Page 14 of Offside Attraction

She pushed open the door to the washroom and found herself in a small, well-decorated space with two stalls and a large mirror above a stone sink. There were fresh flowers on the counter, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. Rhonda stood in front of the mirror for a moment then washed her hands and reached into her pocket for her lip gloss.

As she fished for it, her fingers brushed against something else. Something that wasn't supposed to be there. Rhonda frowned and pulled out a folded napkin. She stared at it for a moment, trying to remember where it had come from. Then it hit her. These were the same pants she'd worn to the Dusty Rose. She hadn't washed them.

She laughed out loud. First because she’d put them back in her closet after sitting on sticky barstools, and second because now the night made perfect sense. That napkin had been crying out from her pocket for hours, throwing itself back into her life like a bad penny.

Rhonda held it up to the light, half-worn numbers scrawled in Jordan’s handwriting. Why hadn’t she thrown it away like she’d planned to? She’d completely forgotten about it. But she always washed her jeans after a night out. Had she really not worn this pair since the summer?

That was strange. All of this was outside her normal routine, and that made her skin start to buzz. She believed in this kind of thing—energy and all that cosmic mumbo jumbo. She’d had too many experiences in her life to write it off.

Like the time in college when she’d been dead set on skipping her friend Maya’s engagement party because she was in one of thoseDon’t talk to me, I’m moody and existentialphases. She’d tried three times to leave the house that night, but each time, something pulled her back. She lost her keys, couldn’t find her phone, and then realized her car battery was dead. Finally, she threw her hands up and went out in defeat, only to bump into a woman in the living room—a total stranger—who gave her the exact piece of advice she hadn’t realized she’d needed about her job. That stranger had rattled off an entire pep talk, like the universe had sent her an undercover angel who just happened to be sipping a gin and tonic.

Then there was that time she actually lost her phone for an entire week—vanished without a trace. She’d been tearing her place apart, fuming, annoyed at the cosmic unfairness of it all. It finally turned up in the fridge, of all places, when she went for the almond milk. But by then, she’d spent days unplugged–forced to go out in the world, read an actual book, talk to her mom for an hour without “checking” anything.

That whole week had made her feel like she was living someone else’s life for a change—and she’d liked it. She’d taken it as the universe telling her to unplug, to stop rushing for once. Now when she saw a pattern of “out of the ordinary” occurrences, she was immediately skeptical.

Rhonda stared at the napkin, her heart speeding in her chest. Texting Jordan would be a terrible idea. He worked strange magic when she was around him, and now that she knew he was on Pucks Deep?

No. She couldn’t risk betraying the only family she had in this city just because his hands were capable of things that were borderline otherworldly.

The door to the washroom slammed open, and Rhonda jumped, shoving the napkin back in her pocket and thrusting her hands under the faucet for a second time.

_____

Rhonda walked back to the table and sat down next to Penny who was saying, “Oh, he’s tough on the ice. Not so much when my dad’s grilling him about grandkids.”

“Wait, what is this?” Rhonda reached out for a piece of papadam.

Penny rolled her eyes. “My parents at Thanksgiving.”

“Ooh, did you get the whole ‘what are your intentions with my daughter’ talk?” Rhonda dipped the cracker in tamarind sauce.

Brett scoffed. “That happens over text at least every couple months.”

Rhonda laughed. “Sounds like lectures run in the family.”

Penny rolled her eyes. “So what are we getting, family style?” she asked, looking over the options.

“Definitely need the butter chicken,” Aaron suggested. “And maybe a couple orders of naan?”

“Vegetable biryani, too,” Rhonda added.

“And let’s do the lamb vindaloo,” Brett said, folding his menu. “Spicy enough to make sure we’ll all regret it tonight.”

The waiter approached, and Rhonda gave their order. Brett specified half garlic naan, and Penny ordered a mango lassi. Brett and Aaron talked about work, they all joked about the American election coming up—so much fodder it was almost depressing but also sadistically entertaining since it took the spotlight off their own political woes.

When the food showed up, Rhonda’s stomach was grumbling. The colours were vibrant, the aromas intoxicating. She couldn't wait to dig in. They passed the basmati rice around the table, followed by the dishes they’d ordered.

She and Aaron took their first bites at the same time, and Rhonda held back a sigh.

"Good?" He grinned at her from across the table.

Rhonda nodded, her mouth full. She reached for a piece of naan and tried the butter chicken. “So good. Great choice, Brett.”

He puffed out his chest and started to say something, but Rhonda didn’t hear it. Her stomach dropped when she felt a familiar irritation at the back of her throat. She frowned and took a sip of her water.

"Something wrong?" Penny asked.

Rhonda shook her head. "No, just—" She cleared her throat. Indian food didn’t use peanuts. She’d eaten it a hundred times and never had an issue. But she knew this feeling, and it was getting progressively worse.

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