Page 12 of The Cupid Chronicles

That happens sometimes, right?

As I briskly walk down the hall to the stairs, I glance at the rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.

I try to tell myself that when I get back home after school today, the newspaper will be gone.

I walk outside toward the parking garage, and when I get in the car and turn on the engine, the radio, turned up at full blast, shouts at me,Do you believe in magic?

I flip it off and force myself to take three slow, deep breaths.

But as I pull out of my parking place, I can’t help but thinking . . .maybe I do.

Chapter Five

Matteo

The newspaper doesn’t liketo be ignored. I learned that the hard way three years ago.

And just saying that makes it sound like the newspaper—or more to the point, this building—actually has a personality.

It does. And it’s comically vindictive.

I’ve been inadvertently coerced to orchestrate happiness for dozens of people who have lived in this building over the years—and dozens more who only stumbled into the building to visit a friend or family member. People who never realize I’ve done anything at all.

This building? It has a mind—and a plan—all its own. And yes, I do realize that this doesn’t make sense. But I gave up on trying to figure it out a long time ago.

What I know is that the newspaper brings people together—long-lost lovers, rekindled romances, fractured families—and it uses me to do it. The Serendipity has made me into some kind of tailor for trauma, sewing the pieces of people’s lives back together.

It’s ironic. Maybe even cruel.

Thankfully, it’s not always about bringing lonely, lovelornpeople together. Once, the newspaper practically turned me into a detective to figure out a crime was going to be committed at a local tea shop so I could set things up ahead of time to prevent it.

How the building knew the future is beyond me. Those are the kinds of questions that never get answered.

Another time, I had to rescue a German shepherd from an abusive owner. And a few months ago, with the paper’s prodding, I found the perfect tutor for a dyslexic teenager. And nobody knew I’d been involved at all.

Thanks to this paper, I make people happy. While remaining just barely north of miserable myself. After all, I know how fleeting happiness really is.

Not that the newspaper cares what I think.

I hate that I think about “the magic” and “the newspaper” as if they were people, or a tangible thing. I know how it sounds, but it’s just something I’ve accepted: I live in a magic building. Magic newspapers land at my door.

The worst thing? If I don’t carry out the wishes laid out in black and white on the pages of this mysterious newspaper, there are consequences. Nothing sinister—more like practical jokes. Like I said, the newspaper has a personality, and it seems to fancy itself a prankster. But its “pranks” are so disruptive that I’m better off doing what it tells me to do in the first place.

If I’d known the apartment would come with this bonus job, I wouldn’t have taken over the lease from my grandpa when he announced he was headed off on what he called “a grand adventure.” I was happy he was going—he deserved to do something fun. But when he mentioned he wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone, I got a little concerned.

“Don’t worry about me, Teo,” he’d said. “I just need a change of scenery.” My grandma hadn’t been gone long, and I knew the apartment was full of reminders of her. I also knewhe wasn’t ready to let go of this place, so I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to move in and “keep an eye on the place.”

I needed a change of scenery too.

I soon realized that my grandpa had left out some very important details about living in this building.

We all assumed his “adventure” would be short-lived and he’d come home after a few months, but he met an Italian woman named Elena and moved to Tuscany.

That rascal.

I picture him sipping coffee on the terrace of a pristine beige and tan villa, next to a sprawling chianti vineyard, breathing in myrtle and cypress, eating the food of Tuscany—thepanzanella, thecastagnaccio, thecantuccini—and living his best life.

I glance at the photo he sent—him and Elena, smiling broadly on a gondola in Venice. I stare at the image, stuck to my refrigerator with a plain black magnet. I don’t have to turn the photo over to remember what he wrote on the back:

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