Page 7 of Something Like Fate

My aunts tried their best to mask their disappointment, but I was devastated. It meant I was a talentless failure. And the worst part? I’d have to rely on my own poor judgment to find The One—just like everyone else.

I mourned my loneliness, lack of talent, and, by extension, Mom by channeling my angst the only way I knew how—working my way through an ungodly number of rom-coms. Without my parent’s relationship as a model, at least I could experience love through Kate Hudson or Sandra Bullock. Dad used to make fun of the cheesy one-liners, priding himself on sniffing out plot points a mile away. But the truth is, I think these movies healed us, in a way.

Sure, some of them hit a little too close to home, likeP.S. I Love You. Dad had to excuse himself to the bathroom multiple times during that one. But mostly, they made us laugh. All those giddy, fluffy feelings coursing through me when the final credits rolled were addicting. And most of all, they filled me with hope that I could still find happiness like that, even without the family gift.

Admittedly, I got a little too obsessed with experiencing love via the big screen. Once I’d made a perma-body indent in the couch, I decided to apply for a summer job in hopes of meeting new friends before school started.

The Cinema wasn’t one of those flashy franchise theaters with reclined leather seating and 3D panoramic screens. It was a small, locally owned business that strictly played films from 2010 or before for five bucks a ticket. It had its own charm, with its red-velvet seats, flickering neon lights, ticket booth with tarnished brass accents, and retro marquee sign with weathered letters displaying the films of the week. Inside was like stepping into a time capsule with its worn merlot carpet that was always flecked with bits of popcorn.

When I limped into the lobby for my first shift with a broken flip-flop, Teller wasn’t pleased.

“You’re half an hour late,” he said from behind the register. Despite his authoritative tone, he looked my age. A mop of thick, dark waves swooped over one eye. He looked deep in concentration as he vigorously scrubbed the counter with a disinfectant wipe. A baggy maroon polo—The Cinema uniform—hung off his thin frame.

“Sorry. They changed the bus schedule and by the time I realized, I had to sprint three blocks to catch it and the thong of my sandal ripped out. It was a whole thing,” I explained, reading the perfectly straight name tag on his chest.

His face contorted in alarm. “Did you just saythong?”

“Ew, don’t be weird. My flip-flop thong, obviously.” I brandished my broken flower-power-print sandal for emphasis.

His pale face creased in horror before peering over the counter at my bare foot.

“What?” I asked, hitching my shoulders in defense, catching a whiff of chemicals.

“You’re barefoot. In public. You can’t do your shift without shoes.”

I leaned my elbow on the freshly disinfected counter and whispered, “Are you a germaphobe or something?”

“I wouldn’t put my bare skin on a sticky floor covered with dirt, but I don’t think most normal people would,” he added. “Doesn’t mean I’m a germaphobe.”

“I think that’s the exact definition of a germaphobe,” I pointed out, semi-amused. “Did you know germaphobes actually have weaker immune systems?”

“That sounds like a myth to me.”

“It’s not. I haven’t been sick in six years,” I bragged. It was a half-truth. I’d gotten a couple colds here and there. Admittedly, I just wanted to ruffle his feathers a little. Based on his wide-eyed expression, it was working splendidly. He was far too serious for my liking.

“Six years? I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. Here’s the secret: I have two dogs, Brandon and Brian, a bonded pair of chocolate Labs. Brian is the chunky one. Brandon is skinnier but lazy. Anyway, I let them lick my face. Every day.” I leaned in like I was relaying top-secret information.

“Brandon and Brian? Those are terrible pet names.”

“Excuse you, their birth mom named them, and I felt it was only right to respect her wishes.”

He eyed me sideways.

“Wait, did you say you let them lick you on the tongue?”

“I said ‘face.’ But if the moment strikes, they do occasionally lick my tongue. Brandon and Brian are very affectionate boys, especially Brian. Brandon is a bit more temperamental, but when you rub his ears a certain way, he goes cra—”

Teller just shook his head and tossed over a name tag, along with a pair of black Nikes I assumed were his nonwork running shoes. “You’re ... the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

For that first week of training, I assumed Teller had written me off. We barely talked, aside from communicating the essentials, like how to do certain tasks, or when we’d take our breaks. Whenever I sang along to the radio to fill the dead space, he’d wince. During slow periods, our lack of conversation was awkward, to me at least.

Based on Teller’s cordial, yet concise exchanges with customers, I assumed he just didn’t talk much in general. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was shy or straight-up dull, but I had an urge to find out. To make him like me. Besides, I was in desperate need of someone to talk to other than Dad and my aunts—someone my own age.

“So ...,” I said one slow Friday night while sweeping trampled popcorn bits into a small pile. We had only a handful of customers for a showing ofArmageddon. As you can imagine, nineties films that stream for free weren’t exactly drawing large crowds.

He eyed me, waiting for me to continue my thought process.

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