“Simple,” they say, tapping ash from their cigarette. Ash, which, in midair, turns to purple glitter, because of course it does. “Because you made a wish, and I felt like it.”
“Pretty sure I also wished for a better apartment and a cooler job.”
They flap a dismissive hand at me. “Apartments and jobs. Boring. You got a good wish. Why complain? You don’t look a horse mouth in the gift teeth, do you? I didn’t have to grantyourwish, after all.Icould have wished for your life to turn into a silent film, and then where would you be? Not blah-blah-blabbing in my ear, for one thing. Maybe I made a mistake.”
My retort dies in my throat. Best not to bite the hand that chucks enchanted purple glitter at you.
“I—” I attempt to shake my head clear. Inhale. Exhale. “Fine. But … what do I do now?”
They silence me with abap-bap-bap!and a raised finger. “Listen. I am the Gifter. I am not the Figure Outer. I am not the Wish Logistics Planner. You go, and you let your rom-com happen. Honestly, it does not take an all-knowing mystical being to figure that out, and yet here I am, doing all the work for you. Now—” They shoo me away with a flick of the hand and reach for the cowbell.
I reluctantly stumble away, somehow flooded with clarity and more confused than ever. My head swims, the impossible and the real and the ridiculous all smashing into each other.Somewhere in the mess is a prickle of irritation that the next Anna Matthews novel will be spoiled for me, because I will have lived it. And somewhere else is the nagging feeling that I should be asking more questions.
“Wait,” I call out, turning back.
But there’s no one there.
Then there’s a great snorting laugh from behind a nearby tree. The Gifter steps out, shoulders heaving, clutching the suitcase and cowbell.
“You should have seen your face! That trick never gets old. Anyway, yes. I do accept tips via Cash App.Ta-ta, darling.”
• • •
IT’S INCHING CLOSERto eight o’clock, my apartment measures approximately four hundred square piles of tried-and-rejected clothes, and I have become completely unhinged.
On my way back from meeting the Gifter this afternoon, in a dumbfounded haze, I texted Jack,I’ll be there.
Then I spent the rest of the work day Googlinghow to unsend text message.
All evening, I’ve been on a nauseating seesaw of decision-making, pacing around and muttering to myself.
I can’t go. This is stupid.
Ihaveto go. How many romance lovers would kill for an opportunity like this? I owe it to the genre. To the fans. To theworld.
I’ve tried on every article of clothing I own, defiantly changing back into sweatpants between each discarded outfit.
I’ve refreshed Anna Matthews’s Instagram feed so many times I think I might break it. There are no new updates, nothing beyond those sly emojis and that tauntingSTAY TUNED …
“I’M TUNED,” I vaguely remember yelling at my phone. “I COULD NOT BE MORE TUNED!”
What happens if I don’t go? Will Jack and I keep crossingpaths anyway? Will I ruin everything and incur the wrath of the Gifter and get turned into a chicken or something? Would life as a chicken really be so bad?
What if Idogo? How do I prepare for a date that’s fictional but also real? What do I wear? Should I dye my hair? Cut it, at least. A rom-com heroine always has a cute little haircut.
“AAAH!” I shout at myself in the bathroom mirror as a fresh surge of lucidity reveals that I’m half a millimeter from severing a dark, wavy lock from my head. I fling the scissors into the sink and splash cold water on my face. Then realize I already put on makeup and will now have to redo it.
Well, that’s it. I’m not going. I can’t be expected to put on makeup twice.
I slide down my bathroom wall in anguish, thinking,Wow, this is so dramatic—I reallyamthe main character.And it’s there on the tiled floor that I finally catch my breath and think things through.
As a rule, I do not let myself get this worked up over men. But I’ve seen it happen. I’ve let friends cry on my shoulder in college dorm bathrooms. I’ve tried to talk Steph off the post-breakup-bangs ledge twice, then had to lie and tell her theytotallywork with her face shape. And then there’s all of Mom’s romance advice—each piece a thinly veiled cautionary tale, likefind someone who actually buys you flowersorif you have second thoughts at your wedding, don’t think, just run.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about real-life love, it’s that it ends. Badly. Sure, I imagine it’s beautiful in its early days. But then what? It’s not just that you end up alone. I know alone; alone isn’t so bad. But once you add in the memory of what it was like to be in love in the first place, alone becomes lonely. Or, you end up stuck with someone who makes you feel lonely anyway, which might be even worse.
But this thing with Jack … Thiscan’tend that way. This hasan expiration date, a narrative arc with a promised conclusion. Suppose I went to meet Jack tonight, gave in and let the story unfold. All of those fictitious sweet nothings I’ve swooned over would happen to me. It would be romantic and perfectly predictable, and then it would be over with no harm done. Like a romance nicotine patch, or a thirty-day free trial that doesn’t require my credit card information.
I’d get to experience it all, just once, just to get it out of my system. Just to know what it’s like.
