chapter twenty-five Bigger Tits Would Have Been Nice
chapter twenty-five
Bigger Tits Would Have Been Nice
I stare at a blank Word document. The curser blinks, mocking me. Fuck this blinking curser. It can go to the final depths
of hell reserved only for people who don’t pick up their dog’s poop on walking paths . . . and for people who steal ideas
from their co-workers.
Despite all the drama going on in my life, and the way I’ve single-handedly imploded it, I have no choice but to try to salvage
what little I have left: my career.
My phone dings with a message and I’m relieved to have a break from staring at my computer screen. However, the name I was
hoping to pop up isn’t there. Instead, the name I see fills me with dread. Olsen.
I don’t even need to read it to know what it’s going to say.
I told him I’d call him and he hasn’t heard from me, so naturally he’ll be asking if I’m okay.
The Perfect Guy strikes again. How is it possible that I’ve found myself in a place in my life where the type of guy I’d always hoped and dreamt for is practically begging me to be with him, and yet I want nothing to do with him?
Picking up my phone, I swipe Olsen’s message away without reading it and navigate to my text history with Lex.
Lex hasn’t said anything since our argument yesterday. I scroll back in time through our messages, to a few days ago when
everything was amazing and I had the best friend in the entire world, who also happened to be my lover. I couldn’t have dreamt
of something so wonderful.
I thought what we had only existed in the movies: someone who would drop everything to be there for you, who was quick to
compliment and careful to correct, who appreciated all your quirks and idiosyncrasies instead of passing judgment on them.
In real life people are too wrapped up in their own worlds to truly be there for someone else. But Lex was. Lex showed me
what it meant to be a friend, and to be a lover. And now she’s gone. I’ll never recover from the comedown of such an intense
high.
Damn me for trying to fix the curse. I’ve been saddled with it for a reason.
I toss my phone, letting it skip across my countertop, turning my attention back to that damn blinking curser and tauntingly
empty blank page. But it’s no use. There’s no way I can actually follow through on the idea I’d stolen from Jasleen. My terrible
decisions aren’t just affecting me, or Lex, or Olsen, but my work and all the kids who’d benefit from funding on a project
like this.
At least I’m working from home so I can stew in my mediocrity without Jasleen witnessing it—until tomorrow, which is when
this project is due, which is also the day of Gabe’s play, which is when I told Lex I’d be there for her, while Olsen is also
hoping I’d be there for him, and their parents will be there, who are excited to meet Olsen’s new girlfriend . . .
Fuck.
I slam my laptop shut and glance around my too-quiet home. Everything seems emptier, though nothing’s changed. It’s like someone
came along and snatched the little sunshine that’s usually streaming through my tiny basement windows.
I need air. Or a hug. Maybe a margarita.
Waking Winston from his fourth nap of the morning, I attach his leash and follow him out the door. I’m far too miserable to
give a shit about the nice day, or how it’s the perfect balance of sun and cloud, or how lucky I am to be outside right now
rather than cooped up in a little office. How dare this day be all beautiful when I can’t even appreciate it.
If only I could go back in time. Back to before I stole this idea from Jasleen. Before I had that confusing conversation with
Olsen. Back to when everything between Lex and me was perfect. Back to when I thought we actually had fixed the curse.
I suppose if I was going back in time I’d just go way, way back to high school and stop the whole curse thing from happening
in the first place. I’d take that witchcraft book and throw it out the window. I can visualize it perfectly: sitting cross-legged
on the floor surrounded by candles and chips and Cosmo magazines, tarot cards and a Ouija board set aside, the witchcraft book with the dark purple cover and gold filigreed words
sprawled across it, cobbling together different spells to create the curse, and—
Wait.
I stop in my tracks, yanking Winston on his leash.
If a spell got me into this mess . . . then maybe one can get me out of it. Perhaps there’s a reversal potion or “fix my fucked-up
life” tincture I could make. I jog back, reinvigorated with the first hint of an idea to right all the wrongs in my life.
The moment I get home I wrench my laptop open, minimizing the evil blank page and its spiteful blinking curser, and open a search for the library.
I can visualize the colour and the texture of the book, but the title is evading me.
After scrolling through a few searches for “witchcraft,” “spell book,” and “curses,” and coming up empty, I dial the number for the library. A kind voice answers the phone.
“Hi! Sorry, I know this is a long shot, but I’m hoping you can help me.” I describe the book to the librarian on the other
end, who listens patiently.
“Hmm.” They consider my long-winded babbling depiction of the book I vaguely remember from my childhood. “I think you mean
Wicca for Novice Witches.”
I Google the name of the book, and the familiar cover pops up. “That’s it!”
“We have a copy here at our downtown location. Want me to place it on hold for you, dear?”
“Yes!” I all but scream into the receiver. I say goodbye quickly before grabbing my purse, shoving my laptop inside, and launching
myself out the door. I drop Winston off with Pat before running to the station.
Tiny bubbles of hope rise in my chest as I take the SkyTrain downtown. The answer to all my problems could be within those
pages. Then I can fix this entire mess and get back to being happy! Once I get rid of the curse for good I’ll go talk to Lex.
Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe we can go back to the way things were before the curse ruined everything.
After arriving at my stop, I walk the few blocks to the library and am greeted by a person with short blue hair wearing dangly rainbow earrings and a pin with their name and pronouns on their lapel.
The librarian, Petra, produces the book I’d placed on hold, and my body runs cold.
It’s the exact same one from that night—though, as an adult and in broad daylight, it definitely seems like a silly gag gift you’d get at one of those touristy occult stores and not a serious witchcraft book that could alter the fabric of reality.
I take it tentatively. It’s not nearly as heavy as I remember, and though the cover gives the illusion of texture it’s merely a cleverly designed image.
I’d assumed that by holding it I’d feel some sort of immense power—tingling in my extremities, a zap of electricity—but nothing.
It seems to be an ordinary book. But I know better.
Taking the tome to one of the tables, I plunk myself down and flip it open to the index, looking for keywords like cure and fix and mend. Just when I’m beginning to lose hope, I find one that might work near the back.
I tap my finger against my lips as I read through the description. “‘Absorb this harm . . . carry away . . . ?’ Okay, this
might work. What do I need, eye of newt or something? What even is eye of . . . oh no.”
This is so much worse than eye of newt. Hell, I’d take the toenail clippings of my mortal enemy as an ingredient rather than
what this spell actually needs.
Wronged parties must be present . . . If any members of the cursed party have passed, the spell must be spoken upon their
grave.
“Well, I’m pretty sure she’s alive, so it won’t be that easy.”
The idea of contacting any of the girls from my past makes me want to hurl—but Courtney most of all. Not after what happened,
all the things I’d done, the things I’d said. I haven’t spoken to her, or anyone else, since high school—deleting my social
media and moving away made sure of that.
But running from my past has got me here, on the verge of losing everything I care about. Maybe it’s time to stop running.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m flipping my laptop open, navigating to Facebook, and reactivating my old account.
Hundreds of ancient notifications and messages pop up. As I’d feared, several of them are teasing about the Queef Queen incident.
But, to my surprise, several are concerned messages asking if I’m okay, if I need to talk, where I’ve gone.
Huh.
I give my head a shake. Something to think about later. After minimizing all of them I navigate to the Friends tab and scroll
down to the C’s, searching for a face I recognize. But she’s not there.
Did Courtney delete me from Facebook? I wouldn’t be surprised. I search her name, but it’s not there, either. Maybe she deleted
Facebook, too. Or she changed her name. Maybe she’s married. I scan through a list of mutual friends, and after several minutes
I find someone with the same first name but a different last name. I click on the image, but she’s doing a headstand on a
beach somewhere tropical and I can’t be sure if it’s her; the account is set to private. After a few more minutes of searching
I go back to that account and mull it over. It could be her . . . but what if it’s not? Then I suppose I’ll be messaging nonsense
to a stranger. No harm, no foul. What if it is her?
Now that I’m here, faced with the bright blue Message button, the thought of actually talking to Courtney makes me want to
curl into the fetal position right on the floor of this library.
I’ve lived with the curse this long; is it really that bad? I can die alone, right? It happens all the time! Just me and my
geriatric dogs watching old Ben Stiller rom-coms until my eventual demise . . . that’s not a bad life, right?
I’d felt that way once. But now I know how different life can be.
Now I know what it’s like to have Lex in my life.
She’s the friend I didn’t know I could have, the friend I didn’t deserve.
She’s the unexpected love I’d found when I’d long since given up.
I love the way her piercing blue eyes bore right down into my soul.
I love how rewarding her dimples are when she smiles.
I love how factual she is while still seeing beauty in the little things.
I love how warm her hand is when she holds mine, how comforting her presence is when we wrap up with one another on the couch, how safe I feel when she makes love to my body, how much I relish cherishing hers, how we’ve only just begun and we have so much ahead of us . . .
If there is even a chance that facing my past means I get a future with Lex, then it will have been worth it. She’s worth
fighting for.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I add Courtney as a friend, type out a message, and press Send.
I rest my elbows on the table and steeple my fingers, staring down at my laptop. Seconds pass. Minutes. Nothing happens.
Of course nothing is going to happen. It probably isn’t her, and even if it is, she would probably see my friend request,
snort derisively, and swipe it away. I wouldn’t blame her. She has every reason to want no part of me in her life.
Just like Lex.
Slamming my laptop shut, I lay my forehead down on the pages of the book that held my last hope for a life full of love and
light and happiness. Hopelessness washes over me as any possibility for the type of future I’d thought I might have slips
away. My eyes well with tears, but I don’t fight them, letting them slip down my cheeks and blot the pages of the book that
cursed me with the future I deserve.