Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

LAKE

222 bobas left until we both die … (and counting down quick)

The curse does not step in, not even when I start working at the concert venues.

My first day, I’m dressed in a yellow and red fast-food uniform with a name tag that says Anna (I’m a temp worker, so I don’t get a custom one). I spend both nights of Tam’s concerts in East Rutherford, New Jersey pulling French fries from grease and apologizing repeatedly for the long wait. Afterward, what do I have to show for it except a few new pimples and the peach jasmine boba that Joules got for me?

I slump into the chair in our shitty little motel room and suck the only joy I’ve had all week out of a straw.

Job number two is in Philadelphia. This time, I get to work in an all-gray uniform with a black apron, pushing around a cart full of cleaning supplies. An entire night of listening to Tam’s pretty voice echo out of the stadium to poison me. It’s like eating a whole tray of cookies at once, too much of a good thing.

Afterward, it’s my turn to get the bobas since Joules has to work later than I do, watching the doors and checking stamped wrists as people leave and re-enter. That’s what the job description should have said, instead of security. Security, my ass.

Neither of us is anywhere near Tam or his massive entourage.

Joules meets me outside afterward with a scowl etched into his face, and I pass over his grape Yakult without another word. Back to the motel, slump in the chair with my boba, suck happiness up along with popping boba balls.

Job three. Boston. I’m on merch duty today—for the stadium. The concert venue sells its own hoodies and sweatpants and magnets. I’m nowhere near the bustling stations that are Tam’s merch tables. I sell exactly three pairs of maroon sweatpants before, dressed in the same merch I was hawking, I meet my brother outside on the steps. We share a silent look, and then head to the boba shop.

Melt into a chair at the motel. Suck on boba. Watermelon again with an adorable emoji lid featuring a winky face. Fantastic.

Job four is the worst, restocking the bathrooms and plunging toilets. I wear a T-shirt with Tam’s face on the front—provided by the venue—and a pair of my own holey jeans. Finish day. Get boba. Sit dejectedly in chair, sucking too loudly on a straw.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

I try exactly thirty-nine new boba flavors before Joules and I decide to switch things up a bit.

With only one-hundred-and-eighty-three bobas left until Tam and I both die, my brother and I start to get the hang of where to go when the concert is over, where to wait for Tam to pass by on his way to the blacked-out SUV he rides around in.

On the first two days that we stand outside, I can’t seem to get through the thick crowd so that I’m anywhere near him.

On the third day, I finally land a good job at the stadium, as an usher who shows people to their seats. I’m just starting my shift when the manager comes up, taps me on the shoulder, and apologizes. I’m then moved back to the lobby to stand near the stairs, guiding people with tickets from there. That’s the same day Tam stops showing up outside after the show.

Lovely.

Fourteen more days pass as Joules and I get the hang of the crowd, finding spots in the front near the velvet rope. But Tam? He doesn’t come back. After those first few days, we don’t see hide-nor-hair of him outside of the stadiums.

“This is hopeless,” I sniff, back leaned up against the side of a brick building, bubble tea in hand. My cheeks flush when I lift it up to my face. I got little fruit jellies in mine today, and each colorful blob has a smiling face on it. Tears prick my eyes, but I brush them aside with a bright yellow mitten. At least somebody here is smiling today.

“Don’t cry, Canoe,” Joules murmurs, pulling off his own black glove and pressing his palm against the side of my face. I make a small sound. His hand is hot, and my face is so cold. It’s miserable up here in the winter. Who would willingly choose to live in the north?! I want to go back to Arkansas.

“Canoe,” I choke out with a laugh, slipping the straw into my mouth and giving a healthy amount of suction so that one of the tiny jellies comes up and lands on my tongue. Ah, sugar and watermelon flavor. It’s my go-to, my favorite, and after thirty-nine new flavors, I needed a taste of home. “You only call me that when you’re trying to be nice.”

“Aren’t I always nice to you?” Joules mutters, giving my cheek a faux tap with his palm. He draws his hand back and puts his glove back on, retrieving his own drink from the stone windowsill on his right. We’re perched on the sidewalk with a few Tambourines, following some obscure Reddit tip that we might find Tam here tonight. It was worth a shot, no matter how slim. “Besides, Canoe is a great nickname. Our parents named you Lake. It’s funny.”

I smile into my cup, my attention on the lid with the smiling sun on it. Hah. Sun? It’s like thirty degrees and plummeting tonight. What if this is my last winter alive? I should just try to enjoy it, to accept the sharp sting of the wind on my face, the way Joules’ hot drink steams from the tiny hole in the lid, the way the laughter of the other people waiting with us rings strangely in the chill air. In the distance, a siren flares to life, and two minutes later, several cop cars and an ambulance are rumbling by.

I do my best not to think about Joe, about the paramedics and the police and the detectives. I shiver and cup my drink even more tightly, sucking up poor unsuspecting jellies and crushing them between chattering teeth.

“I have the whole family applying for the fan call thing,” Joules continues, and I nod. Every now and again, Tam hosts these contests. The winners get a personal video call from him. It’s a long shot, but we’re desperate. It’s something the family can do to help out—besides all the money they’ve been sending. I know what it’s like to feel helpless. I did my best to befriend Joe’s match, Marla, but she was struggling so much, and the timing just wasn’t right … I hate this fucking curse.

“Thank you, Joules,” I tell him, finding myself suddenly bereft of jellies and tea. My drink is empty?! How? When? I sigh and set the ice-filled cup aside. My brother hands me his hot drink instead, and I shake my head, sniffling again. He growls under his breath, snatches my hands, and forces me to accept it. “Thank you for organizing everything and planning everything. I know I haven’t been as helpful as I should be—”

“Listen to me, Canoe,” he says, squatting down in front of me to get my attention. The group of girls standing near us titter and giggle at the sight, like they think he’s proposing or something. I roll my eyes, but I love it. I have a doting brother who’s very dramatic. I am lucky as hell. “You would do the same for me if our positions were reversed. And even if you wouldn’t, I would still do this for you because I love you.”

The girls sigh and give little half-hearted whoops from their spot at the corner, and I find myself laughing. I cup my hand around my mouth and call out to them.

“He’s my brother!” I shout, and they all turn to look at me. “He’s single, too.” More laughter follows, and then one of them jogs over, breath puffing in white clouds from her pretty lips.

“Here’s my number,” she says, swallowing around her nervousness. “Call me sometime, okay?” The girl tucks the paper into my brother’s jacket pocket when he makes no move to take it, and then she sprints down the sidewalk. Her friends follow behind her, giving up on their dreams of meeting Tam Eyre.

Joules and I, we stay.

“Thanks a lot for that,” he grumbles, standing back up and then reaching for his black beanie to adjust it. It says Security in white letters on the front.

“She was cute; you should call her.” I sip the tea in my hands—a robust black with a single sugar cube—and contemplate our next move. Every stupid book in our family’s stupid library assured me that if I put myself near my Match, the meet-cutes (sorry, fortuitous and random encounters of chance) would happen naturally. I have yet to get within … um … maybe three hundred feet of Tam?

“Yeah, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to make Kaycee Quinn fall in love with me.” Joules taps his fingers against the glass window on his right, drawing my attention to a poster with the pop star’s face on it. She’s singing with Tam for nearly every concert on the US leg of his tour. When he moves over to Europe, she’s taking a break to film a drama.

Not that … it matters. I’ll be dead by then. Oddly enough, the last day of the curse is also the night of Tam’s final US concert, some special event show that’s being filmed for his biographical docuseries.

Sigh.

“If anyone were capable of that, it’d be you,” I assure my brother, giving him a comforting pat on the chest with my palm. “Let’s go back to the hotel. I don’t think that he’s—”

A black SUV turns the corner at that exact moment, and I look up in surprise, nearly dropping the tea to the pavement. Joules catches it because he’s just that sort of awesome.

Black Escalade, tinted windows, California license plate.

That has to be Tam. It’s the same car I’ve seen idling outside the venues.

Without thinking about it, I run forward and directly into the street, throwing my arms out to either side and squeezing my eyes shut.

The SUV screeches to a sudden stop, just inches in front of me. I’m panting so hard that I feel dizzy, my breath creating a mini-blizzard in front of my chapped lips. I crack one eye open first, and then the other.

Joules is standing on the curb, dumbfounded and somehow still holding the tea in his hand.

The SUV doesn’t stop; the driver doesn’t even yell out the window at me. He backs up and then turns in the opposite direction, peeling down the street at a speed that’s at least twice that of the legal limit.

Shit.

“What were you fucking thinking?!” Joules roars, snatching my arm and yanking me out of the street. When I turn to look at him, I see nothing but fear and concern in his dark eyes. “You could’ve been killed.” His voice is a whisper, and I just know he’s going to report back to the family about this.

“Joules, if I don’t meet Tam soon then I’m dead anyway. I have to take risks.”

He says nothing, his breathing as labored as my own. The streetlight changes color from green to red, painting us both in bright light. Joules frowns at me, shoves the tea into my hands, and then takes off down the sidewalk.

We head back to our hotel together—more like a motel, really—and I sit in a chair wearing a heavy winter coat and a mantle of shame. Sip my tea and wish it were boba.

Wash.

Rinse.

Repeat.

166 bobas left until we both die …

Margaret (the cousin whose Match is a bagel shop owner in New York) calls me the next day. She’s got an idea. It’s actually cheaper to rent a penthouse apartment on Airbnb that overlooks the next stadium where Tam is performing than to buy a resale scalper ticket.

Rant incoming.

“How is it even legal?” I’m shouting over the phone as Margaret shouts agreeably back. We’re both on video chat, waiving our arms around like crazy people and complaining about the sorry state of the secondhand concert ticket industry. First world problems, I know. “The artists don’t even see any of that money! Scalpers buy up all the tickets and force the rest of us normal people to fight to pay triple or more for the same seat.”

“It’s disgusting,” Margaret agrees, green eyes wide, voice lowered to a reverent whisper. “Remember when Taylor Swift’s tickets went on sale and crashed the whole internet? Ticketmaster charged me three times for the same tickets, and then eventually told me I didn’t even have any tickets at all!”

“Same thing happened to us with Tam,” I respond, slumping down on the lumpy brown couch near the window. We have to rent … questionable places to stay. My family—even my whole extended family—is pouring money into the emergency account, and it’s still not a lot. The gas, food, and lodging are killing us. “All scalpers should be publicly caned.”

My cousin chuckles.

“Hung over the lion enclosure at the zoo, slathered in chicken blood.”

“Oh, I love that!” I hurriedly think up a dastardly punishment for anyone who purposely buys a ticket to a concert they have no intention of attending, and then immediately resells it for a massive profit. “Let’s bury them up to their necks in sand—infected with sea lice. Naked.”

“Sand in the ass crack. Nice. You’re vicious.” She clears her throat, and then glances over her shoulder. I can see the bagel shop that she owns with her husband. When Joules and I visited, we got free bagels and coffee and hugs. In another life, I’d move to NYC for a few months and just try working in the shop alongside Margaret.

In another life.

One where I have more than … one-hundred-and-sixty-six bobas left until I die.

“Anyway, what I was saying is: Nick and I are going to rent you guys this apartment for the night. You’ll be as close to the concert as you would if you were there.” Margaret sounds so excited by the idea, and I’m so grateful for her help, I can’t bear to tell her that it won’t help at all. A high-rise apartment near the concert venue sounds nice, but I’m not here to listen to Tam’s music. I need to meet him. “I’ll text you the pin code for the door lock. You can check in any time after three.”

“You’re amazing, Margaret, you know that?” I tell her, but she shakes her head violently, blonde-brown curls fluffing around her face. She looks at me with an expression of earnestness and angst and gratitude.

“You guys are amazing. Our whole family is amazing. Without the family’s help, I wouldn’t … and I won’t let what happened to … Just know that I love you, Lake. Tell Joules that I love him, too.”

Joules grunts from the direction of the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth.

“He says he loves you, too.” I give the screen a kiss and Margaret does the same. “Go boil bagels and prove that boiled are superior to steamed. It’s important.”

“Always fighting the good fight,” she assures me, kissing the screen on her end and then hanging up. A few minutes later, I’ve got all the info for the apartment.

“Won’t meet Tam from an Airbnb, but at least we won’t be staying in a place with bloodstains on the mattress.” Joules spits into the sink, rinses his mouth, and then turns around to look at me. He forces a smile, and then raises a brow. “Pack your shit, Canoe. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

The apartment is nice, even if it’s not my style. We’re in a glass block floating in the sky, windows on every wall. Crisp white furniture that looks nicer than it feels. Stone countertops and stainless steel and a few, select art pieces featuring swirls and blotches. The lights are off, but there’s an ambient glow from the city outside.

And the balcony? It really does overlook the stadium where Tam is performing. I can hear the roar of the crowd before I even crack the door, padding across the dark apartment in my socks while Joules curses and looks around for the light switch. When he finds it, he blinds me by turning on every light in the room all at once.

I open the balcony door wide, whistling as the cold air hits the bare skin of my arms. My brother chases me down, throwing his jacket over my shoulders and cursing under his breath. Together, we lean our forearms against the railing and look out at the crowd. The massive screens on either side of the stage are as visible from here as they were from our nosebleed seats in New York.

If I were here to listen to Tam sing, I’d be thrilled.

“Let’s stay here until he gets to “Sweet Honey”,” Joules tells me, scrolling his phone with a frown on his face. By this point, we’ve got Tam’s set list memorized. An impressive forty song set that begins with “Kiss This Rizz” and ends with “Let’s Just Have Coffee, My Love”. He tucks his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “Then we’ll head down and try to wait outside.”

“Roger that,” I murmur, resting my chin on my arms.

I stay that way until Tam takes the stage with Kaycee Quinn again.

“Your future husband and my future wife,” Joules tells me confidently, and I snort a laugh.

What it looks like from here—on every careful zoom and panning shot on the oversized screens—is that Tam and Kaycee are head-over-heels in love with one another. He’s playing the piano and crooning to her again, fingers gliding over the keys as he stares into her eyes and sings “Our First Night”, a song that’s in no way subtle. Sex, sex, sex.

I sigh and let my eyes drift shut.

Kaycee has a beautiful voice, too, a dulcet shimmer that brings goose bumps up on my arms. Her range is absolutely incredible, and unlike so many other popular acts, both she and Tam sing live. It’s surprisingly easy to tell: the sudden intake of breath, the way their cheeks deflate and fill with air, the strain in their necks as they search the stars for those punishingly high notes. And every night, they sound just a little bit different.

I find myself mouthing the words when all of six months ago, I couldn’t name a single Tam song off the top of my head. My eyes open to find Tam rising from his seat in a sharp white tux covered in rhinestones and paired with flashy red sneakers. He strips his jacket off, tosses it over the piano, and holds out a hand for Kaycee.

She can’t fake the blush in her cheeks when she accepts, her pleasure in the moment broadcasted to the entire world. Her dark hair rests in her signature double plaits, one hanging on either side of her. Almond-shaped eyes and coffee-colored irises, glass skin the color of milk, and lips like a rosebud. I don’t blame Tam Eyre: if I were him, I’d be in love with her, too.

They dance their racy tango together—still singing, mind you—and then it’s onto their couples’ power ballad: “Teeth Gritted on a Cold Sunday Morning”. It’s about lazy weekend afternoons, cuddled up on the couch together and kissing; it’s about being so deeply in love that the noise of the world fades away to nothing.

Kaycee and Tam both retreat after the song, and the screens begin to play a video that shows Tam searching through a field of wildflowers on a moonlit night, searching for Kaycee. It’s not a music video, just some clever shots to amp up the energy of the concert goers. When he finds her, he gives her his jacket, kisses her cheek, and winks at her before they kiss.

The power of the crowd is tangible even from here, perched on a penthouse balcony in an unfamiliar city. I can taste the audience’s love for Tam, can feel it on my tongue alongside the icy sweep of the wind. Can hear it in their screams. Can feel it in my bones.

The video plays through, and then Tam takes the stage again in a new outfit.

Loose T-shirt with a faded American flag printed over the top. The blue square with the white stars makes up a pocket over his chest, and the red stripes are actually slits in the fabric, sewn up with heavy red thread and small buckles. He’s got on loose blue jeans, and white sneakers with a single red and a single blue stripe.

Strawberry blonde hair falls over a devilishly handsome face, all kind lines and beauteous smile. Tam has just the right sort of smile lines on either side of his mouth, happy brackets that break up the smooth softness of his skin whenever he grins at the crowd.

This song has a lot of, um, references and very suggestive dance moves that get the audience riled into a frenzy. There’s this part where he grabs one of the red ties on his shirt and tugs, unraveling it. The thread falls loose, and then there’s this big gap in the fabric that splits open when he dances, revealing washboard abs. The camera person never misses a chance to zoom in on his navel, and my cheeks heat.

If I am to survive the year, I will be … I might eventually …

“I can’t even imagine sleeping with someone that hot,” I mumble, and Joules snorts at me. He’s used to it. He always dates attractive people because he’s attractive himself. I’m about as average as they come. Not knocking my own looks or anything, but I’m just … normal.

“Can you imagine sleeping with anyone at all? Virgin.” He stabs me with his elbow, and I turn my head to glare at him, my eyes stinging from the cold.

“You wouldn’t let me date anyone. How is that my fault? You even chased me to college to keep tabs on me. Asshole.” But we’re both smiling at the memories. Joules and Joe always had my back in everything, but more than that, they taught me how I wanted to be treated by a man. Between them and my dad and my uncles, I won’t accept anything less than what I grew up with. It’s served me well thus far, but it’s also kept me very single.

Doesn’t matter. I’d rather wait for the right guy—

The thought dies away as I turn back to the stadium. Tam is on his knees, his back bowed, chin tipped up to the sky. His voice is powerful, but it’s also skidding a bit over some of the notes, turning his words into rough, wild things. I shiver.

Right.

I don’t get to pick a man; the universe has chosen one for me.

“Do you think that the curse really matches us to our soulmates?” I mutter, thinking about my crazy great-aunt and her staunch belief that the curse isn’t a curse at all, but a blessing. She says it’s a miracle that we have some external force around to show us who our soulmate is. I’m of the belief that love is something earned and built on memories and trust and experience. Not that my belief matters much.

If Tam doesn’t fall in love with me, we’ll both drop dead.

“Everyone who’s succeeded seems happy enough,” Joules admits grudgingly. If there’s anyone in this family who hates the curse more than I do, it’s my brother. “Even when they don’t succeed, they …” He sucks in a violent breath. “Even Joe was in love with Marla. If they’d met at a different time, they’d have beaten the curse.”

We both go silent, watching the show until “Sweet Honey” starts, and then it’s time to bundle up in jackets, hats, and scarves, so that we can head to the stadium. While Joules drove today, I researched the best places to look for artists outside the concert venue, so we know exactly where to go.

Joules circles my mom’s SUV around to the back of the building where a small crowd is already gathered, huddled down in heavy coats, rubbing frigid hands together, applying and reapplying lip balm for wind-chapped lips. There’s nowhere to park, so Joules drops me off first.

I join the back of the crowd, eyeing a path to the front. Not that I’m particularly hopeful. It’s been weeks and weeks of this, and I haven’t seen Tam since the first few days. This bastard, I think, he hasn’t given these poor girls anything, leaving them to sit out here in the frigid cold. Would a smile kill him? Hell, all he has to do is walk by!

I rub my hands together despite the thick wool mittens I’m wearing. My grandma knitted them for me, and I’m damn proud of that. I know as well as anyone else that family isn’t forever. Sometimes, people die, and they don’t come back. If my gram wants to knit me cozy mittens to wear, then I’m wearing them.

Even if they’re the most obnoxious yellow with big white polka dots. Especially if.

Okay, Lake, stop spacing out. You can do this. Your life depends on this.

Unfortunately, every other person in this crowd also believes that their life depends on meeting Tam.

Being curse-matched to a world-famous idol sucks.

I straighten my shoulders and breathe deep. I’ve got this. I can do this. There is an art form to maneuvering through a crowd of rabid fandom. It must be done carefully and with great attention to detail. One wrong move and the crowd becomes a mob looking to oust an intruder.

Move with caution, Lake. Take care. I edge past a girl with a giant sign that reads: Tam Eyre is my oppa! Ahh. Oppa is a Korean word that can mean big brother, but can also mean boyfriend. It’s used a lot in the K-pop scene, but even though Tam isn’t a K-pop star, he studied in Seoul and uses a lot of similar elements in his music, dance routines, and styling.

“Hey!” I call out, standing on my tiptoes and waving at the back of some random girl’s head. The move causes Sign Girl to think I have a friend here, and she adjusts herself to give me some room. I feel a bit like a dickhead, but I’m going to literally die if I’m not a little more audacious. I’m sure everyone here would do the same to me if our positions were reversed.

I continue with that trick until I’m closer to the girl, and then I get worried she might turn around and give me a who the hell are you? look. I’m standing there and scraping my teeth over my lower lip in thought when Joules shows up and the crowd parts for him like he’s the pop star.

“You’re as handsome as Tam,” a girl says as she turns over her shoulder to see what all the commotion is about. She finds my brother posed with his black jacket unzipped to reveal his tight red T-shirt underneath, one hand tucked into the pocket of his black Dickies work pants. He hitches the right corner of his mouth up in a devastating half-smile, and I roll my eyes.

Here we go, I think, crossing my arms to wait for it.

“Hey, can I get your number maybe? I’m not from around here, but you seem cool. Let’s text.” He slides his hand out of his pocket and—if I didn’t despise this phrase in books, I might say—in one fluid motion, he’s presented it to the pink-haired girl with glitter on her cheeks. “Oh, and this is my baby sister. I’m taking her around to all of Tam’s concerts since … you know, I don’t have a girlfriend to do that with.”

I imagine a lightning bolt crashing into the girl’s forehead and knocking her flat on her back. She barely looks alive as she gapes back at my brother, stunned into silence by his ridiculous throwaway romance novel lines.

The girl rushes forward to take Joules’ phone from his hand, and I mouth a silent thank you at him as I edge into her place.

Right up against the velvet rope.

This is the closest I have ever been.

Hope surges in my chest as I clasp my hands together, the sounds of “Let’s Just Have Coffee, My Love” playing. It’s the final song in Tam’s set list which means I could be minutes away from our destined meet-cute. That’s all I need: a chance. Once I meet Tam Eyre in person, I’m going to tell him all about the curse and hope the truth becomes my guiding star.

“Sitting here waiting is all I do. It’s what I become. I wait for you, condensation rolling down the glass, hands wet. My iced coffee shows the passage of time, of our love melting into a distant memory. I drink of it the way I should’ve drank of you, like these are the last sips I will ever take.”

The song is hokey as hell, but there’s just a hint of truth to it that makes me curious as to whether Tam writes at least some of his lyrics. I puff my cheeks out with air. If Joules had let me do more internet sleuthing, I might already know the answer to that.

He also found my flashcards on day three and threw them out. Bastard. I can hear him laughing throaty and weird behind me, can feel the heat and lust rolling off the girl. I ignore them, listening to the song fade to nothing, the crowd go nuts. We’ve already passed the part of the concert where Tam pretends he’s done, declares he’s on his last song with “Lonely Boy Looking”, and the crowd demands an encore wherein he pretends to miraculously return to the stage.

Please. Tam’s entire life is controlled by his record label. They probably have focus groups to determine what color shoes he should wear to the airport. I curl my hands around the velvet rope absently, without even thinking about it.

A whistle is blown, and a woman in a black vest that reads Security on the back waves at me with a gloved hand.

“Back of the group, please. No touching the rope.” She points absently at a sign I didn’t notice until just now, a sandwich board really, just sitting randomly near the back entrance of the venue.

“I’m so sorry; I didn’t know,” I tell her, throwing my arms up like a saloon owner in an Old Western. Don’t shoot! The security guard is unamused, waving at me again.

“Back of the group or you’ll be removed.”

I gape at her, but I drop my arms and turn, doing as I’m told. Joules is so distracted by what’s happening to me that he forgets to pay attention to his new girlfriend, and she steals her spot back. Shit.

“You want me to beat that security guard up?” Joules asks, and he’s only half-joking. Joules and Joe, their strengths have always been their weaknesses. I can do no wrong in my brother’s eyes, and he stands up for me at times when he maybe shouldn’t. My deceased cousin was like that, too.

“How is this even happening?” I whisper, followed up by a frosty laugh that puffs in front of my face. Just down the block, I can see the gray ribbon of a freeway winding past the neighborhood we’re in; the sound of traffic is almost unbearable right now. I look up at my brother, finding him with his jacket zipped up, hands shoved in his pockets. He made himself cold trying to woo that girl. I reach up to unloop my scarf from my neck, but Joules reaches out to stop me.

“Don’t,” he commands, and I sigh, glancing back at the clear path in the center of the crowd.

“Tam probably won’t show up tonight anyway, right?” I look to Joules only to see his eyes widening in surprise at something over my shoulder. I whip around to see—

No!

On the one day I got to the front of the crowd and was almost instantaneously kicked out?!

I’m getting three fucking bobas tonight.

Tam emerges from the back door, dressed in a white puffer jacket over a white tee that reads Lonely Boy on Tour: Girlfriend Wanted. That was the name of his last world tour, but this time? There’s a new phrase on the T-shirt, a big red slash of text that says Now Taken. I almost gag.

I hate this.

Tam is … I just don’t like him.

He pauses to greet the girls on either side of him, shaking hands and leaning in to pose for pictures. He makes peace signs. He makes hearts with his fingers curled against his cheeks. He sticks out his tongue. He winks. It’s that last thing that really throws me over the edge, and I grit my teeth, squatting down and tearing the small notebook out of my bag.

With a hot pink Sharpie, I scrawl a message of frustration onto the page.

IF YOU DON’T LOVE ME, WE BOTH DIE … PLEASE HELP ME, followed by my phone number and some other … stuff.

I crumple it up, fully aware that the message I’ve just written is as unhinged and parasocial as the other messages he probably receives by the thousands on a daily basis. Don’t care. I need something to make this fly. I unsnap the metal boba pin I have attached to my bag—it’s pink and green with little watermelon slices floating in it, a black straw poking out of the top—and I ball the page up around it.

There. That should do it.

“Lake,” Joules warns as I haul my arm back and chuck the stupid thing over the heads of the screeching crowd. I don’t expect anything to happen. I’m just mad. I just want to scream to the world: I have a curse, but you won’t believe me if I tell you! How is my obnoxiously average American family victim to real magic? We just want to watch college football and barbeque. I swear, I’m a very simple person, happy with the small stuff.

I did not ask to be soulmated to an idol.

The crumpled page smacks into the front of Tam’s beanie-wearing head and then falls to the ground at his feet. The crowd goes silent. People turn over their shoulders to stare at me.

“Ow,” Tam mumbles with a frown, reaching up to rub at his forehead. Those cute little brackets appear on either side of his mouth as he contemplates and then …

He …

Turns …

Eyes meet. He sees me. For the first time in months, Tam Eyre is looking at me. He shudders in what I can only guess is disgust before bending down to retrieve the note. Right there, in front of everyone, he unwraps it. My curse mark burns.

His manager appears at his side, clutching an iPad, headset over his dark hair. He’s mumbling frantically under his breath and glancing repeatedly in my direction. It seems there are three or four security guards—Tam’s security guards, not the venue’s—making their way toward me.

Crap.

“Lake, goddamn it.” Joules grabs me by the hand, and we turn, sprinting down the icy sidewalk and … and laughing.

Because my curse-granted meet-cute was … hitting Tam in the head with the message of a seemingly crazed fan? He looked afraid of me, not curious about me.

“He’s supposed to get butterflies when he sees me!” I shout out to Joules as we run, slipping a bit on the icy pavement. “What’s wrong with his butterflies?”

“Must’ve given him moths,” Joules tells me, panting. He yanks me sharply to one side, and we enter the bright space of a boba tea shop.

“You’re a treasure, you know that?” I tell him, reaching out a fist. He gives me a fist-bump in return, but he’s also rolling his eyes.

“Don’t throw stuff at your Match,” he tells me, still struggling to catch his breath. I’d say I’m doing the same, but I’m actually half-dead. Breathing? What’s breathing? I’m so damn winded. Joules reaches out and pats me on the back. He tried the first few days to get me to work out and diet, in the hopes that maybe I’d have an easier time attracting Tam. But if this is my last year on Earth, I could do worse than to go on a road trip with my best friend/brother. What I won’t do is deny myself the pleasure of food.

Also … I just don’t like to exercise. I know, it’s bad. I want to be healthier, but I sort of need to focus on the curse first.

We join the line of people waiting to order from the automated kiosk, and I glance several times at the door to see if anyone is following me.

Nobody does.

But nobody texts me either.

Was it too much to hope that he’d actually text me over that? I should’ve lied and come up with something tragic.

I order an Earl Grey milk tea with brown sugar jelly and standard tapioca boba.

My cup is covered in overlapping stars, all of whom are winking at me like Tam winked at the crowd. I stab my straw through the winking eye of the one on the lid, and trudge back to the apartment with Joules. Sit on a very nice chair in the fancy living room, so that I can look out at the stars. Drink boba.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.