Page 1 of You Chive Me Crazy
ChapterOne
LUCAS
My best friend, Rolando, was trying to convince me that everything in my life was destined to happen, but I refused to believe that the tasteless mongolian beef sitting in front of me was meant to be.
Undeterred, he pressed on with his far-fetched, fanatical feelings on fate . . .
“Remember that time you missed your flight to Chicago, and ended up dating that woman at the ticket counter?” Rolando rambled on as we ate lunch at the grand opening of a new bistro next-door toDevour Americamagazine, our employer, for the last eight years. “What was her name again?”
“Christina,” I answered. “No, wait . . . Christie.”
“Right! Christie! A lovely woman,” he said. “Meeting her was fate.”
“Does that mean it was fate when she broke up with me three months later at Starbucks?” I asked.
“Of course!” he said with enthusiasm. “Did you not get a free drink out of the deal from the sympathetic barista, who witnessed your free fall?”
“And you think that free latte was meant to be . . .”
“A giant cup offrothyfate, my friend.” Rolando grinned, then slurped a big spoonful of his soup.
This conversation wasn’t a surprise.
Back in high school, they voted Rolando “Most Likely to Maintain a Positive Attitude During Armageddon.”
“Okay—but I spilled the latte on my new fleece jacket,” I said. “Don’t tell me that was supposed to happen.”
“No, that was you just being a slob.” He laughed, set down his spoon, and pushed his empty bowl toward the center of the table. “But remember when you fell off the bleachers our senior year? You ended up dating that cute cheerleader who ran over to see if you were okay.”
“Chelsea.”
Rolando nodded and sighed appreciatively. “Chelsea. Whatever happened to her?”
“She’s married,” I said. “Lives in Idaho with seven kids. She trains horses.”
“You see! That’s what I’m talking about. Nothing serious was supposed to happen between you two because you love California, plus you’re allergic to horses.”
I smirked. “And kids.”
Rolando ignored my comment because he knew I was kidding.
I loved kids.
Well, not seven of them.
He snapped his fingers. “What about that time we went on that road trip to Vegas, got a flat tire, then got summer jobs with the towing company? See? Everything happens for a reason.”
“Then why did the hotdog cart run out of ketchup yesterday, right before I was about to order?”
“So that you'd try the mustard for once and realize it's the Lamborghini of condiments.”
“More like a 1977 Ford Pinto Hatchback,” I said.
“Seriously—everything that has happened to you was meant to be, including all the drama at your culinary school.”
I held up my hand and gave him a pointed glare. “Don’t go there.”
There were some events of the past that were best left buried in the dark catacombs of my brain, never to be discussed in the light of day again. Especially those that had changed the course of my life.
