Page 16 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

I almost leave the cookie, but something in me can’t resist. Maybe all those years eating takeout with Gran made me revere these odd little treats. I don’t put stock in them, of course. But leaving it here seems wrong, so I pull the cookie out of the drawer and set it on the counter while I tug my hair up into a ponytail. Then I look down at the cookie like it’s a miniature intruder.

“You’re just a cookie,” I tell it. “And whoever lived here obviously loved fortune cookies enough to squirrel them away in the oddest of places.”

Annnndnow I’m talking to cookies.

I know what this is. It’s the stress of a whole week working with Logan Alexander. Not workingwithhim, with him. But he’s there, like an ominous storm cloud, hovering, threatening to let loose and soak through the otherwise perfectly sunny day that is my job at Barnes.

I pick up the cookie and tear into the package almost irreverently.

I crack the cookie, tossing both halves in the trash. I’m not eating a cookie just because my sister has some false notion that consuming a crisp little cracker made of sugar, flour and butter will alter my future.

I flatten the paper and read the words:Love is a competition with no losers.

There it is. A meaningless platitude. That’s not about me or my future. It’s just a statement. An odd one, to be sure. But still just a statement. Love is a competition? Who ever heard of that? Love isn’t a competition. Not that I’d know what love is. I haven’t ever actually fallen in love. At least, I don’t think I have. I’m pretty sure I’d know if I had fallen in love before.

I throw the fortune into the trash, along with the two discarded halves of the cookie, lace up my shoes, and head out for my morning run.

Chapter Six

Logan

A horse never runs so fast

as when he has other horses to catch up and outpace.

~ Ovid

Five days.I made it through my first full week at Barnes Marketing. Ever since Wednesday night, Gil’s words have haunted me. Olivia avoids me as if I’ve got a deadly and highly communicable disease. Steering clear of me is quite a feat in itself, considering we share an open office space. She has yet to acknowledge my presence aside from the occasional glance my way, always followed by a quick snap of her head in the opposite direction when I notice her staring.

Other than Olivia’s silent treatment, I like my new workplace. And I love this apartment. It’s comfortable and trendy but not too showy. The historic features of the building carry through to my apartment with the cased windows and crown molding. And Rhett likes it.

My dog walker has been consistent. She loves Rhett and shows up mid-morning and mid-afternoon daily to walk him each week day. Everything’s falling into place—everything but proving to Olivia that I’m not the monster she imagines me to be.

Ah, well, it’s the weekend. I don’t need to preoccupy myself with her. I’ve got my run ahead of me. I’m still in the early stages of marathon training. Today, I’m doing a speed run with intervals.

I say goodbye to Rhett. He pouts, giving me those eyes that nearly make me reconsider my plans. He’s a master of staring me down, saying more with his expressions than most people are capable of conveying with a whole language at their disposal.

“I’ll take you on a walk for my cool down,” I promise him before shutting my door and taking the elevator down to the lobby. Once I’m outside, I stretch. Then I hit two buttons on my smart watch and start jogging for my five-minute warm up.

The air is cool on my skin, and the sky has that clear, crisp feeling that says spring has officially sprung. I’m about three minutes into my warmup when I could swear I see her.Olivia.

I need to get a life. Why would she be running near my apartment building on a Sunday?

I’ve become so preoccupied with improving her impression of me that I’m literally conjuring her up on a weekend. Gil would mock me relentlessly if he knew.

My watch beeps, telling me it’s time to speed up to my 5K pace of a seven-minute mile. I push a little harder. Now I’m gaining on the female runner ahead of me. Other pedestrians and joggers pass me going in the opposite direction. For some reason, I can’t take my eyes off the swishing ponytail of the woman who looks so much like Olivia. I shift my attention to the landmarks. Trees, buildings, mailboxes, flowers in curated patches on the median … and her. I’m gaining on her, and I feel strange.

Just run past her. She’s not Olivia.

My watch beeps, telling me to slow to a 10K pace for the next two minutes. That’s a nine-minute mile for me, probably about the same pace as the woman who is now only about a half-block ahead of me. I slow, which means I’m not going to pass her, except I am gaining on her incrementally. It’s not my fault. This is my regimen. I’ll follow it religiously for a year so I can be in peak condition for the Boston Marathon next April.

The woman turns the corner just ahead of me, and I nearly trip when I see her profile.

It’s her. Or it’s the most convincing doppelganger ever.

I keep my pace, turning the same corner. I’m not intentionally following her. This is my route.Myroute inmynew neighborhood. I’ll run to the park, around the park, and then take these same streets home—tomyapartment building.

Why is Olivia here? It’s a Sunday. Maybe she has a friend in the neighborhood and she spent the night? But wouldn’t the friend be running with her? And do women have sleepovers at our age? I don’t even know. For some reason, I imagined Olivia still living at home in the same house where she grew up. Of course she doesn’t. She’s a twenty-eight-year-old woman. She has a home of her own somewhere. Maybe it’s even close by.

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