Chapter 15 Sara
SARA
The incessant knock on my door startles me awake. I blink the sleep from my eyes, my head feeling like it’s about to explode. I eye the empty bottle of wine on my coffee table; that explains why my head feels like it’s a ten-pound bowling ball.
Sydney’s voice comes through the door. “Sara Mei Lin, you open this door right now, or I’m kicking it down.” It’s way too early for this. I glance at my phone—two-thirty in the afternoon—okay so late according to the societal norm.
Dragging my lifeless body to the door, I pull it open and squint up at Sydney.
She’s standing there like she’s ready for a night on the town: black leather leggings, an oversized cropped sweater slipping off one shoulder, chunky gold hoops catching the light.
Her long braids cascading down her back.
She looks effortlessly put together in the way that makes me wish I were her right now.
“Girl,” she says, pushing past me without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve been calling you forever. I thought you died.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I mutter, shuffling toward the couch. “This is my normal wake-up time.”
She snorts, toeing off her boots. “It’s two-thirty. And I haven’t heard from you in two days.” Her eyes narrow when they land on the empty wine bottle on my coffee table. “Soooo, what happened with Dave?” She starts cautiously.
I hesitate, then sigh. “He’s not who he seems to be.”
Her entire body stills. “Okay…” She turns to face me fully. “What do you mean by that?”
“You remember the DoorDash delivery guy?”
Sydney’s eyes light up. “Your oat milk savior?”
“Yes,” I reply flatly. “Him. And Dave. Same person. Dave is him. Or he’s also Dave. Two peas in a pod—or, in this case, one pea.”
She blinks once. Then twice. “You’re not making any sense, honey.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I tuck my legs under me, releasing an exaggerated sigh, and I start from the beginning.
I tell her the fully detailed version, not just the bits and pieces I’ve been highlighting.
I start with the oat milk, Sir Sloths-A-Lot, the homemade soup, and the morning after our night together.
By the time I finish recapping the whole thing, Sydney is staring at me, dumbfounded.
“Wow. So that was a lot, I understand the wine now.” She gestures dramatically to the bottle.
“You didn’t recognize his picture on the app?” she tone dripping with skepticism.
“The guy on the app has a beard.” I say, pulling out my phone to show her. It’s not the first time I’ve tried zooming in on the tiny picture on DoorDash to justify my naivety. “I guess he’s one of those guys where a beard drastically changes his face.”
“Have you talked to him since? Get his side of the story?”
“No, I don’t want to talk to him. There’s nothing he can say that makes this okay.
” I know I sound irrational but he broke my trust. “I don’t know if I can trust him,” I admit softly.
“He lied about who he was. And if he lied about that, what else could he lie about?” My chest tightens.
“What if we get serious and he does it again?”
“Honey.” Sydney sits beside me. “You can’t let the fear of being hurt again make you shut the door on love.”
“I’m not closed off,” I say defensively.
She gives me a look. “It’s been four years. And this is the first man I’ve seen you genuinely excited about. The first one who made you smile like that again.”
I swallow. “I know. I think I’m just… scared.”
She scoffs. “Of course you are. We all are.” Then her face hardens. “But don’t let—”
“Fuck Donald,” I blurt. But my mind betrays me, dragging up memories I’ve worked hard to bury—I’m working late. She’s just a friend. You’re being paranoid. Months of white lies before I caught my ex with his coworker.
“Yes,” she agrees immediately. “Fuck Donald. Don’t let him ruin your faith in love.”
She takes my hands. “When you find a connection like that, it’s not you versus the guy. It’s you versus your fear. And today could be the perfect day to resolve your fear.”
I frown at her. “Today?”
“Sara,” she huffs, like she’s explaining something to a child, “it’s Valentine’s Day.”
The words land with a dull thud. I blink, realization washing over me. I haven’t celebrated Valentine’s Day since the incident.
I sniff. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well,” Sydney takes a breath, then stands and wrinkles her nose dramatically, “the first thing you need to do is take a shower.”
“Hey!”
“Trust me,” she says matter-of-factly. “Take a long shower. Maybe a bubble bath. Pamper yourself. Then we’ll decide the next step.”
I manage a small smile. “Bossy.”
“You love it.” She gives me a tight squeeze, and I can’t help but lean into her comfort.
“Thanks, Syd.” I sniff, wiping the tears that escape down my cheeks.
“Always.”
Thirty minutes later, I emerge from my room like a new woman. My hair is washed and dried, my skin feels baby soft, and I’m starting to think Sydney does know what she’s talking about.
“Okay,” I say plopping down next to her on the couch. “What’s next?”
“Well, now we realign your crystals.”
“I don’t have any crystals,” I deadpan.
“Wrong.” She pulls a purple velvet sachet from her bag. “You have crystals.” She hands me the bag, looking at me like I should know what to do with it. “Now you need to imbue it with your energy. Take them out, and just hold on to them for a few minutes.”
I follow her instructions and hold the crystals to my chest, squeezing them a bit harder than necessary. I channel all my positive energy into the vibrant rocks and silently pray that, by some miracle, they will transform my love life.