Page 9 of The Cupid Chronicles

I stared at the ribbon as my classmates and their parents wandered around, the quiet hum of “This is amazing” and “You’re so talented” filling the air.

Charlotte looped her arm through mine and squeezed. “It’s incredible, Iris.”

I smiled, but my eyes clouded over with tears. Because while all the other kids were showing off their hard work to their parents, I only had Charlotte. And while she was the best kind of friend, she wasn’t my family.

I really wanted to make my parents proud.

My mom had already told me she’d be coming right from work and might be late, but I’d heard nothing from my dad. I pulled out my phone to see if he’d texted, but there was nothing.

I shove the memory aside and look at Mr. Charles Kincaid, absently thinking I should call my mom. She and her husband Richard moved to Toledo when I was in college, but Toledo sometimes feels like another planet. Our relationship is good, but it’s hard to stay close when you’re miles apart.

I look at my boss. “I’ll look over the school calendar and get you a date,” I say with a firm nod. Because this art show is not about me.

I just don’t want what happened to me to happen to another kid.

“By the end of the week,” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

He nods, and before he can say anything else, I smile brightly and inhale a sharp breath. “Well, I’m off. Lots to do!”

I wave quickly at Joyce, the school receptionist, and rush down the hall, into the quiet of my classroom. Once I’m safe inside, I let out a heavy breath and take a seat behind my desk, willing myself to focus on my students, their art projects, and my much-needed job.

But for some reason, as the kids file in from the hallway, the only thing I can think about is the intensity in the very dark brown eyes I encountered this morning.

And a single word zips through my mind:Magic.

Chapter Four

Iris

Didanyone ever write a song about Tuesdays?

A quick search on my phone doesn’t show many, but “Tuesday Moon” by Neutral Milk Hotel sounds fascinating.

I stumble through another strange morning. I start to question whether I was ever a competent, put-together adult, because I seem to have become someone who can’t make it out of my apartment on time or unstained.

I may have finally reached the age where I’m not able to stay up after midnight and still function the next day.

Tragic.

I vault through the process of getting ready, grab a package of Pop-Tarts from the cupboard, and rush into the hallway.

I take one step out the door and I feel something beneath my foot.

There, now creased in half, is a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.

Again?

I let out a frustrated groan as I narrow my eyes, likethere’s a tiny Matteo Morgan inside the pages and he can see how annoyed I am thathis stuffis onmy mat.

A tiny piece of me is intrigued that I might get to see him again.

But only a tiny piece.

I lock my door and storm down the hall, dramatically dropping the paper on the floor outside of his probably fancy corner apartment, hoping there is a hidden camera somewhere recording my overacted release.

As the paper drops, I noticehedoes not have a welcome mat.

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