Page 84 of The Cupid Chronicles

I look up, and I don’t even bother to pretend it doesn’t still make me sad.

“His new wife’s daughter was a cheerleader,” I say. “They were there for her.” I pause. “I never told my mom that part. I think it would’ve killed her.”

At my side, Matteo goes still.

I brighten, hating that I’ve dragged the mood down. “So, there you have it! It’s so far in the rearview mirror, and I’m an adult doing the adulting things, but . . .” I give ata-dagesture. “Now you know exactly what kind of person I am, and why I do the things I do.”

He frowns. “I don’t think it’s too much to expect the people in your life to show up for you.”

I look at him, surprised. “You don’t?”

A shrug. “No. That’s basic human decency. Especially family.”

“Right? I always thought so,” I say. “But you’d be surprised how hard it is to find decent people out there.” A thought hits me. “Maybe your wayisbetter. You know, push everyone away? Make them think you’re a terrible person? The only problem with that”—I give him a look—“is making sure no one finds out you’re really a decent guy.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t try to be like me, Iris. The world needs way more of your type than mine.”

All of a sudden, the newspaper, which we’ve laid out flat on the counter, rolls up into its original shape and flips twice on the counter.

“Oh, back again, are we?” I say to the newspaper. “We need to have a talk, you and I.”

“You . . . talk to it?”

I look over at Matteo, giving him a knowing nod. “Yep.Quite the personality, I’d say.” I stand, hands on hips. “So? Now what? More chimes?” I say to the newspaper.

The paper spins on the counter, and then breaks up into a thousand shimmering pieces, weaving back and forth, until propelling toward Matteo’s fridge. The mass of golden shimmering pieces billows, creating a breaking sound of hundreds of chimes as they hit the front of the refrigerator, slowly dissipating, leaving just the cutout article about Joy behind an Aria magnet.

“Well. That’s new,” Matteo says, shocked.

We share a look.

“Looks like we’ve got our marching orders. Let’s get a plan to help Joy. Whoever she is.”

I nod in agreement but point to his plate. “But first, are you going to finish that?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Iris

Sunday morning,I wake up to no newspaper alarm, thankfully, but with an intense craving for French toast.

Matteo has ruined Pop-Tarts for me forever.

As I make my way through my morning routine, filling the carafe with water and brewing my coffee, there’s a knock at my door.

My heart skips.

It’s not even eight. Is this payback?

And why am I excited at the thought?

That excitement quickly turns to dread when I remember that unlike Matteo, I don’t look like a walking billboard when I roll out of bed.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a small mirror on the wall and wince. I pull the elastic from my messy bun and shake out my hair, but I’m bringing “casual” down to a whole new level. I carry my mug with me as I walk to the door, and when I pull it open, I find Matteo wearing the slightest hint of a crooked half-smile that makes me feel fuzzy on the inside.

“Please tell me you were still in bed.” His expression holds.

“You wish!” I blurt. “You’re going to have to get here before seven if you want to catch me still in bed.”

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