by Lane Hart
I scoff and straighten my spine at the same time Reagan laughs and says, “Got that right!” over my shoulder.
“But you are also very loyal and courageous.”
The positive remarks lessen the sting of the criticisms, just a little.
“While you may be exceedingly lonely-”
“Am not!” I argue, trying to pull away from her grasp.
“Unfortunately, because of your inability to put your trust in a partner, you will not find love for…at least nine more years,” Madam Tess says before she finally releases my hand.
“Nine years!” I exclaim indignantly, trying to ignore the dig about my trust issues. “I-I’ll be thirty-five!”
“Yes, well, your paths are not destined to cross until that time when you will finally be ready to accept another’s loyalty and commitment to you and only you,” she replies coolly with a shrug.
My own shoulders slump because, while I’m certainly not what I would consider lonely, I would like to meet “the one,” get married, and have several mini-mes running around, all before I’m barren.
“Well, thanks for nothing,” I say with a huff of depression as I get to my feet and look outside the tent to see if the rain is letting up yet. I’m so ready to go home, curl up on the sofa with a carton of Neapolitan ice cream and watch reruns of South Park. What can I say? I have a crude sense of humor. That could very well be why I’m still single.
Or the kook might be onto something about my trust issues.
Senior year of college I was engaged to a man I thought was perfect. Bryan was a political science major like me. In fact, we had several classes together. He was incredibly sweet, and we got along so well, never, ever fighting about anything over the two years we dated. If there is such a thing as soulmates, I’m certain that he was mine. So imagine my surprise when Stacy, one of my suitemates at the time, saw him at a party the night we graduated making out with another girl. He had told me earlier in the day that he would be spending the night celebrating with his parents, when in fact he spent it with his dick in another girl. Not that I know that for certain, but Stacy was kind enough to send me pics of them kissing and leaving together. Bryan and I had picked a date for a fall wedding. I had bought a beautiful princess dress, booked a venue, and started making all the other plans while he was still fucking around with other women behind my back! Since then, I haven’t dated much, especially no one seriously. Apparently, if what this woman says is actually true, I won’t be with anyone seriously for a long time in the foreseeable future either.
“There is another way…” Madam Tess says, trailing off her sentence after saying those four words, knowing she’s leaving me hanging. I refuse to take the bait.
For all of thirty seconds.
“A way to what?” I can’t help but ask when I turn back around. I grab up my popcorn bag from the table and pop a handful into my mouth, trying to act all nonchalant.
“A way to find him sooner,” she says with a knowing smirk because she’s clearly reeling me in like a floppy, big mouthed bass.
“How soon?” I ask skeptically.
“Within seven days.”
Seven days? Damn. That would be awesome to have a man in my apartment for the first time in --- what month is it? That is, if I actually believed her mumbo-jumbo.
“Oooh,” Reagan mutters from beside me, taking the bait hook, line and sinker. “Let’s do it,” she tells the woman and then to me, “What? You know you want to.”
The psychic woman reaches under the tablecloth and pulls out a small, round, glass bottle of red liquid. If I had to guess, I would say it’s cherry Kool-Aid.
“Nice,” Reagan says as she eyes the substance. “How much?”
“Two hundred,” Madam Tess answers.
“No way,” I reply with a bark of laughter. No way am I going to spend two hundred dollars, over thirteen hours of hard paralegal work, on what is most likely dyed water. This woman is just leeching off of the poor souls of single women!
“Nine years or two hundred dollars? I think you should go for it, Josie,” Reagan says with a nudge to my shoulder.
“Not gonna happen,” I tell her, crossing my arms over my chest to show her my adamant defiance against such scams.
“Fine,” Reagan says with a roll of her eyes. “I’ll buy it for your birthday.”
“My birthday isn’t for five more months!”
“It’s an early present,” she says with a wave of her hand before she pulls her wallet from her purse.
“Reagan, no.” I try to stop her, but it’s too late. She’s handing the woman a fistful of cash for what is clearly going to be a rip-off.
“Pleasure, dear,” the woman says as she stands up from her stool and hands Reagan the bottle. Only, she doesn’t let it go once Reagan’s hand wraps around it.
“Wow,” Reagan whispers in awe when the liquid changes color before our eyes, going from a dark, reddish tint to a more purplish one. In other words, it went from cherry to grape Kool-Aid.
“It’s nothing more than those liquid crystals like in mood rings, changing color based on body temperature,” I say, certain that the fancy little trick has to be the same premise.
“No, it’s not temperature. The potion senses souls,” Madam Tess says.
“Purple’s my favorite color,” Reagan admits.
“And mine, of course, is red,” the psychic says with a smile.
Pure coincidence.
“Now,” the hoodoo artist begins telling Reagan. “I must warn you of a few things. Once you or your friend drink the potion, you’ll have seven days to find and unite with your soulmate.”
“Huh?” Reagan asks. “Unite? Like get married in a week?”
“No, not obtain a piece of paper. How does one physically unite two minds, bodies, and souls?” Madam Tess asks, glancing between us with a raised eyebrow, still holding the bottle of Kool-Aid in a death grip.
“Sex?” Reagan asks, making me snort. When Madam Tess gives a slight nod of confirmation, I can’t refrain from rolling my eyes.
“Furthermore, by drinking the potion, you’re causing a disturbance in the natural order of things, making events occur sooner rather than later. Therefore, sacrifices must be made to put you on the correct path and resume the balance.”
“What kind of sacrifices?” Reagan asks softly, her skin looking paler than usual.
“No one will die,” Madam Tess laughs. “But there may be some suffering or…inconveniences that are required for the sudden shift in time order to take place.”
“Like what exactly?” I ask.
“There’s no way for me to know. It’s different for each person. Which brings me to the third and final warning,” she says, her face turning serious. “The potion in this bottle will never run dry, unless it goes unused.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I snort.
“Once you drink your one sip, you cannot drink anymore. But every seven days from that time it must be ingested by someone else, and so on,” the psychic explains to us. “The potion will continue to replenish itself as long as it is consumed by a different person every seven days. If not, it will begin to diminish, and once the last drop is lost, so will be all the love it created.”
“Oh no,” Reagan mutters as she buys right into all the bullshit this woman is selling. After Madam Tess finally releases the bottle, she stares down at the purple liquid a second in thought before she asks, “But how do you know when you’ve found the one? Your soulmate?”
“Easy,” the psychic answers with a smile before she folds her dress underneath her and retakes her seat at the table. “Because after a perfect pair of souls are united, they’re unable to see anyone else.”
“At first maybe, but I bet your little potion can’t make a man keep his dick in his pants around other women forever,” I say with a great deal of snarkiness. Okay, so maybe I’m still a little bitter, even three years later.
“Once bonded, the two souls will never be separated,
by infidelity or anything else, not even death,” Madam Tess replies. “Well, not unless you wait too long to unite or the potion expires.”
The rain thankfully finally lets up to a soft drizzle and not a moment too soon, because I seriously want to get away from all these weirdos and get back to normal society.
“Reagan, you ready?” I ask, nodding my head back toward the parking lot.
“Ah, yeah,” she says to me, and then, “Thank you,” to Madam Tess.
“You’re welcome, dears. Protect the bottle, remember the rules, and good luck,” Madam Tess says to our retreating backs.
“Wow. How nuts was she?” I mumble softly to Reagan as we hike through the grassy field, tossing my mostly empty popcorn bag into a passing bin.
“What if it works?” she asks. At twenty-five, the girl is so gullible. I worry about men taking advantage of her naivety.
“Sorry to break it to you, but I think you just threw two hundred bucks down the shitter.”
Reagan gives a humph of disagreement and stays quiet until we’re seated back in my nineteen seventy-two El Camino. My classic car is my baby, possibly the only one I’ll ever have. For my twenty-first birthday, my parents paid to have this classic restored with a shiny blue finish and a black racing stripe down the center before they gave it to me. I’ve been in love with this make of car since I was old enough to say “El Camino.” They don’t make cars like these anymore. And what can I say? Despite my girly wardrobe, I’m a bit of a tomboy.
“Are you pouting?” I ask my best friend as the car roars to life with a twist of my wrist. A minute later I’m driving us out of the slushy, gravel parking lot.
“If you don’t think it will work, it won’t work,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest like a child having a tantrum.
“Oh my God. You can’t be serious, Reagan. Love potions don’t exist. If they did, there wouldn’t be any single ladies, would there? Beyoncé’s song about putting a ring on it would’ve been a big flop, not a worldwide sensation.”
“So you’re not even gonna try it?” she huffs.
“I can make you a big batch of Kool-Aid when we get back to my apartment for free,” I tease.
“Just promise me you’ll try it! What do you have to lose?” she asks, as I start looking for the signs for the highway. “I know how lonely you’ve been, but you refuse to date anyone because of that dipshit who cheated on you!”
“Don’t think so, Reagan,” I remark. “That dipshit was my soulmate and, yes, he cheated on me and I refused to forgive him. But feel free to try it yourself. I mean, you did pay a fortune for it.”
I exhale a breath of relief when we take the exit for Interstate 421 north, thankfully heading back to normal civilization after that freak show we just left.
“Try it!” Reagan screeches, making me jump in surprise before she thrusts the bottle into my face.
“No!” I exclaim, batting her hand away. “And chill the fuck out. Do you want me to wreck?”
“Try it!”
OMG. She was exposed to the crazy people for far too long. Now she’s caught it, and I don’t have any antidotes to restore her sanity.
“Josie?” she says when I don’t respond to her psychotic request.
“What, Reagan?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.
The glass bottle appears in front of my line of sight yet again. “Try. It.”
“Oh, for the love of God!” I yell. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I jerk the bottle out of her hand, pull the glass stopper out with my teeth and chug half of it, just to get her to shut the hell up. “Happy?” I ask when I hand it back. “And yuck.” My entire body gives an involuntary shiver at the foul, bitter taste still lingering on my now numb tongue. Ugh, it’s like a spicy cough medicine. “That shit is…is…”
“Wow! Look! It turned blue, your favorite color,” I vaguely hear her say before I have to slap my palm over my mouth to contain the mouthful of regurgitated acid.
“Oh no.”
Veering off onto the right shoulder of the road, I barely fling my car door open in time before I start retching. Fuck, it’s awful. I projectile vomit across the entire four-lane highway.
“Josie?” Reagan asks softly. “Are…are you okay?”
“Do I look like I’m okay?” I snap at her caustically, sounding like the demonic girl from The Exorcist before another wave of heaves wrack through me.
“Here,” she says when I eventually stop yakking. A wad of fast-food napkins gratefully appear in front of my face.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I grab for the stack, wiping my eyes, face and nose. Ugh. It feels like I’m leaking from every orifice. “That was some seriously nasty shit,” I tell her after I clean myself up, even though it’s unnecessary. Just then, I feel a big gust of wind, followed by a loud BOOM.
Reagan and I both scream as the car rocks us back and forth from the force of impact.
“What the hell was that?” she asks, but I just hang my head because I already know without looking.
“My door,” I groan into my palms.
Reagan leans over me and then gasps, “Oh shit!” before the little tramp starts giggling.
“It’s not funny!” I exclaim with a shove to her shoulder. That only makes her laugh harder, her head thrown back, full out snorts now, which makes me join in, even though it feels like my own arm was ripped off from my body.
Fuck. I sober up at the thought of how much this is gonna cost to fix. Living on your own is not cheap, and I don’t have a lot of money in savings, hence the reason I didn’t want to spend two hundred dollars on a bottle of upchuck.
Waiting until traffic clears, I jump out of my car that’s now one door away from being a dune buggy, and weave through the maze of vomit to retrieve my unhinged door. Quickly grabbing it up, I give it a hug to my chest and utter an apology before laying it down gently in the back. That’s why El Caminos are the most awesome cars in the world, the comfort of a car with the bed of a truck. It’s ingenious.
Sitting back down in the driver seat, I buckle up and prepare to get wet on the hour-and-a-half drive home. One where my best friend laughs at me the entire way. This is all her fault.
FML and fuck bogus ass love potions.
Chapter Two
Josie Carter
The next morning I drop my car off at the garage that’s closest to the law office where I’ve been a paralegal for three years. After putting my keys in an envelope with my contact information on the front, I slip it into their drop box and walk the two blocks to work.
Despite my disbelief in such things as insta-love, I can’t prevent my eyes from flicking from one man to the next on busy morning sidewalks, wondering if one could possibly be “the one.” My type has always been the smart, hardworking business man in a three-piece suit. Lawyer, accountant, CEO, I’m not that picky, as long as there’s an impeccable suit and tie involved.
Bryan, my ex, looked amazing in a suit. He just graduated from law school and is studying for the bar exam. After that, he’ll wear suits every day and probably sleep with every woman he sees. So what if I still stalk him on Facebook and know that he’s back in town while he studies this summer? It’s not like I drove past his parents’ house all creepy to try and see him. Well, I haven’t done that more than twice.
Bummed, reminiscing about the loss of my future husband and our happily ever after together, I duck into the office through the front door instead of the back like usual when I have a car to leave in the parking lot.
“Good morning!” Clarissa, our peppy, blonde secretary says in a singsong voice, sounding way too chipper for a fucking Monday morning.
“Take it down a notch, Julie Andrews,” I grumble as I walk past her desk and down the hall to the office I share with John Scholtz, my eccentric boss, who is the senior partner of the firm, Scholtz, Bell & Daniels. The man has been practicing criminal law since around the time my parents were born. He has a serious case of ADHD with an array of hobbies that often pull him out of
the office for weeks at a time. Every once in a while he’ll get a wild hair up his ass and want to do actual legal work, but he’s a procrastinator, so that usually only happens about a day before a case is due in court. Since it’s only eight-thirty, and he doesn’t ever make an appearance before eleven or twelve, if he even decides to grace us with his presence today, I put my purse away in my little desk that faces the wall before fixing a cup of coffee in the office kitchen and sitting down at my boss’s computer to check emails, etcetera, like usual.
Thirty minutes later, and I’ve done all the work that can be done, well, until my boss decides to come swooping in and sends me off on a wild goose chase. So what do I do? Check my personal emails. Pay some bills online. Spin around in the big, leather computer chair. And then, when nothing else comes to me, I decide to go find a willing coworker to gossip with.
Clarissa is too peppy and busy answering the ringing phone since Mondays are always swamped with people getting arrested over the weekend for doing stupid shit. My boss doesn’t get many calls because he’s very select in the clients he takes. They have to be rich enough to afford his fees because of his bazillion years of experience in the courtroom and his connections, and he must be willing to devote time to their cases. At most, he takes maybe a new client a month.
My options for office gossip are, therefore, Rebecca, who works for Clark Bell, a young up-and-coming criminal attorney, who mostly deals with small potatoes misdemeanors; or Mallory, who works for Winston Daniels, a middle-aged personal injury attorney. Since Clark has probably already left for calendar call over in court, I head over to Rebecca’s desk.
“What’s up, chica?” I ask when I flop down in the chair across from her pristine desk.
“I hate Mondays,” she says, her shoulders sagging underneath the weight of her baggy, cream blouse before she uses her index finger to push her glasses up her nose. Becca totally has the whole sexy librarian thing going for her. Sure, she has prescription glasses because she’s blind as a bat, but with her long, thick, wavy red waves that I’m totally jealous of and curves that would give a man whiplash, if she ever showed them off, she could be a knockout. The woman needs to wake up and work what her mama gave her. Instead, she’s shy and quiet to the point of awkwardness until she gets to know someone, and she dresses like my frumpy, but loveable, Aunt June.
