Running Into Love (Fluke My Life 1)

“Don’t worry, the bell just rang,” I reassure her as she stands and pushes her cute little blue glasses up the bridge of her nose and slips on her three-sizes-too-big jacket. “What book are you reading now?” I ask, knowing it will probably be something that will surprise me. Tamara reminds me a lot of myself at her age. I loved reading and could easily get lost in a book for hours on end if left alone.

“To Kill a Mockingbird,” she says softly as she unzips her backpack, shoving the book inside.

“That’s one of my favorites,” I say after a moment, and she nods without looking at me. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’d love to hear what you think of the story,” I say, knowing this book isn’t something an eleven-year-old girl would necessarily be reading, but her mother explained during our last parent-teacher meeting that she allows Tamara to read pretty much whatever she wants. If I’m honest, Tamara is far too smart for the books we read in class.

“Thank you, Miss Reed.”

“You’re welcome, honey. Is your mom picking you up today?”

“I don’t know, her or her boyfriend will be here.” She shrugs, looking uncomfortable, and I bite my bottom lip. I have no issue at all with the fact that Tamara’s mom is a stripper. I actually think it’s admirable that she puts food on the table, a roof over her girl’s head, and clothes on her back. The problem I have with her is she constantly has men in and out of Tamara’s life, and none of them are ever any good.

“If no one’s here by four, come back in and let me know. I’ll make sure you get home,” I say, sliding off my desk to stand.

“Okay.” She chews the inside of her cheek, twisting her backpack in her hands.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, um . . . I got you something.”

“You got me something?” I say, not able to hide the surprise in my tone. Nodding, she opens her backpack and pulls out a crushed pink gift bag with darker pink polka dots on it.

“It’s nothing big,” she says quickly, looking nervous, but she’s very wrong. I know that whatever she has gotten me she most likely paid for with her own money and got on her own time, making it huge.

“Honey, you didn’t have to get me anything at all.” I pull her in, giving her a hug before leaning back and taking the bag from her. Opening it up, I pull out a simple purple candle and hold it to my chest. “I love candles.” I smile, giving her another tight hug. “Thank you, honey.”

“Happy birthday,” she whispers, then her body stiffens against mine, and I turn to see what’s causing her distress.

“Your mom said you’d be waiting out front. Come on, I’m going to be late.” Tamara’s mom’s new boyfriend, Juan, says from the doorway. He sounds annoyed and his eyes are narrowed. My spine stiffens. Moving closer to Tamara, I rest my hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Sorry, Mr. Varges. I asked Tamara to wait after class so she could help me put away a few things,” I lie, not wanting her to be in trouble with him.

“Well, we have places to be, so if you’re done, we need to go,” he says, keeping his eyes locked on Tamara. I step slightly in front of her, and his eyes finally come to me.

“Sorry about keeping her, and thank you for being understanding.”

“Sure.” He lifts his chin, and Tamara quickly heads toward him without a backward glance. Watching them go, I feel like I always do. Torn. There is nothing I can do, and there is nothing I despise more than feeling helpless when it comes to my kids. Taking a seat at my desk I put the candle back in the bag and carefully place it with my stuff to take home before pulling out the spelling tests I need to correct before I leave for the evening.

An hour later, I circle the huge A in red ink on the last spelling test and smile. My kids are all smart, and I feel like a proud mom who knows she’s done a good job. None of the kids got lower than a B, and by New York City public school standards, that is amazing. Tucking the now-graded tests away in the top drawer of my desk, I pick up my bags and head for the door. I’m starving—I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch, since we had a teacher meeting during my lunch hour, so the pizza I plan on ordering for dinner is sounding better by the minute.

Pulling out my cell phone once I’m out of the building, I send thank-you texts to Libby and Mac, who both messaged to say happy birthday, then one to my mom and dad telling them how excited I am to see them in a few days. Even though it’s my birthday, tonight is going to be a very low-key night; all I want to do is go home, put on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, walk my girl, order a pizza, and go to bed. Okay, I kind of want to add seeing Levi in there somewhere, but I still don’t know if that’s smart. I can’t figure out if he’s different or just like every other gorgeous man I’ve ever met.

Hopping on the subway, I take the train uptown and get off at my stop, then walk the two blocks to my building. As soon as I’m home, I take care of parts one and two of my plans for the night. I put on my yoga pants and hoodie as soon as I get home, then take out Muffin, who wasn’t at all happy about having to go out in the cold on a short walk—or drag—through the park. By the time I make it back to my apartment, it’s almost six, and my hunger has turned into starvation.

Pacing back and forth in my apartment, I groan. Levi said that if I wanted company on my birthday to just knock on his door, but the idea of actually doing that is making me feel sick. I wanted to just order pizza, then maybe go over and see if he wanted some, but then I thought, what if he doesn’t like the kind of pizza I like? What if he’s allergic to pineapples and he ends up going into shock from eating them, or what if he was just being nice and he didn’t actually mean for me take him up on his offer? “Stop being stupid,” I say out loud, putting my hand to the knob. I release it just as quickly and resume pacing. “This is getting ridiculous.” Shoving my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I put my hand on the knob.

The moment I swing my door open, my empty stomach turns with nausea, along with something else that I’m not willing to acknowledge, as I stare at the woman standing just outside Levi’s closed door. She’s gorgeous, model gorgeous, with thick, dark hair; tan skin; and a willowy figure that would make even Libby jealous.

Turning her head toward me, she smiles a beautiful, blinding-white, perfectly straight-toothed smile. “Hi,” she chirps, and a muscle in my chest constricts.

“Uh . . . hi. Sorry, I thought you were my pizza,” I lie, and she tilts her head to the side and giggles. Even her giggle is beautiful, I think with disgust, then panic when I see Levi’s door start to open.

“’Bye.” I slam my door quickly and drop my face to my hands.

Oh my god, I’m an idiot. Why did I think for one moment that he wouldn’t have a girlfriend? Why the hell didn’t I ask him when he asked me if I had a boyfriend?

This is why I don’t date. I don’t know how to date—I have no clue when a guy is actually interested or when he’s just being nice. “God, you are a loser.” Tears burn my eyes, and I curse the fact that my period is due any day now. I’m not a wuss unless it’s that time of the month—then I cry and blubber about everything under the sun, even stupid laundry detergent commercials with cute little bears in them.

Feeling Muffin press into my side, I fall to the floor and pull her down to my lap so I can cry ugly, fat tears into her fur. “It’s just going to be me and you forever,” I moan into her coat as she consoles me with a lick up my cheek. “I’m going to end up old and alone like Aunt Margret,” I wail, feeling completely sorry for myself. “One day when I’m still single at fifty, I’m going to think that some hot twenty-year-old who’s only after my money wants me because I’m so desperate for love.” I sniff, burying my face deeper into Muffin’s wiry fur, hearing her whine, then feel her press her cold nose against my neck. With a hiccup I give her one last squeeze and pull myself up off the floor.

As much as I want to sit around and feel sorry for myself, my stomach won’t let me. I know if I don’t eat I will likely pass out from hunger. Wander

ing over to the kitchen, I search through the cupboards for something to fill the void in my stomach, since there is no way I will be ordering pizza—the idea alone has my stomach turning. Finally, in the last cupboard, I find a can of chicken and stars soup and some crackers my mom brought me when I had the flu last year. Looking at the expiration dates on both, I know I will be testing fate if I eat them, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Dumping the soup into a bowl, I place it in the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes, then open the package of crackers. Taking a small bite out of one, I sigh in relief when it’s not as hard and stale as it should be.

Needing something to wash the dry cracker down, I open the fridge and dig all the way to the back behind the dozens of takeout food containers I’ve collected and pull out the bottle of moscato my sisters brought over a few weeks ago. I don’t normally drink alone, but tonight seems like the kind of night when someone—a loser—such as myself would drink by herself. Twisting the cork out of the top, I dump the almost full bottle into one of my giant plastic tumblers and take a huge gulp, feeling it cool my dry throat on the way down, then burn my empty stomach. Shoving another cracker into my mouth, I chew and swallow while I grab my bowl of soup from the microwave, practically burning my hands off as I put it down on the counter. With one more large gulp of wine, I find the tray my mom also brought over when I was sick, put everything on it, and carry it over to the couch. The moment I sit, Muffin hops up next to me.

“Happy birthday to me,” I mutter, picking up a handful of crackers and dumping them into my soup.

“Ruff.”

“Thanks, girl. I love you, too.” I pat Muffin’s head, then toss her a cracker that she catches, then spits immediately on the floor. Looking at the cracker, then her, I shake my head, find the remote, turn on the television, and flip through for something to watch.

“Oh god . . .” I breathe through my tears, resting my fingers against my lips as Hilary Swank reads another message from Gerard Butler. “Why did he have to die?” I sob right along with Hilary not for the first time since starting this movie, then my head flies up as someone knocks on the door. Wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, I hop off the couch and press “Pause” on P.S. I Love You as I step over the dishes I set on the floor, along with the pile of Kleenex. Knowing my sisters probably ignored me and decided to show up anyway, I open the door without checking who it is—regretting the lapse in judgment when I find Levi on the other side.