Meet Me on Love Street

Chapter One The Velvet Fortune Cookie

My name is Sana Merali, and I am a self-identifying, card-carrying, cheese-loving, hopeless romantic.

I’m actually quite hopelessly hopeless. 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 people fall in 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 I literally live 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 freaking adore love.

And that’s why I was happier than a raccoon on trash day 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 are made for 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’s plenty of time for me to find a new prom date.”

Cara wrinkles her nose. “I still think it’s bad planning to set up your prom date with 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 than she 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 deserved more out 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 my actual perfect 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 an opportunity .

I smile as I inspect a deep red dress with rhinestones on the straps.

“Oh, this is pretty! Whoever wore it must have looked stunning at 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, they are better. 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 be alone . 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 is adorable . I turn to look at her and yep, there it is. “Of course. I went with Hannah .”

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 to me as 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 goals relationship.

” Cara reaches into the garment bag that had the navy dress in it and takes out a navy floral 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 the best stories. 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 the opposite of 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 few almost meet-cutes. I was once rescued by a very fit 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.

Then there was the time I was grabbing the last custard pineapple bun from the tray at my favorite bakery on Spadina, and my metal tongs hit the tongs of a cute girl wearing cat ear headphones and an anime T-shirt.

We smiled at each other and even ended up sharing the bun.

We talked about music and our favorite animes, and we exchanged Instagram handles, but other than the odd heart on one of the pics on my grid, I never heard from her again.

“I live on Love Street,” I say. “How cool would it be if I met someone here?” I unzip the bag and am met with lush red fabric. “Ooooh, a jacket. Yay!” We tend to get a ton of donated gowns for the prom drive, but very little for those who want to dress in masculine clothes.

Cara’s eyebrows go up. “Wow, that’s a unique one. Is it velvet?”

I nod as I run my hand over the soft lapel. It’s a slim-cut jacket that could be worn by any gender, in a shiny, deep red velvet. “It’s gorgeous . It looks like a red rose. This person has taste .”

“Yeah, exactly your taste,” Cara says. “I’ll make a time machine so you can ask them to your prom.”

I laugh, but she’s right. The deep red is the same shade as the corduroy skirt I’m wearing right now.

I sniff the jacket and inspect it for damage.

It’s in great condition—it won’t need dry cleaning or repairs before we donate it to the youth center.

I check the pockets and dump the contents onto the counter.

A tube of generic lip balm, a little tin of hair wax, a wrapped condom, and a tiny slip of white paper.