Love always turns up…

Newspaper journalist Sydney Turner Davies is the last person you’d call clueless when it comes to romance. She knows what she wants in a man (if in a little too much detail!) and is everyone’s go-to girl when it comes to relationship advice. So why is she still single? Turning 26 only makes it clearer—it’s time for a change!

Where you least expect it.

When inspiration strikes in the form of her daily horoscope, Sydney decides to turn her eyes to the sky and leave her love life up to fate. What her horoscope says, she does! With her straight-talking best friends and the zodiac to guide her, what could go wrong?

Navigating the dating game has never been simpler. But for Sydney, finding love is just the first step. When romance finally blossoms…will she be brave enough to follow her heart?

Also by Buffy Andrews

The Christmas Violin

The Moment Keeper

It’s in the Stars

Buffy Andrews

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Buffy Andrews 2015

Buffy Andrews asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9781474030755

Version date: 2018-07-02

BUFFY ANDREWS

is an author, blogger and journalist.

She leads an award-winning staff at the York Daily Record/Sunday News, where she is Assistant Managing Editor of Social Media and Engagement.

In addition to her writing blog, Buffy’s Write Zone, she maintains a social media blog, Buffy’s World.

She is also a newspaper and magazine columnist and writes middle-grade, young adult and women’s fiction.

She lives in southcentral Pennsylvania with her husband, Tom; two sons, Zach and Micah; and wheaten cairn terrier, Kakita. She is grateful for their love and support and for reminding her of what’s most important in life.

I thank God for his love, understanding and guidance and for the incredible gifts He has given me.

I thank my husband, Tom, and my sons Zach and Micah for their love and support. You guys are the absolute best.

I thank my editor, Lucy Gilmour, for believing in this book and helping to share it with the world.

I thank my sisters Dawn Beakler, Cindy Andrews and Tania Nade, who have always been in my corner cheering me on.

I thank my friends Beth Vrabel, Robin Bohanan, Kris Ort and Sharon Kirchoff for their endless encouragement. You girls always make me smile.

And I thank you, my readers. I hope life brings you laughter and love.

To my family. I love you more than you’ll ever know.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

What parent gives their daughter the initials STD? Seriously, Mom, thanks. Just so you know, I hold you personally responsible for ruining my sex life. Who wants to have sex with an STD? Okay. Maybe I’m not being totally fair, but still. Why did you have to give me your maiden name for my middle name? Why couldn’t you have given me your name? Elizabeth is pretty. It softens the Sydney. I’m not going to bitch that you named me after Dad, but Sydney Elizabeth Davies sounds better than Sydney Turner Davies. Just sayin’.

The worst part is when someone recognizes my initials. Like last night. I was celebrating my birthday with my besties and a guy who reeked of whiskey noticed my monogrammed purse (a birthday present from Mom). He stood next to me at the bar, swaying and slurring his words. He pointed to my purse. “Hey,” he blubbered. “You have an STD.” Everyone at the bar turned to look.

“Fuck off.” I told him and held up my purse. “He’s talking about my purse, not me.” I made a beeline for the bathroom where I attempted to remove the monogrammed stitching with the nail clippers I carried in my purse. Damn, Mom. She needs to stop buying me this monogrammed shit. Christ, the towels and bathrobe were bad enough. And I don’t even use the business card holder. And if I couldn’t remove the stitching from this purse, I wouldn’t be using it either.

The STD conversation is like herpes – it can be dormant for a while but when it breaks out, it’s not pretty.

“Where were you?” Victoria asked when I finally returned to our table.

“Some asshole at the bar noticed my monogrammed purse and commented on it. I went to the bathroom to cool off – and to try to pull the stitches out.” I held up my purse. “I obviously wasn’t very successful.”

“You should’ve told him it stands for State Transportation Department and if you see his bovine ass on the road you’re going to Seize The Day and give his sorry ass a ticket,” Frankie said. “That should shut him up.”

I loved hanging with my besties from work, but to be honest, this birthday was a big one. I thought being a quarter of a century old was bad, but twenty-six is worse. I’m now closer to thirty than twenty. Ugh! And I have no special guy in my life. Not that I haven’t tried, but it’s never been easy for me. Guys have told me I come across as cold, but I’m really not. I’m independent and exude confidence, which turns lots of guys off. They want to feel needed. And I do need them. I do. The truth is I put up a front. Deep inside, I’m scared of rejection, of not being accepted for my quirky, OCD self. I’ve been working hard to soften my presence, but when you’ve spent your entire life building walls to protect your heart it’s tough to tear them down and expose the real you.

Frankie, a fellow newspaper reporter, thinks I should try an online dating site. Aunt Tania thinks I should get involved in a community service organization. Bor-ing! And Mom, let’s just say Mom and I have never agreed on anything!

So, I was thinking about taking a more unconventional approach to my dating problem. The idea came to me after I took a call from an angry reader upset because we’d changed the horoscope in the daily newspaper. Unlike the previous one, the new horoscope didn’t include stars. “How am I to know what kind of day I’m going to have?” the caller asked. “Go back to the old horoscope!”

I always seem to get the calls from annoyed readers, and explaining we’d switched horoscopes to save money was the last thing she wanted to hear. When I answered the call, I grabbed a newspaper so I could see what she was referring to. Since it was my birthday, my horoscope was at the top of the listing. I couldn’t help but read it. Turned out I liked what I read. It said I was intelligent and creative. And that a casual friend might be romantically interested in me. I’m hoping it’s the hot guy in advertising with the tight ass and bulging biceps.

Right then, I decided to put my faith in the stars. It was so quirky I figured it might just work. And if it didn’t, I wouldn’t be any worse off than I am now.

So, I’m starting my twenty-sixth year on this planet with my eyes on the sky in the hope it will bring love into my life.

Chapter One

Thursday, July 14

It’s a great day for a new beginning. Let go of your disappointments and fears. Optimism abounds. Focus on building a brighter tomorrow. Tonight: Catch up with friends.

Fist pump! That’s what I’m talking about. Yes! Kind of creepy I got this horoscope today, but I’m not complaining. I take it as a good sign I’m on the right path. So I’m letting go of my disappointments and fears. Dare is my new middle name. I’m optimistic and smiling and… Oh, shit! Boss man was headed my way. I quickly minimized the horoscope on my laptop.

“Davies.” He pointed his sausage finger at me. “Check the letters to the editor today. Someone’s complaining about a gazillion cats living in a house. Might be a story.”

I nodded, trying not to breathe because the air in my cubicle suddenly smelled like week-old garbage that’d been sitting in the sun. Boss man had contaminated it with his oyster breath.

Oyster Breath walked away and I jumped up from my desk to get some fresh air in a clean air zone. I also hit the bathroom, hoping by the time I returned the odor would be gone. But it lingered like a bad cold with a crappy attitude and I knew I’d just have to suffer through it. Note to self: Buy a Super Odor Killer air freshener for cubicle. The Sweet Pea and Lilac scent is no match for Oyster Breath.

I checked the letters to the editor and jotted down the writer’s name. When I moved to this south central Pennsylvania city a year ago, population forty thousand, I’ll admit I was a bit amused by its small town charm. I grew up in an area that bordered New York City, where people mostly kept to themselves. Here, people actually look at you and say hello when you pass them on the street or in the mall. I’m talking complete strangers. It took me a while to get used to the friendliness, but I’m glad I moved here. It definitely beats my last job, which was writing articles for a news website. The only downside is the dry dating pool. I haven’t found a lot of guys I’m interested in – besides the hottie in advertising. Now he definitely has potential. The guy in the cubicle next to mine, not so much. In fact, Matt was annoying the crap out of me.

I was having a tough time concentrating, mostly because he was interviewing someone that was apparently hard of hearing. Matt’s voice boomed in my ear as he repeated each question at least three times.

I flashed him my mean face (lips pulled back, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed) and held up a note I’d scribbled on the back of a meeting agenda: Face to face????

But he just ignored me. I don’t know why he didn’t interview the woman in person – or at least go into one of the small conference rooms so the rest of us wouldn’t be subjected to his stellar interviewing skills.

I held up another sign: Lazy Ass!

He flashed me the finger.

I was trying my best to tune him out when Victoria, another reporter, walked up behind me. “So are you coming tonight?”

I jumped and turned around. “Jesus! You scared me.”

“Sorry. But I figured no one would get anything done until Matt the Mouth finished his interview.”

“I don’t know why he doesn’t take his sorry ass out of the newsroom and go to her house,” I said. “It’s taking him twice as long this way to get the information he needs.”

Victoria sipped her coffee. “So are you coming tonight?”

“I probably shouldn’t.”

“So that means you are?”

I thought about my horoscope. It said to “catch up with friends” tonight. I remembered my new middle name is Dare and that I’m full of optimism and have to let go of my fears.

“Okay, I’m in. But I can’t stay out late. I have an early interview tomorrow.”

Matt hung up his phone and I overheard him tell Oyster Breath he was going to the woman’s house. Thank God! I hoped I’d be able to finish the damn story I’d been trying to finish for the last hour.

I was working on a story about a teen who suffered from anorexia. I had until this afternoon to send Oyster Breath my first draft. Whenever I’m assigned stories that deal with mental illness, it makes me twitchy because I’m aware I have my own issues. I’ve never had an eating disorder but I’ve battled OCD most of my life. It started when I was a kid. I remember the day as if it were a minute ago. Mom was chaperoning my fourth-grade class field trip to the National Museum of Natural History in Washington, D.C. I remember staring at the mummies in the Ancient Egypt exhibit and picturing my mom as a mummy. I became obsessed with losing her and convinced myself that if I did certain things, she’d never die. I know it sounds incredibly silly, but to a kid it made perfect sense. I believed that my behavior gave me control and didn’t realize until years later it was the other way around – my behavior was controlling me.

I still battle anxiety issues and have my share of quirks, but I have a better handle on it today. Mom is just as bad, she stresses over everything, even things she doesn’t have to worry about. So, maybe it’s part of my genetic makeup. No way would I wish it on anyone.

By the end of the day, I’d finished my first draft. Oyster Breath was talking with another reporter so I waited to update him before heading home to change into something more comfortable for the bar. Just like Horoscope said: It was a great day for a new beginning.

Chapter Two

Friday, July 15

It’s time to do some soul searching. What are you looking for in a guy? What are your requirements for a happy relationship? Tonight: Curl up with a good book.

After going to happy hour last night and having way too much to drink, I pretty much fell into bed. I should know better than to drink more than two beers on a work night. But it was Thursday and we were all bitching about work and the beer went down easy. Too easy. At least when we go out I don’t have to drive because I live in the city, blocks from Joe’s Bar, our hangout. Victoria lives down the street from me so I always have a walking buddy. We live in brownstones that have been converted into apartments in a not-so-good section of town. I love the high ceilings and spacious rooms, except in the winter when I get hit with high heating bills.

Anyway, when I have too much to drink I usually have wild dreams. Most of the time I end up naked in public or I have that recurring nightmare of sitting down to take a test I haven’t prepared for. But last night, I dreamt I bumped into Hottie Advertising Guy in the girls’ bathroom at work. I opened the stall door and there he was, bare ass naked. So I went to the next stall and opened the door but he was there, too. Every stall I tried, he was in. My bladder was killing me because I had to pee so badly. Finally I couldn’t take the pain anymore; I had to relieve myself. So, I hopped up on the bathroom counter and peed in the sink. Not very lady like, I know, but when you have to go, you have to go. Suddenly, Hottie Advertising Guy walked out of the stall. Or rather, eight Hottie Advertising Guys walked out of eight stalls and they pointed at me and laughed. I lost my balance and my butt fell into the sink and that’s when I woke up and headed to the bathroom. I had to pee. For real. God! Where do these dreams come from?

I wondered what the dream meant. Maybe I was worried about embarrassing myself in front of him. I’ve worried about that sort of thing in the past. There are a lot of physical features I’d love to change. My lips are too thin, my ears too pointy and my toes, well, I don’t even want to go there with my toes. I wish I had prettier toes, like Victoria and Frankie and Jada. They wear open-toed shoes and sandals and their feet look so pretty with their toes polished. I have a hammer toe on my left foot and ever since a guy in high school mocked me in front of a group, I’ll never ever show my toes in public again.

While eating breakfast I thought about my horoscope. What am I looking for in a guy? I grabbed a pen and paper off the desk.

Definitely a sense of humor. Oh, and someone who is kind and generous. Definitely don’t want a cheapskate. Been there, done that. One guy I dated never ordered anything but water to drink when we went out to dinner.

“Do you realize,” he said one night, “That if you spend a dollar fifty on a soda twice a week that would be three dollars a week or one hundred and fifty-six dollars a year. In ten years, you’ll have spent $1,560. Now, if you put that money in the bank and leave it alone, it would accrue interest and you’d end up with a nice sum.”

“Seriously?” I’d said. “You’re not having a coke because you want to save a buck fifty?”

We didn’t go out again! So, yeah, no cheapskates allowed.

Honest and trustworthy are high on the list. And reliable. If a guy says he’s going to go with me to a function I know will be as boring as hell but I don’t have a choice, it’s not cool to back out an hour before the event. Yeah, Ryan. You’re the reason this made my list. And the reason I drank too much at the gallery opening and made an ass out of myself when I puked in the lobby. And the reason I stopped taking your calls. So there!

Sensitive. I want a guy who isn’t afraid to share what’s in his heart. Who doesn’t care if tears pool in his eyes when he’s touched by a story or movie or book. Who isn’t too manly to cry. In other words, I’m looking for a guy who feels and isn’t afraid to show it.

Clean, as in good hygiene. I hate even having to put this on my list, but some guys fall short in this department. Like this one guy I dated. He didn’t like flossing. Said it was unnecessary. Think again, tighty-whitie (yes, I’m serious. He wore little boy underwear that made his junk look a lot bigger than it was). I swear once during a kiss a piece of food that was stuck in his teeth fell into my mouth. It was so gross I thought I was going to puke. That was our last date. And then there was Kurt, who constantly dug for ear wax with his glasses arm. Neither would get to the sleepover level in my book.

I also don’t want a clingy guy. I can’t stand clingy. It’s not that I’m not romantic. I am. But I don’t want a guy who smothers me and calls me five times a day. I need some space and in return I’ll give the guy space. I don’t mind if he does things with his friends or isn’t available to hang out every night. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy spending time with him. I just recognize the importance of family and friends and having alone time.

I almost forgot smart. Smart is very important. Maybe even a deal breaker. I’m no Einstein, but I do need a guy who is intellectually stimulating. I’ve dated some in the past who weren’t and it bothered me. One guy actually told me once he wanted to go to Paris but not France. His dick might have been big but his brain was the size of a pea!

Romantic is nice. And manly and decisive, but not pushy. If I say something’s off limits, it’s off limits. For those guys who are obsessed with the back door, this one’s for them.

I think I pretty much hit the main ones. I’m can’t bear to sit next to someone eating liver (it truly nauseates me) but I always let a guy know this if it’s on the menu. I’m not as bad as Victoria who won’t date a guy if he puts an artificial sweetener in his coffee (too girly) or is under 5’10” (she’s 5’ 11”) or has the dry cleaner crease in his shirt (I can’t figure out why this bothers her so much).

I read over my finished list. God, I sounded like such a bitch. And I really don’t want to come across as a bitch. Maybe I should revise and soften it a bit.

Three cups of coffee later I scrambled out the door and headed for the office. Our newsroom is only a few blocks away, sandwiched between a health clinic and a donut shop, near the city square. It’s an easy walk, but I need my car for reporting assignments so I have to drive.

One of the benefits of being a general assignment reporter is the variety of assignments I’m given. Unlike Frankie, who has the health beat and rarely covers anything not health related, I cover a bit of everything. One day I might interview a woman who started her own soap company and the next a soldier returning from war. I love that my job is never boring and I’m always learning new stuff.

After stashing my lunch in the break room refrigerator, I headed to my desk. The newsroom was a huge open space filled with individual workspaces. The cubicle walls were low so you could sit at your desk and look across the room. Televisions hung from the ceiling. While the openness aided in communications, it was a pain in the ass when Matt or someone else talked so loudly you couldn’t concentrate. I keep a pair of earplugs in my drawer for just this reason, but even the expensive pair I bought don’t deafen the noise completely.

I’d just settled into my seat when the freakin’ fire alarm went off. At first I was really annoyed, but then I remembered Hottie Advertising Guy and I had to use the same door to exit the building. The same door, people! So I waited until I saw him head over and I timed my exit so if it all went according to my plan we’d reach the door at about the same time.

But just as I was about to close the distance, I tripped and flew forward. I stretched out my arms to break my fall and Hottie turned around to see me kissing the carpet.

He extended his hand. “All you okay?”

My face felt hot. I was sure it had to be the color of his red power tie. “Aside from being totally embarrassed, you mean?”

He smiled. “Well, at least you weren’t holding a cup of coffee. That would’ve been worse.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Do you always look on the bright side of things?”

Hottie shrugged. “I try to. Don’t you?”

I was about to answer but the publisher, who was holding the door, yelled for us to get out of the building.

So we did end up going out the door together; it just wasn’t in the way I’d hoped. When we exited, Hottie’s advertising friends waved him over to their huddle near the lamp post and I joined Victoria and some others near a parking meter painted to resemble a huge bubble gum machine.

Victoria leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Smooth one.”

“Believe me, I didn’t try to trip.”

She smiled. “Well, at least you got his attention.”

I sighed. “But that’s not the way I wanted to get it.”

Several minutes later, we were allowed back in the building. It turned out to be just a drill.

Hottie was among the first ones through the door and I mentally smacked my head for blowing my chance to at least introduce myself.

An hour later, I left to check out the cat house. When I arrived, authorities had just finished removing dozens of cats from the home. They cited a mother and daughter for cruelty to animals. They’d been accused of hoarding more than fifty cats inside their home under unsanitary conditions. The home was found to be “unfit for human occupancy” and condemned. I’m not a cat person. I prefer dogs, but I felt really sorry for the cats.

Chapter Three

Saturday, July 16

Focus on improving your appearance. A makeover might be in order. Consider going to the gym or a hair salon. You might be surprised by the attention changing your appearance brings. Tonight: Try something different.

I’m a complete idiot! I didn’t go out with Victoria and the others last night because I was a good girl and listened to Horoscope who told me to curl up with a good book. I stopped at the used book store on my way home from work and picked up a romance the clerk recommended. I’m a sucker for a good romance, and this one had me turning pages into the early morning hours. I love happy endings, or at least a sliver of hope the relationship is headed in the right direction. And this book delivered. Of course, had I known that Hottie Advertising Guy would be at the same bar as my friends, I would’ve ditched the book for a shot at my own happily ever after.

I couldn’t believe it when Victoria called to give me a recap of last night.

“You’ll never guess who was at Joe’s,” she yelled into the phone.

I held the phone several inches from my ear. “Stop yelling?”

“Sorry.” Victoria talked softer. “But guess who came in?”

“The guy you met in the biography section at the bookstore?”

“No.”

“The cop you talked into giving you a warning instead of a speeding ticket.”

“No. Christ, Sydney. It’s not someone I’m interested in. It’s someone you’re interested in, although I would be interested in him if you weren’t. So if you change your mind about him, let me know.”

“Hottie Advertising Guy?”

“Yep. And he looked absolutely dreamy.”

“Damn. Wish I hadn’t listened to my horoscope.”

“Told you that idea was silly.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“No girl if that’s what you’re asking. He was with another guy from the ad department. The bald giant with the size fourteen shoes.”

“Dennis?”

“Yeah, him. Hottie looks like a toddler next to Dennis.”

“Dennis is nice,” I said.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t, but my entire body could fit into one of his pant legs. Jesus, what size do you think he wears anyway?”

“Hell, I don’t know. What was Hottie wearing?”

“Jeans, Oxford blue shirt.”

“Tucked in or out?”

“Out. And the sleeves were rolled up. I’m telling you he looked hot.”

“Hands off, Victoria. You promised.”

Victoria sighed. “I’m not going to go after him, Sydney. Unless, of course, you decide you’re no longer interested in him.”

I’ve never met anyone quite like Victoria. She’s a slut, but a great slut. She’s definitely the horniest woman I’ve ever met and admits she lost count of her sexual partners by the time she was sixteen. At that age, my make-out sessions consisted of kissing and some light petting. I’ve learned a lot from Victoria over the past year and in some weird way, I admire her. She’s bold and comfortable with her sexuality and that’s something I’ve always struggled a bit with. I’m always afraid that when a guy sees me naked he’ll mock me. Aside from my hammer toe, one of my breasts is noticeably larger than the other.

Victoria’s news bummed me big time. As much as I liked the book, I would’ve liked seeing Hottie at the bar more. Maybe she was right. Maybe this horoscope thing is stupid. Just as I began to mentally list the reasons why following my horoscope was a dumb idea, I glanced down at the newspaper. I had opened it to the horoscope page when Victoria called. I read Cancer’s entry and when it said what I’d been thinking, I decided to keep the faith – at least for another day.

My hair has been driving me insane for a few weeks. I was going to let it grow out but it’s at that in-between stage and I don’t think I can stand to look in a mirror one more time and see the tangled mess of black curls. As an aside, I’ve got to be the only adult who still uses a child’s detangling spray. Seriously. When I was little, Mom couldn’t get through my hair without it. Trying to calm my curls without drowning them in detangling spray is downright dangerous for the comb. And now that my hair is getting longer, the tangles are becoming even more tangled. It’d be very easy for me to grow dreadlocks, which I’ve never seriously considered even though Victoria thinks I should.

So today’s horoscope suggesting the makeover was just the push I needed. After the gym, I planned to hit the salon and see what can be done about this unruly mop. Maybe I’ll even ask for some highlights. Pink or blue would be perfect. I needed a makeover.

For a Saturday morning, the gym was packed. I found the only free treadmill and it was wet with sweat. Gross! Why are some people pigs? Seriously. You’re supposed to wipe off the machine when you’re done exercising but obviously some idiot didn’t. So I got some wipes and cleaned it off. It made me gag. I’m a bit neurotic when it comes to public surfaces anyway, and actually seeing the sweat on the machine made me itch.

About forty minutes into my run, I spotted Hottie Advertising Guy across the gym. I’d never seen him here before, but I wasn’t surprised he was a member because we had a company discount.

My throat tightened as he walked towards me. Sweat dripped from my face and onto the treadmill. My shirt and shorts were soaked. I nonchalantly sniffed my armpit and confirmed it smelled like sweaty socks.

Maybe he won’t recognize me, I thought. He’s never seen my hair in a ponytail. But that also means he’s never seen my pointy elf ears. I felt like a fly caught in a spider web. I was stuck, unable to move, waiting for hope to be sucked out of me.

I looked down. Keep going. Keep going. Don’t stop. You do not see me. That’s it. Walk on by.

“Hey Jason!”

Hottie Advertising Guy turned around.

A guy dressed like he was a walking ad for Nike yelled, “Can you spot me?”

Thank God! Hottie Advertising Guy turned around to help Nike Man lift weights.

I took a sip of water and checked to see how many calories I’d burned. Oh, shit! It was 666. I loathe that number. I increased the speed on the treadmill so the counter would change.

Normally, I’d lift weights after finishing my run on the treadmill. But I didn’t want to take the chance Hottie would see me all sweaty and stinky, so I bagged that part of my workout. Instead, I hit the sauna before showering and going to the salon.

Stephen ran his slender fingers through my mess of black curls. He’s been doing my hair for a year now and we hit it off almost immediately. Too bad he prefers guys. I usually go about every five weeks but I hadn’t seen him for a while.

“So what do you think?”

He shook his head. “It looks like shit, but it’s not a lost cause.”

I smiled. “I can always count on you to be brutally honest, can’t I?”

He patted my shoulder. “And you wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“True.”

“So I’ll snip here and snip there and layer it a little and you should be good to go.”

“What about a blue chunk on the side?”

“Blue? I was thinking pink.”

“Pink is good.”

“Yeah, let’s do pink. It will pop against your black hair. You’re sure, right?”

“Absolutely. My horoscope told me to try something different.”

Stephen cracked his neck. “You actually believe in that crap?”

I shrugged. “Nothing else has worked so why not give it a try? Maybe if I follow it I’ll find a guy.”

Stephen threw a gray drape over me and snapped it at the back of my neck. “Sorry, I can’t help you in that department. But give it time. It’ll happen.”

“I just turned twenty-six, Stephen. That’s TWO SIX! I’m more than a quarter century old. Another twenty-five and I’ll be fifty and my life will be half over. I’m ready to find Mr. Right, or at least a few Maybes. And following ‘normal’ dating procedures hasn’t worked.”

Stephen cleared his throat. “By normal dating procedures you mean hanging out at area bars?”

“Yeah. And staking out the gym, which hasn’t proven advantageous either. Nor has the library or the bookstore or the coffee shop where all the nerdy but nice guys set up office for the day in booths that have receptacles underneath. So yeah, it’s me and Horoscope, baby. Can’t do any worse than I’m doing now.”

Stephen worked his magic, snipping and layering so quickly his hands were a blur.

“So how’s David?”

“We broke up.”

“You broke up? But I thought he was your forever.”

“Me, too. But he dumped me for a guy fifteen years younger.”

“Oh, Stephen. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Not many people do. It happened about two weeks ago. I came home and he had moved out.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah. I’m swearing off men for a while.”

“Geez, we make a good pair.”

Stephen laughed. “It’s just too bad we both prefer men.”

By the time Stephen was finished, I felt like a new woman. And the pink chunk on the side was the perfect choice.

“Stephen, you’re a genius. Thanks!”

He removed the drape. “At least I make my clients happy.”

I stood. “David’s dumb.”

“And I’m dumber for falling for him.”

I patted Stephen’s back and handed him a tip. “Don’t worry. Mr. Right will come along.”

“Thanks,” Stephen said. “Yours will, too.”

I had some errands to run before going home and getting ready to go out with the girls. By the time I got to Joe’s, Victoria, Frankie and Jada were cozying up at the bar. Jada saw me first. “Love. The. Hair.”

Victoria and Frankie turned around and I was greeted by a chorus of oohs and aahs.

“Love the pink!” Frankie said. “Bold and sexy.”

“Who wants a buttery nipple?” Victoria asked a little too loudly. Two guys a few stools yelled they did.

I’ve never had one, but I know Horoscope told me to try something different today so I was game. The bartender lined up four shot glasses and mixed some butterscotch schnapps and Irish cream.

Victoria, Frankie, Jada and I raised our shot glasses. “To new beginnings!” Victoria said.

We all downed the shot and I licked my lips. It tasted like a butterscotch candy. Definitely too sweet to do more than one.

“Who would name a drink Buttery Nipple?” Frankie asked. “I wonder what was going through the person’s mind.”

“Maybe it was named to attract men,” Victoria said. “Imagine walking up to a guy. How would you like to taste a Buttery Nipple?”

We laughed.

“There’s a shitload of drinks with dirty names,” Jada said. “Some are really vulgar. Like Creamy Pussy. Imagine ordering that for your love interest.”

“That’s really a drink?” I asked.

Jada nodded. “It’s Baileys Irish cream and strawberry cream liqueur. It’s actually not bad if you can get by the creamy pussy part.”

I shook my head. I’ve gotten quite an education, sex and otherwise, since moving here. It took me a while to get used to our frank discussions, but I’ve come to appreciate that not all friends share what we do. We’re open and honest and feel comfortable sharing intimate details. Even though I grew up in a bigger city than Victoria, Frankie and Jada, they know so much more than I do when it comes to sex. I had limited experience in that department and a lot of what I learned, I learned from Sex Week at school.

The university I attended held the event every year. I thought my mom and dad would flip when they heard about the student-led event. But I actually learned some cool stuff, like how to pick sex toys that don’t harm the environment.

My bestie Jen and I bought a pack of condoms one time and practiced putting them on bananas. We’d compete to see who could get the packet open and on the banana the fastest. I always won.

Because of Jen and our condom-banana bouts, I was ahead of most girls in Latexology, which covered when to use condoms and how to put them on. My favorite program was I Love Female Orgasm presented by two sex educators.

Victoria took a sip of her beer. “Don’t look now, but that guy at the end of the bar in the white button-down shirt is hot. And I mean hot.”

“Is he alone?” I asked.

Victoria licked her lips. “Seems to be. Wonder if he’d like company?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Jada said.

We watched as Victoria walked over and slid into the bar stool next to him.

“How much you want to bet we don’t see her the rest of the night?” Jada said.

Frankie pulled out her cellphone to check her messages. “I thought she was with Steve.”

“Only when she’s horny and doesn’t have anyone,” I said.

Frankie shook her head. “So it’s one of those we’re not going out any more; we’re just friends who sleep together situations?”

“Precisely. It works for her and it works for him.”

Jada sighed. “There’s not much action in here tonight. Let’s check out the bar down the street.”

“The biker bar?” Frankie asked.

Jada shrugged. “Why not? It might be fun.”

We finished our drinks and left for the biker bar. Victoria and White-Button-Down Shirt were eye banging like crazy and I figured it was only a matter of time before they left the bar and did the real thing.

Chapter Four

Sunday, July 17

You’re reflective today, thinking about past relationships and what went wrong. You’re fantasizing about a former flame who you haven’t forgotten. Time to move on. Good things await. Tonight: Pamper yourself.

My first love broke my heart. I met him my sophomore year in college and I thought we’d be together forever. I dated a lot of guys in high school, but no one seriously. I think the longest I had a boyfriend was six months. But then I met Seth and my world turned upside down. We met at his fraternity’s Halloween party. I was dressed as Thing One and my bestie Jen was dressed as Thing Two. He was dressed as a vampire and he walked up behind me as I was waiting for beer. “I want to suck your blood,” he whispered. I turned around to find dark, sexy eyes staring back at me. It wasn’t long until we became a thing.

He was two years older than me and when he graduated from college, he took a job on the West Coast. We tried to make it work for a while, but the distance was just too great. And we were living in two different worlds. Mine revolved around exams and university life. Seth’s revolved around his engineering job. But I never forgot him. He was my first true love. And, yes, sometimes I do fantasize about him. He married a California girl and I haven’t seen him in years.

I sipped my coffee and read the news on my phone. I hate Sundays, mostly because I have to go to the laundromat. Talk about fantasizing, I think I fantasize about having a washer and dryer more than I fantasize about sex. I’m not sure what that says about me. That I like clean clothes better than I like sex? Dear God I hope not.

Maybe I’ll see the guy I noticed the other week for the first time. When I went to put my clothes in the dryer he’d just finished using, I found a pair of blue silk boxers. For a breath I thought about keeping them. I have a pair of gray paisley boxers I copped from Seth. They’re so comfortable. But I decided to ask tall, five o’clock shadow with a barbed wire tattoo on his bulging bicep if they were his. His face turned cherry red but he managed a smile (straight, white teeth – a plus) and thanked me.

I should’ve continued the conversation. The guy definitely had potential, and his boxers were as sexy as hell. They were soft and slipped through my fingers. I bet they felt great on.

Victoria interrupted my fantasizing when she called to give me the details about her night with White-Button-Down-Shirt. The cliff notes were: his name is David, he’s twenty-nine and single. He’s a mechanical engineer and relocated to the area recently because of his job.

“And he’s a sneaker head,” Victoria said.

“Really?”

“Big time. He told me how when the classic Air Jordan IIIs were rereleased he was the first in line at the store in the mall.”

“I never met a sneaker head before.”

“Neither have I, but David spends more money on one pair of sneakers than I spend on food in a month.”

“That’s some serious cash.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what did you do after you left the bar?” I asked.

“We went back to his place and talked.”

“That’s it? Just talked?”

“And we kissed – a little.”

“Talked and kissed and nothing else?”

“Well.”

“You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” I asked. “God, Victoria. You just met him.”

“I know. I wasn’t going to but then it just sort of happened.”

“But it always just sort of happens with you.”

“Not true. I didn’t sleep with that guy I met last week.”

“The redhead?”

“Yes, I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Look, it’s none of my business who you sleep with,” I said. “I just don’t want you getting hurt. You give it up too easily. Remember, you get what you allow.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“I gotta go anyway. I need to go to the laundromat and then the store.”

“What are you doing later?”

“I’m going to pamper myself,” I said. “That’s what my horoscope advised so I’m going to take a long soak in the tub.

Victoria made a noise that sounded like a sick cow. “You and your stupid horoscope. How long are you going to follow that thing anyway?”

“It’s not stupid and I don’t know. Maybe forever.”

“God, Sydney, I hope not. There’s something to be said for spontaneity. You’re neurotic enough.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, someone has to worry about things.”

“But you worry too much.

“And you don’t worry at all.”

“Okay, then, it’s a draw,” Victoria said. “Have fun doing your laundry.”

When I walked into the laundromat, I scanned the room. My tall, five o’clock shadow with a barbed wire tattoo on his bulging bicep hottie wasn’t there. Shit! I was majorly disappointed. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d hoped to see him. I tried reading the magazine I brought, but all of the articles seemed to be about sex. And when you’re not getting any, it’s depressing as hell to read about all of the ways you can make it better. What good is reading an article about foods that might increase my libido or tips for having mind-blowing orgasms when I have no special someone? And, unlike Victoria whose best friend is her pink vibrator, I’m not into using sex toys to get me off. I want the real thing. But the real thing has to be quality. Unlike Victoria who’ll screw anything that has a dick, I want a guy who has a good head – on his shoulders!

I’m seriously considering checking out the online dating scene. Maybe Frankie was right when she compared “shopping” for a guy to shopping for an appliance. If I had an apartment with washer and dryer hook-ups and I had the money to buy a washer and dryer I’d scour the internet to find the best make and model and price. I’d want the best my money could buy. So why not apply that same logic to finding a guy? I want a particular make and model, so if I go to an online “store” and stipulate what I want I might just find what I’m looking for. I’ll have to give this online dating gig some serious thought.

By the time I got home from doing laundry, I was starving. I thought about going through the drive-thru on the way home, but decided I’d better stick to my budget. My choice was eating oatmeal or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I chose the oatmeal. When you’re still paying your student loan along with car payments and rent, some nights are cheap nights.

I was just about to slip into the bath tub when Victoria called.

“Do you think I’m a slut?” she blurted.

“Where’d that come from?”

“Because I slept with White-Button-Down-Shirt.”

“No, I don’t think you’re a slut. Yes, I do think you give it up a little too easily.”

“So that means I’m a slut.”

“I didn’t say that. Look. You’re not a slut. A little on the loose side maybe. You like sex. Like a lot. I just think you need to be careful who you’re having it with. White-Button-Down seemed fine.”

“He called.”

“That’s a plus. There might be potential there.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure I like that his ass is so flat, though.”

“Victoria! You’re impossible. I have to go. My bath water’s getting cold.”

I hung up the phone and slipped into the water.

Chapter Five

Monday, July 18

Your day will be challenging but it’s nothing you can’t handle. Much of your success is due to your hard work and perseverance. Embrace something new. Tonight: Take a walk.

I should have known work was going to stink when I read my horoscope. I hate Mondays to begin with and then to start it with having to cover a house fire totally sucked. By the time I arrived on the scene, the fire had become an inferno. Flames licked the pale sky as the wooden structure became a blackened mound of charred rubble. At least the family of four was safe.

I reported from the scene most of the morning and by the time I returned to the office, I smelled like burnt wood and felt just as brittle. I was whipped. I know Horoscope said to take a walk, but there was no way I was walking after work. My feet hurt from standing all day. Once my butt hit the couch, it wasn’t moving.

The fire reminded me of one of my worst nightmares. It happened the night I watched a TV documentary about a 1944 circus fire that killed lots of people. The circus tent, which had been waterproofed with paraffin, caught fire. It was a terrible tragedy. That night, I dreamt I went to the circus and while watching the tigers perform the tent burst into flames. Paraffin dripped from the tent onto my skin, severely burning me. It took my mom hours to get me to sleep. To this day, I’m afraid to go to a circus and I think the worst way to die would be in a fire.

Frankie returned to the office at the same time I did. She’d been covering something at city hall.

“Are you up for trying that Zumba class tonight?” she asked.

“You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me. I’m too tired.”

“But your horoscope said you should embrace something new.”

“How do you know what my horoscope says?”

Frankie pulled out the lollipop she was sucking. “I read it.”

“You read my horoscope?”

“It’s not like I’m spying on you. I read it when I read mine.”

“But you said you didn’t believe in horoscopes.”

“I don’t, but I still read it.”

“Can you stop sucking on that lollipop like it’s a part of the male anatomy? It’s obscene.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “You need a good lay.”

I clenched my teeth and Frankie bolted.

I finished my story and checked in with Oyster Breath, who has this annoying habit of humming. He’s not a bad hummer (is that even a word?) but he hums tunes from the cavemen era. Stuff you hear while on hold for a gazillion hours waiting for the next available representative. Music my grandmother grew up with. Anyway, he looked out over the rim of his wire glasses and said, “Good job, Davies. You might make it in this business yet.”

I swallowed the basketball I hadn’t realized was wedged in my throat and returned to my cubicle to wait for him to finish editing my story. I knew when he was finished it’d be riddled with red notes. I used to think my high school English teacher had a love affair with Red Pen, but Oyster Breath beat Mrs. Beshore by a mile.

I made the mistake of looking at Matt when I sat down. He stuffed a brownie into his mouth and chewed while he talked. “How was the fire?”

He was using small talk to make up for his loud-mouth episode the other day. Matt is just one of those people who irritate me. I think it’s because he reminds me of this bully in elementary school. Teddy was my nemesis. I think he made fun of people so he wouldn’t be made fun of. Sort of like beating someone to the punch. He was as skinny as a stick and had a cowlick that couldn’t be tamed. In other words, there was a lot of material to work with if someone wanted to make fun of him. Thing was, he never gave them a chance. Until one day I put him in his place when I overheard him making fun of Laura, who was a mouse of a girl.

I decided to be nice to Matt and not my usual curt self. I realized lately how much working in a newsroom has changed me and I’m not sure I like who I’ve become. I’m much more dismissive and abrupt. Maybe it’s a hazard of the job and the deadlines, because a lot of journalists I know are like this. I’m tough because I have to be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care or I’m not dying inside. “The home went up fast,” I told Matt. “I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

It didn’t take Oyster Breath long to edit my story. I was right about the red notes. There were lots of them, but I appreciated being challenged. To be honest, I’d learned a lot from Oyster Breath over the past year. The guy was an editing guru and I loved that he challenged me and never settled for mediocre work. I knew I was a better journalist today than I was when I came here, and that meant the world to me.

After addressing his notes in my story, I took the long way to the women’s bathroom, hoping to see Hottie Advertising Guy. I cut through the advertising department, scanning the area as I went. Hottie wasn’t around. He spends most of his time out of the office so catching him is about as likely as Oyster Breath discovering mints.

I checked the clock. I’d almost forgotten about my doctor appointment. While showering that morning, I’d felt a lump in my armpit. I called Dr. Lerman’s office on the way to work and pleaded with the receptionist to fit me in.

“Please, please, please,” I said. When I gave her my name, she said “Oh,” as if she suddenly realized who she was dealing with. It’s not that I go to the doctor’s a lot, but maybe more than most people because I worry so much. Last month, I’d apparently pulled a muscle from running. It happened on a Friday. By the following Monday, I was convinced I had lung cancer and was going to die.

My grandmother died from lung cancer after going to the doctor about a back pain, so of course I figured I had cancer, too. By Monday my fears had spiraled out of control and I could hardly breathe it hurt so much. Dr. Lerman sent me for chest X-rays immediately and had me wait for the results. When I learned there was absolutely nothing wrong, it was like a huge weight was lifted off my chest. The pain just vanished. It was the weirdest thing. I never would’ve believed my fears and anxiety could actually produce phantom symptoms, but they did.

When I discovered the lump, the only thing I could think about was this tearjerker movie in which a young mother died from cancer that was detected during a routine office visit. The lump was near her armpit. So, knowing how my worries manifest into symptoms, I made the appointment.

When I arrived at Dr. Lerman’s office, a woman with a throaty Midwestern accent talking on a cellphone followed me in the door. Dressed in what I would classify as retro bohemian she looked like she was ready to smoke a joint and party. I swear she had a ring on every finger – even her pinkies.

I hate with purple passion people who talk on cellphones in waiting rooms, or anywhere I’m a captive audience. She sat beside me and put the caller on speaker. (No, I’m not kidding.) They talked about a guy (“He was a lousy lay anyway!”) who dumped the caller earlier that day. Thank God the nurse called me back to the examination room because I was about to go hang out in the bathroom.

Covered with a thin paper sheet, I drifted off on the examination table. Dr. Lerman startled me when she opened the door.

I sat up. “Sorry, Dr. Lerman. Tough day. I probably smell like smoke.”

She sniffed the air. “You do a little. Why?”

“Covered a fire today and didn’t have a chance to shower.”

She nodded and went over my medical history. “So, let me see this lump.”

I held my right arm straight up and the paper covering fell down around my waist. She pushed against the lump with her fingertips.

She pulled off her plastic gloves. “Nothing to worry about, Sydney. It’s just a pimple.”

I sighed. “Thank God, because I really thought it was cancer and that you were going to tell me I was going to die and never have kids and never grow old and never be a grandmother, even though I’m not sure I want kids and growing old isn’t bad because it means I’m alive but I don’t want to look old and I definitely don’t want to be a grandmother until like fifty years from now – if at all.”

“Wow, Sydney,” Dr. Lerman said. “How are you sleeping, by the way?”

“Well, since you asked – I’m having trouble. I just can’t shut off my brain. You know how I hate odd numbers, right?”

Dr. Lerman nodded.

“Except 666. I hate that number, too, even though it’s even. I got a receipt yesterday and it was for $6.66. I asked the clerk if she could add two pennies to it, but she said she couldn’t. I thought about buying something else, but then I added two pennies to the penny dish on the counter, figuring that covered me.”

Dr. Lerman cleared her throat. “Wow. Okay, then. And the sleep?”

“Yeah, that. So, as I was saying I hate odd numbers. Now I’ve been watching the clock and if the clock ends in an odd number, like 11:03, I have to wait until 11:04 to close my eyes. But if the time ends in an odd number but the two last digits add up to an even number, then I’m okay. So like 11:13 is fine because even though it ends in an odd number, one plus three equals four, which is even.”

“Sydney,” Dr. Lerman said. “Maybe it’s time we had a serious talk about your anxiety issues.”

I squirmed on the table. “Do we have to? I’m not crazy about taking medication.”

Dr. Lerman sat down across from me. “Would talking with someone help?”

I shrugged.

“Look,” Dr. Lerman said. “If we start you on a very low dosage of medication, just enough to take the edge off your anxiety, you’ll be able to sleep better. You want to do that, right?”

I nodded. “It would be nice to be able to shut off my brain and fall asleep when my head hit my pillow. I’m not sure that’s even possible.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Dr. Lerman called in a prescription. “Let me know if it helps. I’m going to start you out on half a pill, but if it’s not enough, we’ll increase it to a whole tablet. How does that sound?”

“I’ll give it a try.”

By the time I got home, I had a little bit of a second wind, but not enough for Zumba. Maybe a walk. I hadn’t planned on confessing my odd, no pun intended, behavior to Dr. Lerman. But maybe she was right. Maybe I did need something to help curb my anxiety. It couldn’t hurt. Maybe this was the something new Horoscope told me to embrace. Besides, the whole odd and even thing was beginning to stress me out in other areas of my life. For example, I liked having an even number of pencils in my caddy at work. When I bought bananas, I looked for a bunch with an even number. It didn’t bother me that after eating one, there’d be an odd number left, as long as I started with an even number. I know, I’m a freak! I knew Dr. Lerman was right about my anxiety and obsessive behavior affecting the quality of my life and I definitely needed to get more sleep if I was going to function at my best.

Chapter Six

Tuesday, July 19

Someone close asks for your advice. Be honest. They’ll benefit from your wisdom and experience. Communication is key. Tonight: Make it early.

My BFF Jen called to complain about this guy she’s been dating. He has potential, but there are some things about him that bug her.

“He doesn’t call me,” Jen said. “He texts all the time!”

I laughed. “Sounds like you met your twin when it comes to texting.”

Jen sighed. “He texts way more than I do. Maybe he’s lazy.”

“Come on, Jen. Whether we like it or not, nowadays the default is to text. Running late? We send a text. Want to know what someone’s doing? Send a text. Besides, did you tell him how much it bugs you?”

“No.”

“Send him a text!”

We laughed.

“Seriously,” I said. “He’s not going to know you prefer he call, at least every once in a while, if you don’t tell him.”

“And another thing,” Jen said. “Why can’t he ask me before Friday if I’m free over the weekend?”

“Does he know you like to plan ahead?” I asked.

“No, but he should. What girl doesn’t know what she’s doing for the weekend by Wednesday?”

“Look, the next time you see him, tell him how you feel. That you want to talk more and text less and you usually have your weekend plans figured out by the middle of the week. Either he’ll get with the program or not.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sydney. I miss you. I wish we lived closer.”

“Me too. And you can thank my horoscope.”

“What?”

I explained how I was following my horoscope, using it as a daily guide.

“So today it said someone close would seek my advice and I should be honest.”

“That’s kind of creepy,” Jen said. “Do you think it’s because it’s at the top of your mind so you’re making a correlation that’s not necessarily there?”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember the time I thought I was pregnant and everywhere I looked there were babies? I’d open up a magazine and see a diaper ad or watch TV and a talking baby commercial would come on. I don’t think there were suddenly more babies around. I just think it was at the top of my mind and so I noticed them more.”

“In other words, you don’t want me to put too much trust in my horoscope,” I said. “It’s purely coincidental that my best friend called me for advice on the very same day my horoscope predicted someone close to me would. Maybe you’re right, but what the hell. I don’t have anything to lose.”

“True,” Jen said. “You don’t. So what’s up with the Hottie Advertising Guy?”

“Nothing! Zilch! Zero!”

“Hang in there, Syd. The right guy will come along.”

“You know, I’m beginning to not care any more. I mean, no guy is better than some guy. I’m beginning to think guys are just too much work.”

“You’ve got a serious case of relationship blahs.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just coming to terms with the idea that my happiness shouldn’t be contingent on what a guy will or won’t provide. Single isn’t synonymous with desperate. I have my standards and I have to believe when the time is right, it’ll happen.”

“I wish I had a tape recorder,” Jen said.

“Why?”

“So I could record what you just said and play it when you’re back to totally crushing on Hottie Advertising Guy – which, if history repeats itself, will be by this time tomorrow.”

“You’re impossible!”

Jen laughed. “But I’m usually right.”

Ten minutes after I got off the phone with Jen, Jada called.

“Sydney, I need some advice.”

“I feel like Lucy but no one’s paying me.”

“Who’s Lucy?”

“You know. Lucy in the Charlie Brown comic strip. She sets up an advice booth. You’re the second friend who’s called for advice tonight. Anyway, what’s up?”

“My eggs. They’re getting old.”

“So throw them out, go to the store and buy new ones.”

“Not those eggs, dummy. My eggs. The ones in my body, the ones I was born with, the ones waiting to be fertilized by the perfect male specimen.”

“Whoa. Slow down. What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Okay. So you know I’m seeing two guys, Michael and Mitch. Two M’s, I know. Very confusing. Sometimes I find myself calling Mitch, Michael and Michael, Mitch. Anyway. I’m seeing both of them. Not sleeping with either. They both would make great dads, but they both have pluses and minuses.

I started unloading my dishwasher. “No one’s perfect.”

“True, but just listen. Michael is ready to take the relationship to the next level. He’s wants an exclusive relationship. Mitch is more willing to continue the dating game but seems to want kids more than Michael. Meanwhile, my eggs are getting older and time is running out.”

I stood on my tiptoes to put the cereal bowls on the top shelf. “What’s more important, Jada? Having a baby or finding the love of your life?”

(Insert pregnant, no pun intended, pause here.)

“My advice is to date a lot. Don’t let your eggs dictate your relationship. Take the time to find the right guy. Besides, I just read somewhere more and more professional women are freezing their eggs when they’re young so they have them later in life when they’re ready to have a child.”

“You’re not helping, Sydney,” Jada said. “What’s all that noise anyhow?”

“I’m unloading the dishwasher.”

“Oops! Gotta go,” Jada said. “Mitch, I mean Michael, is at my door.”

I finished putting the dishes away and was just about to jump into the shower when Victoria called.

“Jesus. Do I have counselor stamped on my forehead or what?”

“What?” Victoria asked.

“Never mind. What’s up?”

“I just came from White-Button-Down-Shirt’s apartment,” Victoria explained. “Guess what I found in his couch cushion?”

“Twenty bucks?”

“I wish. I found a used condom. And I’m on the pill so it wasn’t from us.”

“Oh, Victoria. Please. That’s so gross!”

“I know, but I can tell you gross stuff and you’re one of my few friends who will actually listen.”

“Thanks, I guess. So what did he say?”

“He said it’s old.”

“Oh, God, Victoria. That’s even grosser. TMI! TMI!”

“Sorry, but I just had to tell someone and like I said, you’re the only person I know who won’t hang up on me.”

“Look Victoria, you need to protect yourself. Period. You don’t know him well enough to go raw dog.”

“Raw dog?”

“Yeah. It means…”

“I can figure out what it means. Just never heard anyone describe not using a condom as raw dog.”

“Well, now you have. And for your own piece of mind I’d get tested. Have him get tested, too.”

“And how do I even bring something like that up?”

“You just do.”

“You’re such a germophobe, Sydney.”

“I’m not a germophobe, just smart. And there’s no way I’m going raw dog unless I know for damn sure it’s been well cared for.”

“But I really like him,” Victoria said.

“And if he really likes you, he won’t have a problem with the request.”

I went to bed earlier than usual, and not just because Horoscope told me to make it an early night. I was exhausted. Advising people was hard work. I wondered if this was how a shrink feels after listening to people’s problems all day. I was even too damn tired to worry about whether the clock time ended in an odd or even number. Maybe I should make this advice gig permanent. I bet I’d make a good advice columnist. Maybe I should give it a try sometime.

Chapter Seven

Wednesday, July 20

Money is on your mind. Re-evaluate your spending. A financial overhaul might be in order. Set priorities. Tonight: Count your blessings.

Horoscope was right. Money has been on my mind. I was spending more than I was making and not saving at all.

I knew when I decided to become a journalist I’d never make a lot of money. It wasn’t high on the list of good paying jobs. Hell, it wasn’t on the list at all. Dad tried to talk me into marketing and public relations, but I knew I wanted to be a reporter ever since seventh grade when a journalist, a friend of the teacher, visited our classroom. I believe in the fourth estate and the role it plays in ensuring our democracy continues. I’ve always been proud to be a part of that. But, the lack of money has me eating more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than I’d like.

So when Frankie asked me to go out to lunch, I knew I shouldn’t go, but I did anyway. I pulled out the emergency twenty I stashed behind my driver’s license to pay for my food. I followed Frankie to a table near the back of the deli. I wiped off the table, chairs and salt and pepper shakers.

Frankie bit into a pickle. “You’re the only person I know who carries wipes in her purse.”

I rolled the wipe into a ball. “Good thing for you I do. Do you realize the amount of bacteria on these surfaces?”

Frankie scrunched her nose. “Yuk! Stop! I’m trying to enjoy my food without having visions of E. Coli and Salmonella dancing in my head.”

I sat down and dug out the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer I keep in my purse. “Want some?”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “No. I don’t like using that stuff when I eat. It makes my food taste weird.”

“It doesn’t taint your food; your tongue touches your hand.” I squeezed some on my hands and rubbed them together. “What did we do before hand sanitizer and bacterial soap?”

Frankie sipped her soda. “We were probably a lot healthier. Not to change the subject, but did you think about trying that online dating site I told you about?”

I dipped my fork into the salad dressing I asked for on the side and jabbed it into my salad. “Still thinking about it. How’s it going with you and Josh?”

“It’s not. I went to his apartment last night.”

My eyes widened because Frankie rarely goes to a guy’s apartment. She has to really, really, really like a guy for it to get to the going-to-his-apartment stage.

“Nothing happened. We just talked. But his apartment was messy. The sink was filled with dirty dishes and his furniture looked dorm-roomy.”

“Did he have any books?”

“Negative. You know I’m not looking for a wall of classics, but an assortment would be nice.”

“Ouch.”

“Ouch is right. I’m not going out with him again. I told him last night I didn’t think we were right for each other.”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing. He was mausoleum quiet. Luckily I drove so I could leave.”

“So who’s next on the dating list?”

“I think I’m going to give romance a break. Dating is a lot of work and I’d rather just hang out with you and the other singletons for a while. You guys are more fun and you don’t have an agenda.”

I laughed. “True, we are more fun, but nothing would beat finding the right guy.”

Frankie ate the rest of her pickle. “I’m beginning to think that’ll never happen.”

“Oh, come on, Frankie. I’m the one who’s always looking at the glass half empty. Don’t you dare ditch your sunny optimism.”

After lunch, I headed for an interview with a couple for a story I was doing on “modern” love letters. Part of my story was looking at the past when couples relied on written letters to keep love alive when they were apart. When I heard of Ronnie and Dorothy, I just had to meet them. They had hundreds of love letters going back decades, when he was a marine and she was his best girl.

In their early eighties, the couple – now gray-haired and a little rounder than when they first met – sat on their sofa holding hands. Letters were spread out on the coffee table in front of them. The box from which they came sat on the floor.

“We fell in love through our letters,” Dorothy said.

“She sent me a picture of her in shorts,” Ronnie said. “I slept on the bottom bunk and I put the picture under the springs of the top bunk so I could see her when I wrote to her.”

They shared their letters with me and as I listened to them explain how much the notes had meant to them, I realized how shallow today’s forms of communication are. Text messages and video chats just don’t compare to the written word.

Ronnie patted Dorothy’s hand. “And we still exchange notes today.”

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