Page 22 of The Cupid Chronicles

I can’t get the fun, wrinkle-your-nose-and-a-pile-of-money-appears magic, no. I get the kind that makes you look like a buffoon.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

A part of me is freaking out—but it’s offset by the other part of me, which is genuinely intrigued.

If my rude neighbor has the answers, he’s not sharing them. Which is why I’m back in my apartment, pacing and staring. Back and forth, wearing out the boho rug I’d been so happy to purchase for my new apartment.

With hands on hips and a scrunched-up face plastered with determination, I blow out a breath and stare at the newspapers. “Okay, I just need to get rid of you. How hard can that be?”

I pick up the stack, shove them in a garbage bag, and take them outside to the dumpster. When I get back to my apartment, there is a new stack on the counter, only this time, they seem to have doubled in number, spilling onto the floor.

I can’t have another newspaper tsunami. Maybe hiding them will stop them from multiplying. I pick them up and stuff them in the front closet. One falls out, but I kick it in and slam the door shut.

“There.”

I turn around to find three new stacks surrounding my Dr Pepper.

With one solitary rolled-up newspaper on the end of the counter, pointing at me.

What is happening?

“I tried delivering these to the guy they’re addressed to,” I shout to my empty apartment. “It didn’t work!”

I look down at the one newspaper on the end of the counter, and it moves, ever so slightly, toward me.

And then it gives a little wiggle.

Like “Hey. Hey, buddy. Pick me up.”

I’m stuck inside a cartoon. I’m Aladdin, trying to figure out how a rug can have a personality. Finally, I give in and start talking to the newspaper like it’s a person. “No. I’m not picking you up.”

It wiggles again.

“I said NO.” I fold my arms. “Go bother someone else.”

Then, moved by some unseen force, the paper launches at me and smacks me in the forehead.

“Ow! Hey!”

It flips back down onto the counter and wiggles again, and I get the distinct impression it’s laughing at me.

“Okay, fine. Good grief, you didn’t have to hit me,” I say, rubbing my forehead.

The paper turns slightly away, like it’s ashamed.

I frown. “You want me to read you?”

The paper spins around quickly, pointing at me and rolling back and forth.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay, calm down.”

It raises up, mid-air, and rears back as if to launch at me again, and I quickly hold up my hands in defense.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sure you have, uh . . . a really nice font!”

It slowly lowers to point at me again and—still mid-air—moves at me twice and wiggles.

I heave a sigh, look up and around at the ceiling, certain someone must be watching me—then I pluck it out of the air. Like this is a completely normal occurrence.

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