup in our new train car addition—big success, by the way. Jessica is gorgeous, ambitious, and intelligent too. And though she leaves a failed marriage in her wake, she’s happy.
We chat briefly after the class. I ask how sales are going—great, and she asks if we still have the Mistletoe Mocha even though Christmas is over—we do.
“In fact,” I say, “we keep that one through January third.”
“Nice,” Jessica says. “See ya later.”
On the drive home, puffy snowflakes whirl and drift to the slushy ground. I enjoy the sight while it lasts; here, snow rarely accumulates into something one could scoop up and make a snowball out of. In fact, as soon as the sun peeks past the clouds, those feather-light flakes will melt or vaporize or whatever happens to the poor dears.
I sigh, sensing a familiar sadness looming inside my chest. As a child, I referred to that hollowness as myheart hole. To this day, it’s the best way I can explain it. The sensation that there’s a vacuum-powered pit in the center of myheart, ready to swallow my dreams before they can materialize.
It doesn’t take long to figure out why the hole is attempting to tear open once more. It has something to do with the singles event I hosted. I met a ton of local singles in their forties; some never married, most divorced, and all looking for love. Sadly, my sister, Kirsten, was among them as the group’s newest divorcée.
Our mother always said she was glad Greg and Kirsten provided a healthy example of what love looked like since she and my father had“failed miserably.”I didn’t argue that point.
Kirsten and Greg had it all. I never guessed Greg would ruin everything by cheating on my sister, who, by the way, is one of the best and most beautiful humans alive.
Greg betrayed my two favorite people in the world—my sister and my nephew. He betrayed everyone who loved and trusted him. I’d been counting on them to beat the odds. To be the ones who stayed together, remained faithful, and proved that love could actually last.
But,I remind myself, because thereisa but—my sister is seeing someone new—a hunk of a man named Beau Wheaton. That fact alone is enough to put a plug in that nagging heart hole of mine.
I’m quick to shower, get dressed, and head to the Coffee Loft. My top shift-lead, Chantel, also part of the forty-something singles, opened this morning. She’ll run things while I attend a few business meetings at the shop.
My phone buzzes through my car speaker, and I tap the dash screen to take the call.
“Good morning, Magpie,” my sister Kirsten cheers over the line. “Are you ready to meet with the one and only Clarissa Lovely?”
I grin. “You know it.” Clarissa Lovely is a well-known love guru/author from New Jersey. In true Jersey fashion, Lovely gets straight to the point with her self-help relationship booksYou Are the ProblemandStop Being so Dumb,claiming, if you can’t tell by the titles, that we often self-sabotage in our pursuit of love.
With her newest release, Lovely goes one step further by exploring the four unsuspecting keys—or what she calls Cupid darts—known to spark true and lasting love.
“Who knew owning a Coffee Loft of your own would give you this type of perk?” Kirsten continues. “It’s incredible. Not only do you get to host her book signing in your shop, but you also get to sit down with the love legend herself and sip on lattes. Ah…” She sighs dreamily.
“True,” I say, though my sister’s excitement arouses a bout of nerves.
“Face it. Your life is glamorous,” Kirsten says. “Do you think she’s going to give you a signed copy of her book?”
I shrug. “Some do. If she doesn’t, I’ll buy one and ask her to sign it.” My mind shifts to the text Chantel sent. “You should come see the book banner,” I say. “Jeb Nobly helped Chantel hang it this morning. It’sgorgeous!”
“Jeb—on a ladder? I thought he said the train car refurb was his last project. He’s hanging up the hammer, isn’t he?”
