Page 7 of The Cupid Chronicles

“Yes. Absolutely.”

I muse. “A building told them they should meet.”

She nods and shrugs. “That’s the story. She lived there when it was a dorm.”

“The Serendipity is special,” Brooke says. “If you were lucky enough to get an apartment in that building, it’s because the building has a plan for you, you know?—”

“Romantically,” Liz says, finishing the thought.

I laugh. “Okay. Pause. I love a good folk tale as much as the next girl . . .” They lean in. “But as much as I hate to disappoint themagic building”—my words drip with massive verbal air quotes—“I’m not looking for romance.”

Liz purses her lips and tilts her head at Brooke. “Huh. They never are.”

I shake my head at them. “You guys. I’m not just saying it. I really amnotlooking for romance.”

Looking for romance has only ever gone horribly wrong for me.

“Why?” Brooke asks. “You don’t want to fall in love? Love is awesome.”

I think about the string of relationships I’ve had, each one a carbon copy of the one before. Always going all in. Jumping without looking. Believing each one istheone. Too much, too fast, too quick, or too deep never occurred to me.

But it was exhausting. Itisexhausting. And last summer, I finally realized something needed to change. I realized the easiest way to stop heartbreak is to stop falling for the wrong guys.

Since “the wrong guys” were—and are—the only ones I seem to be drawn to, I’ve quit. Or . . . paused. New job. New city. A fresh start.

This is a cycle I’m determined to break.

“It’s just not for me,” I say. “I’ve tried it before—” I look at them. “Didn’t go my way.”

Brooke opens the fridge and takes out another cup of yogurt. She turns to Liz, eyebrows up, and Liz slowly shakes her head. Brooke, without breaking eye contact, slowly nods and peels up the corner of the lid.

Liz sighs. “Fine, thief. But now you owe me five.”

Brooke pumps a fist and rips it open. Then, to me, she says, “Maybe this guy—thishot neighbor—is the one to change all that.”

“Yeah, no. Hard pass. Matteo Morgan is not the kind of guy I’d be looking for even if Iwasinterested in a relationship.”

“Matteo?” Liz says this on a sigh, as if his name conjures anything other than annoyance. “Sounds like a hot guy name.”She looks at me. “Sounds like a hot guy name, and the building is telling you that you shouldn’t just dismiss him.”

I shake my head. “I have to go. I have fourth graders.”

I do have to go. And I do have fourth graders.

I turn to leave, and as I do, I hear the two of them chant a sing-songy “Ooh,Matteo . . .!” behind me.

“I’m calling HR.” I toss a look over my shoulder as I head to my room.

Chapter Three

Iris

I love teaching art.

I also love fourth graders. Sometimes people can’t handle that age, but I think they’re hilarious. And brutally honest. When do people lose that trait, I wonder.

Sometimes people give up on a “big dream” and become a teacher because there was nothing else for them to do, but not me. I always wanted to be a teacher. I’ve always believed that everyone is an artist . . . until age and work and the grind of the real world beats it out of them.

My goal has always been to keep kids creating as long as possible.

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