Chapter Four
The cool morning fog—which often rolled in from the Pacific—blanketing Carmel-by-the-sea like a soft, grey shawl, was finally starting to lift, revealing patches of blue sky and the summer July sun.
Sydney hurried along the street, passing her favorite bookstore to her right, and the music shop just ahead of it. She nearly bumped into a young couple holding hands as she sidestepped a man bending down to pick up after his dog.
“Look where you’re going,” Sydney muttered under her breath, annoyed for no apparent reason. Except, maybe, that she was just a little jealous of how in love the two had looked. It looked like a gushy kind of love that oozed annoyingly from their pores.
There was a time, long ago, when Sydney had a rose-tinted view of love—intoxicating, all-consuming, with fluttery butterflies and rosy cheeks and touches that felt as hot as the sun and as smooth as liquid gold.
It had all come down to her parent’s overwhelming, and often nauseating, love for each other.
How could she not believe that love was given and not earned when she had watched her parents effortlessly fall into each other’s arms, dance in the kitchen, and giggle on the couch?
But as an adult, Sydney had proved to them, time and time again, that not everyone was that lucky.
Some people were just meant to be alone, to have bad taste in women, to mess up on the first date, even more so on the second and to spend a lifetime chasing the illusion of perfect love while tripping on every single hurdle along the way.
Whenever Sydney complained to them about it, or to her older brother Vince—a very logical marine biologist—they always said the same thing: “Everything happens for a reason, Syd.”
It sounded simple, right? Easy peasy.
Yet, Sydney didn’t believe them. Not really. Not until she had met Morgan at the gallery, and then again at the speed dating event, and once more just days ago when the woman’s kitchen had nearly completely burned down.
Those were signs, weren’t they? Big, obvious, in-your-face signs.
But then why did it seem like she was still stuck in the wrong story?
Why did Morgan look at her as if she were a brussel sprout on a dessert tray, something to be avoided?
Why hadn’t Sydney just asked her out on a date after the fire, like she had wanted to do, instead of falling into that same distant, stoic behavior akin to Morgan?
The answers were evading her like a pool in a desert, and it was fine. She had other things to occupy her mind. She needed to focus on her brother’s birthday party at the end of next month, which she had offered to organize, and the—
Her phone buzzed. Sydney slipped it out of her pocket and pressed it to her ear. “I’m literally two minutes from the coffee shop, Liv. Just order me—
“An Americano, hot milk. Got it.”
“And a—”
“A croissant. Got that too.”
Sydney smiled, slipped the cell phone back into her pocket, and was just about to reach for the coffee shop door handle when it suddenly flew open. A body slammed against hers, yanking all the breath from her lungs. She fell back onto the pavement, her ass taking the brunt of the impact.
“Damn!” she moaned, a sharp pain shooting up her back but not nearly as sharp as the sting of embarrassment, especially when she was sure that cutesy couple from before was standing just a few feet away, staring at her.
Sydney squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it was all a dream.
She was hoping that she wasn’t really sprawled out on the sidewalk, that whoever had walked through that door hadn’t really spilled what could only be an iced mocha—judging by the iciness on her chest and the sweet coffee smell—all over her black maxi dress.
But the trickle of wet running between her cleavage was enough to tell her that it had in fact happened.
Sydney braced for the worst. She glimpsed down at her dress, and then nearly cried when a familiar voice spoke right in front of her.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Morgan was standing just off the step to the coffee shop, a dark stain of coffee dripping all over her white blouse. She had a napkin in her left hand and was swiping vigorously at her blouse. She made zero effort to help Sydney off the sidewalk.
Their eyes met and Morgan grimaced. “This is getting out of hand,” she said, her lips turned down, her smooth porcelain forehead faintly lined. “This… this constant—”
“Bumping into each other,” Sydney finished, pushing herself up, not too bothered about the coffee stain on her dress or Morgan’s lack of concern. She was just relieved it was an iced coffee and not a smoldering Americano. “They really should put a glass window in that door.”
Morgan said nothing. She just curled those lovely lips into what was either a sneer or a poor attempt at amusement and patted her shirt dry. “This just isn’t my day,” she mumbled, soft enough that Sydney had a feeling she was talking to herself.
“Can I buy you another coffee?” Sydney offered, though technically she didn’t even owe her one.
It wasn’t her fault. It was neither of their fault.
Sydney had told the owner, Petra, a million times already that she needed to put a glass window in the door.
Without one, people kept bumping into each other because they couldn’t see if someone was coming through.
“I have to go,” said Morgan, getting ready to walk away. But before she could, Sydney did something unexpected, something not intended. She stepped in front of her and asked the one question that had been on her mind for days. “Why were you at the speed dating thing?”
Morgan looked surprised by the question. Heck, Sydney was too. Out of all the things she could’ve asked, she settled on that one.
“My friend forced me,” said Morgan. “It was either a speed date or a blind date.”
“Interesting.” Sydney smiled, amused, more so because she had managed to chip off a bit of Morgan’s icy mask. “And what exactly was the reason behind your choice?”
“The time. I figured five minutes talking to someone seemed less of a hassle.”
“But you had to do that like twenty times.”
She nodded as if that fact pained her. “In hindsight, clearly it wasn’t the smartest decision.”
Sydney chuckled. “Was it the friend who nearly burned your house down that forced you to the speed dating thing?”
“Yes,” said Morgan, a faint furrow growing on her forehead. “How do you know she caused the fire?”
“She told me that she was the one who left the stove on,” Sydney said, remembering the sweet-looking woman who had rushed up to her after the fire. “She said that you would never do such a thing, that you’re probably the most responsible person she knows.”
The woman had also mentioned that Morgan was a neurosurgeon, as if that explained everything.
But in a way, it probably did. Everything about Morgan screamed unflappable, calm under pressure, controlled, possibly bordering on egotistical.
Except her ego looked torn apart, like she was tormented by something.
“Shit… I have to go,” Morgan said, her voice clipped. She covered her face with that cold, distant mask again. “I’m running late.”
And leave, she did. Morgan spun around and left without even a goodbye.
Sydney watched her go, waiting until her curls disappeared as she rounded the corner. Just then, a black cat strolled out from behind a nearby bush, its tail flipping left to right.
Sydney’s legs turned to jelly, her body reacting the same way it would if she spotted a bear in Big Sur. Black cats were bad omens, as too were cracks in the sidewalk. She turned her gaze down to her feet and gasped. Her sneakered foot was standing right on top of a crack.
“Damn you, Madison Hall,” she seethed.
With her fists clenched, Sydney headed into the coffee shop, pushed open the door—thankfully no one was walking out—and marched across the room, weaving between wooden tables and chairs, to the cozy corner where Liv was sitting.
“Finally,” said Liv when Sydney flopped unceremoniously down on the couch beside her. She was reading one of the art décor books that sat permanently on the coffee table. Placing the book back on the table, she angled her body to face Sydney. “What’s going on with you?”
“Black cat,” Sydney replied, grabbing the cup of coffee off the wooden table. She took a sip and flinched at the lukewarm temperature.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“Cracked pavement.”
Liv frowned, placed the back of her hand against Sydney’s forehead, and shook her head. “You’re not burning up.”
“I don’t have a fever,” said Sydney, pushing her friend’s hand away.
“I saw a black cat and stepped on a crack in the pavement.” She didn’t even bother mentioning bumping into Morgan.
And Liv, who couldn’t see the remnants of coffee on Sydney’s black maxi dress, didn’t ask why she was an extra five minutes late.
“Oh.” Liv’s mouth dropped into a perfect ‘O’. “We’re back at the curse thing. How many times do I have to tell you there’s no such thing as bad omens and curses and bad luck? You are what you make of it, Sydney. Your life is in your hands, not some mystical force.”
Sydney huffed. “Well, then explain why I can’t seem to keep a relationship going for longer than the life expectancy of a goldfish.”
“That’s just your personality,” Liv teased.
“Not a curse made by some silly teenager fourteen years ago.” She laughed when Sydney scrunched up her face like she had smelled blue cheese.
“I’m just kidding. I think you’ve got a swimming personality,” Liv said, pulling her into a bear hug.
She kissed her on the cheek, the temple, the neck and when she let her go, she added, “I don’t think there’s anyone as nice as you out there. ”
“You flatter me,” Sydney said when her friend finally let her go.
“I try.” Liv chuckled. “Now, why don’t you just forget about this silly curse? Or if it’s going to give you peace of mind, phone the witch and tell her to lift it.”
“I’ve already tried,” Sydney replied, remembering how she had tracked Madison Hall down on LinkedIn, Instagram, and Facebook. “She moved to the Cayman Islands and married some accountant there. She’s thriving. I’m not. All because of that stupid curse.”
“It’s not the curse, love. It’s you. You keep dating the wrong women.
The ‘I-don’t-know-I’m-actually gay’ girls who basically just graduated college with no idea what they want in their life.
You are your own problem. You need to date older, someone who is ready to settle down and be in a serious relationship. ”
Sydney hated it when Liv was right, especially since she always made it very clear when she was. Like now. Even that pointed ‘I-am-right pout’ on her face made Sydney sigh out loud.
“Morgan isn’t too young,” she mumbled to herself, remembering that coffee stain on the woman’s white blouse, and how it flattened the fabric against her breasts. Damn, she had great breasts.
“Are you talking about the woman from the gallery? The same one whose house we saved from that kitchen fire and who’s barely given you the time of day?”
“That’s the one.”
Liv laughed out loud, even banging a fist against her knee. “Oh, love, you should probably forget all about her. She’s way out of your league.”
Sydney turned to her friend, her mouth gaping like she couldn’t believe the audacity. Usually, when Liv commented on her fling choices, she mentioned how they weren’t close to good enough for her. This was a sickening twist in events. “What the hell does that mean?”
Realizing she had said the wrong thing, Liv’s brown eyes stretched wide. “I didn’t mean it in the way you think, Syd. You’re fucking hot. I mean it. Like if I was into women, I’d want to bang you.”
“You’re not helping.”
Actually, Liv was making things way worse somehow.
“What I’m trying to say is…” Liv leaned over and patted Sydney’s knee. “… she’s clearly older than you, clearly in a different phase of her life. Maybe the reason she’s being so standoffish with you is because you don’t fit into that picture.”
Not possible. Sydney saw herself as a skeleton key. She fit in every lock and opened every door. Why not open one of Morgan’s doors?
The waiter placed a plate with two croissants on the table. Sydney reached for one and ate it in a few quick bites, barely even tasting the decadent buttery flakes.
“How about another speed dating session?” Liv said, picking the art book back up and flipping through the pages. “We can always give it another go. Or you can call that Maya girl back. She was nice, wasn’t she?”
She was lovely. But Sydney hadn’t been able to get Morgan out of her head ever since that night at the gallery. Her face had taken up permanent residency in her brain, her touch like a permanent marker on her skin.
“Or maybe I just have to try harder.”
Liv narrowed her eyes. “Oh boy. This isn’t going to be a repeat of that time when you swore you were in love with that blonde named Stacy and ended up getting your heart broken?”
The question was as complicated as solving string theory. There might not even be an answer. So, Sydney didn’t bother herself with answering it and instead flicked a wrist toward the waiter. “Two croissants, please.”
“More?”
“If we’re going to spend the afternoon wine tasting, then we better line our stomachs.”