Admittedly, that would have been the ideal fortune in this situation, but having selfishly seized and strip- searched every last cookie on the table, I was finally getting the fact that these were just random fortunes. It was sheer coincidence that we’d ended up with these particular four—it meant nothing. Except that Fairy Jane had turned me into a superstitious wacko.
And yet ... at this very moment, wacko or not, it meant
With considerably more intense concentration than a cellophane-wrapped cookie should merit, I ripped into it, while at the edges of my peripheral vision, Laura, Beck, and Leslie perused my rejects. But as I cracked open that last cookie, all eyes were on me, waiting to see how I might react. With my pulse pounding insistently in my ears, I pulled the fortune from its cookie confines and smoothed it open between my thumbs and forefingers.
My eyes scanned the words, tumbling them out of order, and leaving me with a nonsensical jumble. It was possible too that my synapses were sluggish and out of sorts and were refusing translation. Blinking rapidly, I tried again.
Everything fell away but that misshapen parallelogram of paper—the fourth in a series—that read like a message from above ... or beyond. Was it
I would have killed for the ever-popular, always ridiculous
I could feel the regret starting to close in, its clammy hold grasping at everything. It came over me with the stunning power of a tidal wave, and its undertow was brutal. I regretted ever trusting in a magical journal, letting my guard down with Sean and then yanking it back up at the worst possible moment. And I regretted tearing into all four fortune cookies and the fact that I was now going to be subjected to a sympathetic but rousing pep talk when all I wanted was to slink away on my own, curl into a ball, and decide what to do.
Because clearly, I had to do something.
“It’s only a fortune, Nic.” Laura’s voice was quiet, soothing.
“Well, four,” Leslie clarified. “Pretty big coincidence, if you ask me.” Judging by the quirk of her lips, Leslie was both impressed and befuddled by the whole situation.
Wrinkling her nose a little in consideration, Beck suggested, “Maybe today holds some sort of astrological significance for you.”
“Like sexy planet rising over shy and quiet little moon?” Leslie cackled at her own joke, earning herself a collection of dirty looks from the rest of us. “What? I think writing horoscopes could be a blast.”
“I’ve known him less than a week.” The words came tumbling out, and I was too overwhelmed to stop them. “I wasn’t looking for anyone and certainly not him, but he charmed his way in. He made me imagine how it could all, just possibly, work out, and I just followed trustingly along.” My shoulders slumped in remembered defeat. “But then it became an international incident. If I were to go for it now, I’d have to contend with airlines, passports, customs, time zones, exorbitant cell phone charges, driving on the wrong side of the road, incessant drizzle ...”
“Pick me up a couple Toblerones and a bottle of Scotch whisky at duty-free.” I shifted my gaze to Leslie, marginally derailed. “When you get it all worked out,” she clarified.
“I like to stop at the duty-free shop.” The little
I decided to put a stop to it just as Laura chimed in. “Okay, enough!” A little karate-chop motion, and the table fell silent. “I never said I was going to Scotland. I was expounding on the fateful twists my life has taken in the last week, pondering what to do, and all you three can contribute is commentary on duty-free!”
“It’s only a matter of time, sweetie. I’m just trying to get my order in early,” Leslie said, sitting back to sip her wine.
“What makes you so sure—and smug?” I demanded.
“You’re in love with him, and you let him go. Now you’ve got four fortune cookies busting your ass, and you’re waffling.” Damn, was she smug. “Sean is your sexy coincidence, Nic. You know Lizzy would agree with me.” Raising her eyebrows in that “you know I’m right” way she had, Leslie waited as I mulled this over.
“Lizzy who?” Beck had switched from pity-partygoer to avid curiosity seeker in the space of a second.
“Elizabeth Bennet,” I clarified, grudgingly admitting to myself that for once, Leslie was spot-on: Sean was my sexy coincidence.
Beck pondered this a moment and then said, “I think this would blow Lizzy’s mind.” She leaned in, nudging her plate with her hands, and added, “You know, you’re like a character from one of Austen’s novels now.”
“No, I’m not.” I shook my head, bobbleheading again.
“Oh yes, you are, and it’s your turn for a happily-ever-after and a Darcy of your very own. You have to go!” Beck insisted.
“And stop at duty-free,” Leslie reminded me.
“Who would have imagined you’d end up with a Brit?” Laura added.
“But what about all that other stuff?” I asked desperately.
“Trivial in the face of true love,” Leslie answered. “Didn’t
“But what if he doesn’t want me back?”
“Seduce him.” It was Leslie who answered, but the other two nodded in sage agreement.
“But what if I start to resent him and—”
“Don’t do that,” Laura interjected in a voice she might use to talk to a three-year-old.
“But what if I’m not ready?” This was really the crux of it all.
“I have an idea,” announced Leslie, a huge grin settling over her face as her eyes twinkled with mischief. All eyes swiveled in her direction, braced against the very worst. “Do a test run—try something you wouldn’t have before Sean but that isn’t too terribly out of range for you now, in your ... chrysalis of Weird.” It was evident she felt as awkward saying that last bit as we did hearing it.
As an idea, it wasn’t half-bad. As an idea from Leslie, it was outstanding: nary a crude, unmentionable, or objectionable aspect in sight. Within seconds suggestions were flying around the table: a tattoo. A piercing. Body shots. Cliff-diving. Hippie Hollow. It was at that point that I felt compelled to intercede.
“I’m shooting for a mini-adventure, Leslie. I think a visit to the city’s token nude beach is more than I care to take on right now. And I’m afraid that’s all the time we have,” I announced in the mellow slide of my game-show- hostess voice. Not counting my little bribe to foot the bill for dessert at Amy’s Ice Cream, that was all it took to turn the conversation.
I had much to consider.
19
In which Cinderella storms the castle
Believe it or not, I’d settled on getting my navel pierced. Right up until I’d Googled it. Turns out the healing process runs from four months to a year! Considering the possibility of infections and a selection of less-than- desirable diseases, the adventure du jour promptly fizzled flat. With no particular fondness for any of the other outlandish suggestions, I skittishly considered the option of going for the whole enchilada, chips all in. Within seconds I was typing “Loched In” back into the search window.
