Chapter 2

COUPLED HUMANS' WISDOM

2

Being back in the real world feels strange. I blink, still dazed by the too-realistic dream. I swear I can still feel the dust from the parking lot in the back of my throat. I pull up on my elbows, sending the book I was reading last night tumbling to the floor.

I pick it up and examine it again. The battered exterior doesn't match the modern plotline and setting.

"You're a mystery." I trace my finger over the faceless illustration of the cowboy on the fading cover.

Killian St. Clair, I'm not sure if I like you. But if you were real, I'd love to find out.

I flip the pages to check if the second half of the book is still blank, and it is. But as I return to the last chapter, it's no longer the one I left off at last night. There's a new chapter matching exactly what happened in my dream.

No, that's impossible.

Maybe last night I was so tired I was already half asleep as I read the last chapter, and then I dreamed about it too. Yes, that must be what happened. Should I re-read it just to make sure?

No. As much as I would like to stay in bed all day fantasizing about a hot cowboy who doesn't exist, real life calls. I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen to make breakfast and prepare for a boring day ahead of catching up on homework and chores.

At least tonight I have a fun outing planned with my best friend.

I finish my paper for my statistical language models homework and then get lost for the rest of the day in the research project that's the focus of my grad studies: a natural language-processing engine driven by AI technology that can write riveting prose.

No, I'm not trying to replace human authors. I've just combined my two greatest passions in life, reading and computer science, to build a tool that will foster creativity, not kill it. Think of it as a supportive second brain or a virtual editor. At the moment, my focus is on training the engine to keep a consistent narrative voice.

I'm collaborating on the project with grad students who are getting their MA in writing. And before you ask, no, none of them are handsome hot nerds ready to sweep me off my feet. I'm working with three women, two married guys, one gay, and a dude who, as far as I know, is straight and single, but that I simply have no romantic connection with. And before you assume I'm not in a committed relationship because I'm too picky or because I don't love myself enough, please consider that it's perfectly normal for single people of the same age with interests in common and no glaring red flags simply not to fall madly in love at first sight.

Yes, I'm rambling. I admit I might be a little touchy on the subject. But try being on the receiving end of what I call "coupled humans' wisdom" for the better part of your life and you'd become oversensitive too. There's only so much well-meant advice one can take about "putting yourself out there" and "just being you" before a person starts losing her marbles at the smallest comment. I know "I'll find someone eventually," and that "my time will come," with no need to hear the cheer squad every single time we talk. And no, you cannot tell me how much you used to hate dating either, how brave I am for doing it, or how you plan to live vicariously through me.

Nope. None of that.

I put my laptop away at around four in the afternoon and take my time getting ready for my night out with Ivy. Today calls for extra pampering. My makeup gets special attention, and I tame my wild brown curls into bouncy, shiny locks. I guess I am a bit of a cliché. After years of hearing how I'm supposed to stumble upon my one true love when I least expect it, I like to be prepared.

I put on a purple sheath dress with a wrap skirt and high-heeled nude pumps. I finish the look with a clutch and a light jacket since the weather in Illinois has been mild this September so far.

From my apartment, I walk to the closest Metra station, take the purple line to Howard, where I switch to the red line until Clark. The entire journey takes about an hour, but tonight I'm happy to make the trip. I use the time to post a meme about never-ending Tbrs on BookTok and to reply to comments on older videos. But mostly, I scroll my For-You page until I reach my stop.

Ivy texts me that she's waiting for me inside the club just as I'm getting out of the station. I hurry down Clark Street, shivering a little in the chilly wind that has picked up while I was on the train. Heavy clouds mass in the distance, potentially threatening showers for later.

I don't care, it could literally rain on my parade tonight. I'm still going to keep positive.

My optimistic attitude gets a little side-tracked when I read the full name of the bar Ivy has chosen, the 3 Arts Club Café. Café being the scary word here. Did I misinterpret our plans? Did she want to just meet for coffee?

I enter the old brick building, which turns out to actually be a fancy furniture store, and look around, a little disoriented.

But as I make my way into an indoor courtyard where the "club" is located, at least the place looks like a posh combination of a coffeehouse, a wine bar, and a traditional American restaurant. Under a glass-and-steel ceiling, tables are scattered amidst trickling fountains and huge vases with olive trees. Glimmering chandeliers spark extra light on the scene. The artificial illumination much needed today, seeing how the sky outside keeps getting darker and darker.

As I search the tables for my friend, I keep hoping we're here mostly for the wine bar part of the establishment.

Ivy spots me first and calls out, waving at me and beaming. A wide grin spreads on my lips in response. It's been too long since we hung out, but her moving downtown really made it harder to meet up—as per the two-hour round trip.

I cross the large indoor courtyard toward our table while Ivy stands up to hug me. My smile falters when I take in her clothes. She's wearing sophisticated matching sweatsuits in cream white while her dark-blonde hair is up in a deceitfully messy top knot. And while the outfit looks fancy enough, it sure doesn't scream girls' night out.

She gives me a gentle squeeze, and I inhale her familiar scent of jasmine and lavender.

When she pulls back, she stares down at my attire, her eyebrows raising in her forehead. "Did you dress up like this just for coffee?"

Poof.

All the hopes and dreams I had pinned on this night evaporate. My entire body flushes with embarrassment, but I make a conscious effort not to let it show. I keep my bright smile in place, straining my lips until my cheeks hurt. "Of course not. I have a date later." The lie slips out almost too naturally for comfort.

I don't know why I lied. Ivy is the friend I used to share every humiliating first date and cringe moment with. Two months ago, I would've told her the truth. But something about her casual but expensive outfit has me on edge. She must have plans for later, but they're clearly not with me.

Ivy's eyes widen in surprise, but then she grins slyly. "Ooh, spill the tea! Who's the lucky guy?"

I feel horrible for misleading her, but I can't take the lie back now. Especially if she thought we were just meeting for coffee and she's going somewhere else later. I don't want her to feel guilty about leaving me stranded in the city.

It's my fault anyway, I should've googled the place she suggested. Then I would've known it wasn't a dancing-all-night kind of club. But a classy, designer coffee shop slash restaurant.

My bad.

"Oh, just a guy I met on Tinder," I perpetrate the lie. "First date, not much to tell yet." I cut off all lines of questioning because I'm really the worst at improvising.

Ivy sighs. "Ah, I remember those." Something in the faraway look in her eyes puts me back on high alert. "Can't say I'm going to miss dating." She confirms my ominous premonition.

Ivy has a new boyfriend, and that's why she's invited me out today to have coffee. To brag about her fantastic love story, pretend for a little longer she's not going to completely disappear into coupled life, and then move on to have dinner and mind-blowing sex with her new significant other.

She means well. They all do. Ivy doesn't want to rub her happiness in my face or anything. She's not mean. But she has that expression. That newly in love, everything is wonderful, rainbows and unicorns dreamy look we, as formerly single gals, used to gag at.

I'm not sure how the brain works, how a person, the second she gets in a relationship, forgets about what it was like to be single and on the receiving end of the dreaded "coupled humans' wisdom." I so should've gone home to Milwaukee this weekend.

At least Ivy asks about me first and has the decency to wait until after our orders have arrived before she unloads her unabashed joy on me.

She takes a sip of her latte and gets the faraway look again. Buckle up, folks. "You're never going to believe what happened to me…"

I brace myself for the inevitable meet-cute story, trying to guess how improbable it's going to be this time. Will it be a gym mishap where she fell off her treadmill right into his sweaty, bulging arms? Or a classic case of mistaken identity at a coffee shop where they both accidentally grabbed the same latte and their fingers brushed? Maybe the dude's name is Iverson, but he uses Ivy for short, hence the providential mix-up. No, no. I bet it'll be something even more cliché like they bumped into each other at a bookstore and reached for the same novel.

The only time I had to fight for a book in a shop was with a seventy-year-old lady who was really into her steamy romances.

Regardless, I try to smile and nod as if I am fully invested in the story.

"Two weeks ago, I was grocery shopping, minding my own business."

Ah, grocery store meet-cute, I should've guessed.

"I was a mess. Dirty hair, baggy clothes…"

Of course she was. Any respectable romance heroine has to be a hot mess for her grand meet-cute. Maybe that's where I'm going wrong. I should've come here un-showered and wearing granny underwear. Nice clothes equal no Mr. Right.

"Honestly, I had just gone out of the house to grab a carton of Ben & Jerry's because I was feeling a little lonely."

Been there, done that. Met no hot men that way.

"But then, total klutz I am, I dropped the tub."

Being clumsy also seems to be an important factor on the path to true love.

"And the tub rolled all the way down the supermarket aisle until it landed?—"

"At the feet of the most gorgeous man you'd ever seen," I finish the phrase for her.

Ivy frowns as I ruin her punchline. "Have I already told you about George?"

"No." I take a sip of my coffee—decaf, to be sure I'll go to sleep early tonight and be free to live vicariously in my dreams. "I was just guessing." I try to infuse some truish enthusiasm into my words.

Thankfully, the swooning smile comes back on her face. "Anyway, I know we hated to hear this when we were single, but it's true. Love really hits you when you least expect it."

An hour and a half later, I've been treated to a few more "coupled humans' wisdom" pearls, including how I'll surely be next and how many fish the sea has.

When the inexplicable matchmaking instinct newly coupled people get to cure everyone near them of their singleness kicks in, I even agree to go on a double date with Ivy, her boyfriend, and his brother. Just in case my Tinder meet-up tonight turns out to be a bust. Which, seeing how the date is made up, is a given.

Ivy's enthusiasm is uncontainable. She promises George's brother will doubtlessly be perfect for me.

Ah, if I had a proverbial dollar for every time I heard that phrase. But I go along with the plan because I've learned it's just simpler. Give the newly coupled a few misfires and they'll leave you alone, eventually.

Once I surrender to the double date, Ivy discreetly checks her watch. "What time is your dinner?"

This probably means she has to leave soon to go have all that mind-blowing sex with her new boyfriend.

I pretend to look at the time on my phone. "Oh, I should get going if I don't want to be late. Should we ask for the check?"

Ivy believes me or pretends to believe me. We split the bill and exit the building together.

Outside, it's gotten even colder. We hug goodbye on the curb before her boyfriend pulls up in front of the café in a perfectly timed fashion. She apologizes for not introducing me right away, but she doesn't want to rush it and we have our double date to look forward to, anyway.

Yaaay.

Blind dates set up by friends and family suck even more than their well-meaning advice.

Ivy gives me a last squeeze and hops into the car, a stylish black Mercedes. I only get a peek at the handsome man at the wheel. Don't worry, I've seen plenty of pictures on her phone and can certify his "sexiest man alive" status.

A flash of gray eyes and upturned full lips pops into my head. "The sexiest, Sugar Spoon?"

I said alive, I chide the mental image of Killian. Dream men don't count.

The Mercedes merges into traffic, and the second they turn the street corner, the sky opens and a torrential downpour pummels down on me.

Again, in a romance novel, this would be my moment. The heroine has reached a new rock bottom. She's standing shivering under the pouring rain without an umbrella and dressed in fancy clothes she had no reason to wear. She's the last remaining single person in her circle of friends. A true Highlander. Surely now, something magically romantic must happen. A handsome stranger is bound to appear out of nowhere. He'd also be without an umbrella and getting soaked, but he'd still offer her his coat. They'd stare at their drenched selves and laugh, leading to a chance encounter that would change their lives forever.

But this is real life, and as I hurry down the street in the deluge, no handsome strangers are waiting for me in the rain. Just a car cutting a corner and spraying dirty street water on my bare legs and nude pumps that will almost certainly be ruined now.