Kind of Cursed
Stephanie Fournet
Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Stephanie Fournet
Someone Like Me Chapter 1
Someone Like Me Chapter 2
Kind of Cursed
Stephanie Fournet
www.stephaniefournet.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, artistic works, product names, places, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference or world building. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book whole or in part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
Copyright © by Stephanie Fournet 2019; All rights reserved.
Cover design by Cayla Zeek
Dedication
For Tara, Shane, and Rebekah Grace
Author’s Note
When I started writing Kind of Cursed, I was very conscious of the fact that this was the first time I had written a romance with a person of color as one of the principal characters. I was also conscious of the fact that, with this being my ninth novel, it was about damn time.
In 2016, my then seventeen-year-old daughter and I had the good fortune to sit in the audience of a panel discussion on diversity in romance at the RT Convention in Las Vegas. The overall message was that romance is for everyone and we shouldn’t shy away from writing about everyone. I completely agreed, and yet I was still afraid to leave the relative safety of writing about my own race and culture for fear of making mistakes. After the session ended, my daughter, also a writer, and I approached author Alisha Rai, and my teenager bravely shared that she wanted to write characters of color but that, like me, she was afraid of accidentally writing inaccuracies or stereotypes. Ms. Rai very wisely said, “It’s good that you’re afraid. That’s the first step in getting it right.” And then she advised us to be curious. To widen our social circles. To get to know people. And to ask them about their experiences.
I hope I have done that well enough to have succeeded in writing Luc and the Valencias with respect, dignity, and an abundance of love.
On another note, in addition to being a multicultural romance, Kind of Cursed is a romantic comedy, but some serious themes emerge. Miscarriage is one of them. To any reader who lives with the pain of this unforgettable loss or who has struggled with infertility, know that this book is dedicated to dear friends who share that experience and have inspired me with their strength and outreach. You can read more about them in the acknowledgments.
Finally, I hope you love Millie, Luc, and their families even half as much as I do. Happy reading!
Prologue
MILLIE
Fertility. It’s something of a curse in my family.
I’m sure a lot of people who’ve had to deal with the curse of infertility probably wouldn’t appreciate me saying that, and to them—or anyone else—I mean no offense.
But anyone who’s heard about my family, that is, the maternal line of my family, would agree that curse isn’t too strong of a word. I come from a long line of remarkably fecund women. And I’m not about to offend a whole other subset of people by claiming that any of my maternal ancestors were the result of an immaculate conception, but something supernatural (and I’m just stating for the record here that my term for it is curse) has to be at work.
Either the women in my family have been graced with wombs that are teeming with eggs like a caviar sturgeon, ripe and ready for that magical moment three hundred sixty-five days a year, or we have all had the uncanny ability to attract the most virile of virile men who spread sperm—indestructible, everlasting, and navigationally superior sperm—like mean girls spread gossip.
I could probably go back ten generations to make my point, but let’s just take three. Starting with Great-Grandma Mildred, whom I happen to be named after, but that’s a different family curse. Great-Grandma Mildred had two sets of twins—the first, boys, the second, girls—separated by three babies, all born in the span of seven years.
That’s seven kids in seven years.
The poor woman wasn’t even twenty-five by the time she had the last one. I’m not sure what put a stop to it, but either my great-granny’s uterus fell out or she started sleeping with a hot poker to keep Great-Grandpa Hubert on his side of the bed.
Granny Matilda—whom my little sister Mattie is lucky enough to be named after—didn’t have it much better, even with the invention of the Pill in the 1920s. She used to say Grandpa Ernie just had to look at her across the dining table, and she’d be with child.
That must have been some look. Two boys, then a set of twins—also boys—then my mom, and finally, my Aunt Pru. At least Granny Matilda spaced hers out a little better than Great-Grandma Mildred, but that just meant she was changing diapers for more than a decade.
Mom turned up pregnant with me when she and Dad were sophomores in college. They’d been dating for all of three months. Mom knew about The Curse, of course. It was part of family lore. She had even warned Dad. They figured the Pill and condoms would be enough.
They figured wrong. Medical advances are no match for the supernatural. And a week after seeing the plus sign on that pregnancy test, they tied the knot at the parish courthouse.
I’ve always thought that decision said everything about what they felt for each other. I mean, they’d barely known each other for a whole season. I can’t imagine that kind of certainty, but they always had it.
And back then, they didn’t have much else. No money, that’s for sure. I remember us eating Toasted O’s for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a whole week while Dad was in med school and Mom was between waitressing jobs.
Mom once told me that during those years, they’d relied on three different kinds of birth control. They weren’t about to take any chances with the three of us in a tiny apartment. But as I’ve said, I don’t think birth control actually matters. Maybe The Curse took a break. Or maybe my parents were just too tired to do it back then.
But midway through Dad’s surgical residency, The Curse returned with a vengeance, and we got the twins, Harry and Mattie. By then, I was ten, and mom had gone back to school and finished in interior design.
Money was still tight, but I remember Mom and Dad being insanely happy when they found out our family was growing, so I was happy too. Mom told me they’d never wanted me to be an only child. The twins just showed up a little earlier than they’d planned since Dad was still just a medical resident and Mom was a student.
And thr
ee was supposed to be the magic number. I got this piece of information when I started dating in high school. The twins were about six at the time, and one Saturday, Dad took them to the skating rink, and Mom and I went shopping.
That’s when she told me about The Curse.
Of course, she didn’t use that word. That’s mine. If I remember correctly, she called it an uncanny potential for procreation. At the time I thought she was just trying to scare me away from sex.
And I might still think that if it weren’t for Emmett.
Emmett is my eight-year-old brother—who was born six years after the twins and five years after my dad’s vasectomy.
I don’t care what anyone else calls it. That’s a curse.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my brother. And the twins. Harry, Mattie, and Emmett are the greatest. I’d literally do anything for them. And while all of my parents’ pregnancies were unplanned, I never thought for a moment they were unwanted. It’s the powerlessness I take issue with.
The life-altering powerlessness.
My parents never seemed to mind this haplessness, this state of being at the mercy of the fates. But they had each other, and they were so in love. I don’t think it really mattered what happened to them as long as they were together.
And they were. Right up to the end.
Maybe that would make any curse bearable. I wouldn’t know. For me, The Curse has just struck the once, and it was the most unbearable time of my life.
Chapter One
MILLIE
Emmett is coughing.
My alarm hasn’t even gone off yet, but he’s awake. Coughing. And I can tell just by the sound that he’s faking.
School refusal, the guidance counselor called it. My eight-year-old brother doesn’t want to go to school. So he pretends to be sick as often as he can.
I can’t say I blame him.
He knows I’m off on Mondays. Someone would be free to watch him, so why not make it a three-day weekend? We go through this almost every week. Some days he rasps through a sore throat… or moans with stomach cramps.
It’s the coughing that woke me today. Or it woke Clarence, and Clarence woke me. I’m not sure which, but I can feel the puffs of his canine breath through the blanket over my knee. His ears are perked toward the door, listening to Emmett’s cough, but being the good boy he is, he’s waiting for me to make the first move.
I glance at the glowing red numbers on my alarm: 5:26. I have four minutes until the thing goes off. Five minutes until I have to wake up Mattie. Ten minutes until I have to wake up Harry. And fifteen minutes until it’s Emmett’s turn.
Except he’s awake already. Plotting.
With a sigh, I roll onto my back and stare at the shadowed ceiling, asking the question I’ve asked every day for the last five months.
What would Mom do?
She’d be patient… cheerful… and absolutely uncompromising. And Emmett’s ass would get to school.
I close my eyes, marshaling my will power and letting myself catch a few more seconds of peace and solitude—
And then the beeping starts.
I deliver the alarm clock a vengeful slap. Clarence lifts his head with a jingle of tags.
“Yep, buddy,” I sigh again. “It’s time.”
When I toss back the covers, my roommate/bedmate/soulmate and four-year-old Great Pyrenees rises with lumbering ease, stretches his massive limbs, and jumps off the bed.
“Let’s go wake Mattie,” I say, wrapping up in my robe before opening the bedroom door. It’s technically not my bedroom door. It’s the guest room.
Or, rather, the guest suite.
My room—the room I lived in until I left for college—is now Mattie’s. Before I moved out, she roomed with Harry. Like most twins, they were inseparable when they were little. When I went to Tulane, they were only eight years old, and I don’t think either one of them had ever thought about rooming by themselves until Mom offered Mattie my room. I guess Mom figured the two of them bunking together any longer would be weird, and the offer of my room—with its private bathroom and its balcony overlooking St. Mary Street—might be just the thing to get her to take the plunge. Mom was right, and Mattie moved. All the way down the hall.
I pass both boys’ rooms because Mattie needs to be woken first. Not because she’s a girl. Not because she primps or changes outfits five times before she leaves. But because she stresses when she’s rushed, and I don’t need her to be stressed.
Her door is closed almost all the way but not latched, so when Clarence pokes it with his nose, it opens soundlessly, and he slips in. I stand in the doorway and squint to see him boop her in the face.
The sight of it makes me smile.
Mattie, who sleeps on her side, makes a muffled sound, reaches out a hand, and scrubs Clarence behind one ear. “I’m up, Millie,” she says softly, and I can tell she’s smiling too.
Because if your mom’s not there to wake you up in the morning, a one-hundred-and-ten pound Great Pyrenees is the next best thing.
And, yeah, I learned that the hard way, but at least I learned it.
The wake-up routine is almost the same for Harry, except Harry is a stomach sleeper. This means he somehow roots his way under the pillows during the night. He may be fourteen years old, but when he’s asleep, he still looks like one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. Boney. All elbows and knees. Hair sticking up like a turkey tail from his pillow diving.
So most mornings, Clarence has to do a little excavating. He snuffles and snorts and pokes his big head under the pillow pile. And since Harry isn’t as easy to wake as Mattie, there’s usually licking involved.
“Ugh!” Pillows scatter.
I grin. Yep, he’s awake.
“Morning, Harry.”
“Blech. His tongue got in my mouth,” he whisper-shouts across the room. He’s not really mad. Or even grossed out. He’s trying to make me laugh, so I do.
“Clarence, mind your manners,” I say, chuckling. “So, what’ll it be? Waffles or eggs?”
After we lost Mom and Dad, I quickly learned that even if Mattie and Harry were technically old enough to make their own breakfasts, they didn’t actually have the maturity to do it. They’d say they weren’t hungry just to sleep later.
But then the calls started coming from school about them falling asleep or sneaking snacks in class.
So I make breakfast for everyone now.
“Eggs. Three scrambled, please. Got a game today.”
My eyes bug, and I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see. “Right!” I say as if I totally remembered his soccer game, and I so totally forgot. I cross my fingers for good luck. “A home game.”
Please, God, let it be a home game. Away games are a logistical gamble, and I’d hate for him not to have anyone in the stands cheering him on.
“Yeah, like I told you last week.” Harry sits up and scrubs his head, and in the dim light of the hallway, I can see he’s frowning at me. “Did you forget?”
“No, no. I didn’t forget… Just making sure,” I sing-song, crawfishing out of the room.
I still have a few minutes before I have to get Emmett. Just enough time to negotiate. So.
I dash back to Mattie’s room. The outline of light tells me she’s in the bathroom, so I tiptoe through her room and press my lips to the door jamb. I can hear water running.
“Mattie,” I hiss whisper. The water cuts off.
“What?” She sounds irritated. And I have to admit, if one of them came to the door while I was in the bathroom, I’d be irritated too. But I only have a few minutes, and I need to be strategic about this. As Mick Jagger says, you can’t always get what you want.
Well, none of my siblings is going to get what they want today, but maybe they’ll get what they need.
“Can you stay at school today for Harry’s game? So I can pick up Emmett and get him there?”
I hear my sister’s annoyed sigh, and I brace myself. Mattie likes routine. She wants to come home
every day, straight after school, and start on her homework. At five-thirty on Mondays and Wednesdays, Mrs. Chen arrives for Mattie’s piano lesson, but at five-thirty every day even when she doesn’t have lessons, Mattie is still at the piano, practicing for an hour.
Except Saturdays and Sundays when she practices for two hours.
Harry’s game starts at three. Emmett loves Harry’s games. The chance to go to one—which means me picking him up from school instead of having him ride the bus home—might be just the bargaining chip I need to get him up and out without a fuss today. But instead of picking her up like I normally do, Mattie will have to stay after school until the game ends, which won’t be until around four-thirty. Messing with her routine is going to carry a price.
“Fine,” she drones, “but can we have Chick-fil-A for dinner?”
And here it is. Harry likes Cane’s better. Emmett says Cane’s is better, but I really don’t think he cares. He just wants to be like his big brother. I don’t like either, but at least Cane’s is closer. And local. To get Mattie’s precious Grilled Cool Wrap and waffle fries, I’ll have to drop the kids off at home first so Mattie will be there in time for her lesson, get back in the car, and drive all the way to the Ambassador Caffery location.
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