Just My Luck
Chapter 1
Call me unorthodox, but I think I’ve fallen in love with a brick wall. I’m not even mad about it, because I know my followers will too.
“Put the phone down, Sloan.”
“I can’t help it. I am Leonardo da Vinci, and this is my Mona Lisa.
” I snap three more pictures of the exposed brick I’ve been obsessed with since I found the online listing for this charming former café.
I bask in Lyla’s laughter as she rolls her eyes and then sticks her head in the empty glass display case for the third time.
She teases me again, “Seriously, how is your storage not full?”
“We should keep the tables on the other side, so this wall is clear for photos,” I say, ignoring her as I mentally furnish the space. “Ooh, what if we decorate it with vintage picture frames? All gold could be pretty. Or maybe painted in mismatched colors?”
“I’m leaving the decorating up to you, my friend. I’m just the flavor guru.”
“Yes, but your delicious cupcakes are the hook that will pull people in. The smell of them alone will have the whole town leaving a trail of drool all the way up the block and right up to that counter. Our counter,” I correct myself.
Lyla scrunches her nose. “We’d better buy a mop to avoid slip and fall lawsuits, then.”
By now, she’s emerged from the display case and glances at her phone before tucking it back into the pocket of her bright yellow pea coat. Running a hand over her straight blonde hair, she looks around the room.
“Heard from Adam yet?” I ask.
“Still waiting to hear. He texted me a little while ago to let me know he was going into the meeting. I’ll call him after we sign the papers, and then we can all celebrate this promotion together. Get your earplugs ready, people!”
Our realtor emerges from the kitchen, arms wide.
She’s almost as pleased as we are, and I don’t blame her.
It’s been six months of painstakingly combing through real estate listings and visiting every vacant storefront in town, and I’m sure she was beginning to share my fear that we would never find the perfect place.
Somewhere that was more than four walls and a kitchen, but that had real character, a charm you can’t fake with a coat of paint.
We’ve seen more than a few great places, but Lyla has been harder to please than expected.
But this place … this is magic.
I felt it the first time we stepped inside.
I can see us here. Me, running calligraphy workshops in the front, with twinkle lights strung up against the brick, and Lyla’s elaborate cupcakes filling the glass display cases that double as a counter.
The exposed red brick offsets the full front wall of windows, so the vibe is bright but private, with faux-wood laminate flooring and black and white checkered tiles in the kitchen.
It’s everything we’ve been searching for and more.
“Alright ladies, are we ready to sign some papers?”
I contain my squeal (because, professionalism) but squeeze Lyla’s arm tightly to convey my excitement.
The smile she returns is tinged with nerves, but I get it.
This is a big step. Plus, she’s been distracted all day with her husband’s impending promotion.
We follow Elaine to the kitchen, where she has the paperwork spread out over one of the (three!) stainless steel worktops.
I can already picture Lyla baking up a storm back here underneath the bare bulbs—a far cry from our tiny apartment kitchen back in college when she first turned her baking hobby into a modest side hustle.
Honestly, even the light fixtures in here are Instagram-worthy.
“Did you remember to bring the champagne?” Lyla asks.
I lift a hand to my chest, pretending to be hurt. “After two long years of dreaming and planning, do you honestly think I would forget the celebratory bubbly?” I reach into my oversized purse and pull out the bottle, setting it down with a clunk on the worktop.
“Sorry! But you’re not exactly known for your follow-through. Don’t blame yourself; you’re a Pisces. You can only do so much.”
“That’s why we make the perfect pair. I have the ideas—you bring them to life. Speaking of, have you ordered the business cards yet?”
“Oh … um, not yet. I still haven’t picked a favorite,” she replies, brushing invisible dust off the countertop.
I bump her hip with mine. “Now who’s the one who can’t follow through?”
I’m teasing, but it doesn’t make her smile like I expect, and the guilt settles in my stomach like a bowling ball.
I’d given her ten different business card options and begged her to choose one for me.
Like she said, I’m not known for my decision-making skills.
Having designed them myself, I was already worried that Lyla wouldn’t be completely honest with me if she didn’t love them.
It’s unlike her to put off making a decision, but maybe in all the excitement, it just slipped her mind.
Either way, I don’t want to add any undue pressure.
“Crap. I forgot cups!” I say.
She waves her arms dramatically. “Look at the size of this place, there has to be at least one cup in here.”
Elaine is holding out a pen for one of us to sign the paperwork, but I don’t take it; crossing instead to the cupboards and opening them one by one because this is it—this is our moment, and it has to be perfect.
We’ll sign the papers and make each other tear up with toasts to our future as business partners, about hard work and dreams coming true.
We’ll take a boomerang of us clinking our glasses together, and it’ll be the first post on our new Instagram account.
Elaine will take a photo of the two of us hugging, capturing the moment when we’re both elated and terrified, and in ten years we’ll look back on it and say: look how far we’ve come.
Lyla digs through the pantry for the elusive cups, or anything that will hold liquid—glasses, mugs, or hell, even measuring cups would do.
In fact, that would be pretty damn cute on our feed.
The previous owners have mostly cleared everything out, but I strike gold in a forgotten drawer filled with paper cups and plates.
“Aha!” I yell, holding up my treasure.
Lyla’s phone rings, and she reaches for it instead of a cup. “It’s Adam. Do you mind if I …?”
I shake my head and motion for her to answer it.
“Adam, honey? How did it go?” She holds up a finger (polished, like mine, in preparation for the aforementioned boomerang) and ducks out to the front of the store.
“Did you want to get the ball rolling?” Elaine asks, extending the pen to me a second time. Under the blonde highlights of her angled bob, her dark-lipped smile falters.
“I kind of want Lyla to be here for the whole thing,” I say, thinking about the photos that would be missed if I started without her.
We’ve waited so long for this moment, for our dream to become real; I don’t want it to feel rushed.
So instead of signing the papers, I fluff my hair, checking my loose, copper waves in the shiny surface of the counter, then line up three paper cups on the counter and start to undo the wire around the champagne cork so it’s easier to open when the time comes.
And then Lyla’s back, but she’s not smiling anymore.
“What’s wrong? Is Adam okay?” My words are rushed, but I’m frozen to the spot as I take in the crestfallen look on her face.
“He’s fine,” she says, her words shaking around the edges. “But … you’d better not open that champagne.”
I don’t mean to. Really, I don’t. But it’s like telling someone not to think of a purple elephant wearing a tutu—your brain does it anyway.
So, the cork pops, shattering the exposed bulb above me (and whose idea was bare bulbs, anyway?).
Champagne overflows down my jeans and brand-new boots in a sticky waterfall of endless bubbles that pool at my feet.
Along with all our hopes and dreams.