Kitabı oku: «It's In The Stars»

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.