Page 55 of P.S. I Dare You

I’ve never been a dog person, never owned a dog, never so much as thought about owning a dog, but when Aerin and I were mapping out our dream life together the night that I proposed to her, we both agreed we wanted that Apple Pie Americana life that neither of us ever had.

“Hey, Calder?” Aerin asks as I rinse another plate.

“Yeah?”

“Forgot to tell you, the lock on the garage door is sticking again.”

“I’m on it.” I dry my hands and grab a can of WD40 from under the sink. It’s moments like these, moments that seemingly mean nothing at the time, that remind me just how lucky I am to have a comfortable place to rest my head, a fiercely loyal woman by my side, and a healthy son who holds a spot in the center of it all—a son who’s going to break the chain of dysfunction.

I head out to the garage, shaking the can as I walk. A quick spray on the lock and it’s back in order.

Our house isn’t glamorous or extravagant—that isn’t our style. Neither is our relationship. We wear sweats more than we used to. We order takeout more than we frequent the hottest LA eateries. Our last date night was spent at home, watching Netflix and drinking wine from sippy cups because one of us forgot to run the dishwasher and we were both too exhausted to hand wash a couple of glasses.

To anyone else, this is just an ordinary Southern California Saturday morning, but to me, it’s just another day in paradise.

SAMPLE CHAPTER

“A MAN, WHEN HE wishes, is the master of his fate.” The plaque on the fountain outside my new apartment quotes Andrew Young, and if he were still around today, I’d tell him exactly how wrong he is.

If mastering my fate were as simple as closing my eyes and wishing on stars and throwing pennies into water, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.

I throw a quarter toward the trickling water that collects into a mosaic pool of chlorinated water. Wishes have never been my thing, so I let it fall with a gentle plunk. Retrieving a second coin, I flip it in the same direction, only this time it falls short, ricocheting off the granite ledge and rolling down the cement until it disappears beneath a wrought iron bench.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I reach beneath the empty park bench in search of the runaway quarter, only to come up empty-handed. Literally.

When I was a little girl, long before my father passed away, he’d take me to this fountain just off the main drag of our quaint little town and we’d have coin tossing contests.

He’d assign points: ten for hitting the spitting fish. Twenty if I could slice through a stream. Fifty for whoever could manage to land a coin on the top of the bronzed mermaid’s outstretched palm. The loser was supposed to carry the victor home on their shoulders.

Magically, I won every time.

If Dad were still around, he’d hate the hell out of New York City but he’d love the hell out of this fountain outside my apartment. A sculpture of a couple ducking beneath an umbrella centers the display, the man’s arm around the woman as water trickles from the top. They’re smiling, their marble clothes giving the appearance of being soaked as water splashes up around their feet.

I bet Dad would say it’s romantic, much like he was. The man was obsessed with all things love, which was how I got my name—or so the story goes.

Rising, I dust my hands off on my jeans and glance toward the dark windows of my new place just across the cobblestoned, carriage-lighted plaza.

“Here.” I thought I was alone, but the velvet tenor of a man’s voice proves otherwise. “Take mine.”

I wait for my palpitations to settle before turning to face my generous benefactor.

Men and their money …

A disarming smile comes into focus first, under the pale flicker of moonlight and streetlamps, followed by a chiseled jaw with the slightest indentations where dimples should be. His eyes, partially hidden by a pair of tortoiseshell frames, are defined with thick, dark lashes that contrast against his classy machismo.

“No, thank you,” I say once I gather my composure. “I was just leaving.”

His head tilts and he studies me, and then he turns a shiny quarter between the pads of his fingers.

“You know, your wish won’t come true if the coin doesn’t hit the water,” he says, a hint of a smirk in his tone.

“Is that a fact?” I arch a brow.

“Proven.” The handsome stranger nods. “You didn’t know that?”

I think he’s trying to flirt, but I don’t have the energy to tell and even if I did, I wouldn’t have the nerve to flirt back.

“Fortunately, I don’t believe in wishes,” I say.

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