Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“What happened?”
“Last night I saved a woman from getting hit by a car. We started crossing the street, and I saw it coming. There was no evidence it was slowing for the red light. So I just sort of grabbed her and pulled us back toward the sidewalk. Still can’t believe it worked.”
“You were lucky.”
“Very,” I say. “This is where it gets strange. The woman was a witch hired to be the entertainment at my best friend’s birthday. And when it was my turn to talk to her, I had no idea what to say. But then her two hours were up, and she wanted to go home.”
“Right.”
“As a thank-you for saving her from getting hit by the car, she told me some things. Made some predictions. Like how my boyfriend was cheating on me and that I would get passed over for a promotion again at work.”
He cocks his head. “You don’t actually believe her?”
“I didn’t. Not at first. I still don’t want to. But when I got home last night, my boyfriend had company. There was a naked woman hiding in my bathroom. Can you believe that shit?”
“Ouch.”
“Then when I got to work today, my boss told me not to bother applying for an upcoming promotion. She had already decided to give the position to Brian.”
His blue eyes are serious. “That’s awful. But surely these are just—”
“Coincidences?” I finish with a bitter smile. “Yeah. That’s what I thought too. The problem is, the witch also told me the name of my supposed soulmate.”
“And?”
“It’s you.”
Laughter bursts out of him. “Good story.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I think you’re extremely entertaining. Enjoy the champagne.” He hands a black credit card to the bartender. And he’s still smiling and shaking his head when she hands him the receipt. Then he turns to me and says, “Have a nice life.”
I should shut up and let him leave. It would probably be for the best. But it feels so good to talk to someone about it. To air my anxieties. Whether I’m talking or trauma-dumping is debatable. “She mentioned something about that too. Apparently, my time is up a week from tomorrow.”
He pauses. “What?”
“She said I die in eight days.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wholeheartedly concur. But three in a row, you know?”
Nothing from him.
I hate this...feeling fragile. It’s not me at all. “She also told me tonight’s lotto numbers. I bought a ticket, and if I don’t win, then I’ll know. I’ll laugh at how gullible I was and put this all behind me with a great sense of relief.”
He still hasn’t moved. All six feet something of him just stands there frowning. He is seriously displeased. A lesser woman would shake in her shoes, but honestly, at this point what have I got to lose? “This actually happened, didn’t it?” he asks. “The witch and you almost getting hit by a car and all that?”
“Yes, it did.”
“And you believe what she said.”
“That’s the problem. I honestly don’t know what to believe. I mean, there are a lot of people in this city. What is the likelihood of us meeting? What were you even doing in the library parking lot?”
“Dropping some of my mother’s first editions off for a display.”
“Then we would have crossed paths either way,” I say, somewhat vindicated. “My boss had asked me to meet you for the handoff. But I was upset about Brian and the promotion and walked out.”
He keeps staring at me, and it is all too much. Today has been stressful enough. I turn away and, oh, this is awkward. I’ve changed my mind. It would be better if he left. Then I’ll just sit here quietly and work on both my buzz and forgetting the many ways in which I have embarrassed myself. He must think I am a walking red flag. A stalker with a wild story or something. Nothing else makes sense.
The irony of me trying to be mindful and make careful choices throughout my adult life. To make my parents proud. And here I am in a bar with a pity bottle of Pérignon, waiting for fucking lottery balls to decide my fate.
My cell buzzes with a text. It’s from Paul.
Tow truck on the way. All sorted out.
I reply: I’m so sorry I freaked out and ran. Thank you again.
Paul sends a thumbs-up emoji. He’s a good person.
Meanwhile, Alistair is still standing there with his coat in hand. “Are you really just going to sit here alone until the draw?”
“That’s the plan.”
He swears under his breath and sits back down. Then he picks up his glass of champagne and downs it in one gulp.
“You’re staying?” I ask.
“Apparently.” His forehead is wrinkled to heck and back. The man is not happy. He signals the bartender and orders a coffee. “Only for a while, and for the record, I am definitely not your soulmate. I just don’t like the idea of you sitting alone worrying yourself sick about this.”