Page 1 of The Disasters of Dating (Love Connections #6)

POPPY

The universe may throw you a few curveballs today, Pisces. A loose thread may unravel more than just your hairstyle and not everything that glitters will be gold.

Why did I read my horoscope this morning? When I read the first line, I should have just closed my browser. But did I? Nope. And now I’m sure it’s what put all this negative energy into the air. I release a huge sigh. “Come on, it’s not that difficult to scan a card,” I yell at my windshield.

My jaw clenches, and I reach up to rub the amethyst stone at my throat with my thumb as I wait for the person three cars in front of me to scan their parking card and move through the gate. I take in a few deep breaths, calling on as many calming vibes as I can get.

I’m late for work, and I HATE being late. Does no one understand that right now?

I pull out my phone and text Sheila on the company group text. She’s the girl who has the shift before me.

Hey, I’m going to be late. A car in front of me doesn’t know how the card reader at the parking lot works. I don’t know how long I’m going to be stuck here.

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat. From the corner of my eye, I see the shuttle bus. “No, no, no,” I yell at it. If I miss it, it will be ten minutes before the next one arrives.

The guy in the car behind the moron in front, sticks his head out the window and yells something as he honks.

The lady in the offending car leans her head—or rather a large floppy hat—out and yells something in return.

I consider rolling down my window to listen to the exchange, but before I can even decide, the guy leans out farther and waves us all back.

He wants us to back up? I look in my rearview mirror. Is he kidding me right now? There are four more cars behind me. Where are we all supposed to go? We’re already backed out onto the main road into the airport.

I sigh and put my car into park. Pushing open the door, I hop out and jog to the front car.

“I don’t think we can back up. Is your card not working?

” I ask the lady in an irritated voice until I see she is probably like seventy or something.

She reminds me of my Grandma Sue. Although, Grandma Sue is a much better dresser and her hair is a natural silver, rather than a bottle brown with gray roots.

“I seem to have read the signs wrong.” The lady says with a confused frown. “I thought this was the short-term parking lot.” She stares at the gate that is still down in front of her as if she can will it open with her mind.

I bite my frustration down and smile, trying to sympathize with her.

The signs can be a bit confusing if you aren’t familiar with the area, I guess.

And people are always so impatient on the road coming into the airport.

It’s like everyone is late for something.

“The short-term parking is two exits after this one.” I lean over and point through her windshield.

“It’s in that big parking structure over there. ”

She squints and then nods. “Oh, how did I miss that?”

I shake my head, but keep my thoughts to myself.

“Okay, why don’t I use my card to open the gate?

Then you can just follow the signs to the exit.

Once you’re out of this parking lot, you’ll go to the main airport entrance.

Then follow the signs to short-term parking.

Easy-peasy,” I say, knowing it likely isn’t.

If it were, she probably wouldn’t be here right now.

She nods her head. “Oh, thank you, dear. I just don’t know how I got so turned around. I hope my granddaughter hasn’t had to wait too long.”

I give her a wide smile, which I really don’t feel. But then I relax. This lady is someone’s grandma. I would want someone to be nice and help Grandma Sue out if this happened to her. Which I can’t imagine it would—but still. Kindness is free and I can afford that, right?

I swipe my card. As the arm swings up, I wave her in. “There you go. Have a great day,” I say as she slowly inches forward .

Just as she clears the arm, she stops and leans out of her car. “Thank you, again, dear.”

I wave my hand at her until she turns down the row leading out of the parking area. I rub at my forehead as the bottleneck she’s caused slowly moves forward. I hope she can find her way out. But her poor granddaughter might have to wait a while.

“Thanks, lady.” The guy in front of me says as he sails past.

The car behind my parked car honks.

I jog back and hop inside, moving toward the gate. I don’t want to be the one causing the hold-up. Several people smile at me and give me a grateful wave or dip of their chin.

I smile back. And even wave at a few of them. Take that horoscope. My day is looking up!

I scan the lot for the shuttle bus and park in the opposite direction, hoping it will give me a little extra time to get parked before it hits my stop.

I swing into the parking space and shut off the engine.

Leaning over, I grab my phone from where it had landed on the seat next to the passenger side door.

I sit back up, my eyes still on the rearview mirror.

I’m going to have to jog to make it. Roger, the shuttle driver, has either had a lot of coffee or he is especially lead-footed today. Either way, I don’t have time to waste.

Hopping out of my car, I swing my oversized boho bag/purse over my head and slam the car door shut.

But as I take my first step toward the shuttle stop, I’m yanked back against the car.

“Cheese and crackers!” I yell as I glance down and see my flowy boho skirt clutched tightly between the door and the frame.

“Oh. My. Heck!” I yell. “I don’t have time for this! ”

I yank at the door handle, but it’s locked.

As I rummage through my bag—the denim patchwork one I bought at the arts fair last summer—I’m less thrilled with its voluminous interior than I’d been when I’d first seen it.

Where in the crap are my keys? They have to be in here.

I mean, I just drove to the airport. The only other place they could be—I turn back toward the door and slam my hands flat against the window.

The glimmer of metal winks at me from the front passenger seat.

“No!” I scream and pound my fists on the glass. “This can’t be happening.” This is a little more than a loose thread. It’s more like a wardrobe malfunction! I should email the online newspaper and tell them to fire their horoscope writer.

I turn and rest my back against the door, and a bead of sweat runs between my shoulder blades. A breeze lifts my hair. It feels good against my hot, sticky, wet back. What am I going to do?

I straighten up and look at my skirt. Can I pull it free? If it’s just the edge of it that’s stuck, maybe I can pull it out. I close my eyes, sending one last positive vibe into the air, then tug.

It doesn’t budge. Maybe it needs more than a tug. Maybe it needs a full-on rip or yank. Taking a healthy wad of the fabric into my hands, I white-knuckle pull. But it’s to no avail.

Hot frustration works its way up my back and neck, popping more beads of sweat along my hairline and temple. What did I do to deserve this? Did I not just help an old lady? Do I not get any credit for that? Come on, Karma. Work with me here!

The shuttle bus comes toward me, and I make eye contact with Roger. His gaze narrows, and little wrinkles form at the corners.

I sigh. It’s times like these that I wonder if perhaps I should have gone out with him a second time. He may not be a gentleman, but he’s human, right? He’ll stop and help me, surely.

I step to the side so he can see that my skirt is stuck.

He smirks as he drives past. The jerk.

Any residual guilt I’ve carried for turning him down washes off me.

Not that I should feel guilty. I mean, Mr. Darcy he is not.

He’s more of a Mr. Wickham (sans the evil intent) and Mr. Collins combo.

It was one of the reasons I declined another date.

Well, that and his bad breath and body odor.

And his inability to keep his eyes above my neck or off any other woman in his general vicinity.

I frown. But maybe I shouldn’t call him names. It’s possible he’s calling the security office this very moment—although the smirk makes me doubt that’s the case.

I pull my phone from the front pocket of my bag and text Sheila.

Well, I got into the parking lot, but now my skirt is stuck in my car door, and my keys are sitting on my front seat, safely locked inside. I’m so sorry! Am I totally screwing up your day by being late?

Also, could you please call security and ask them to come open my door for me?

I lay back against my car and shut my eyes, rubbing at my amethyst fiercely as the warm sun soaks into my body. I relax. The worst of my day has got to be over. I mean, seriously, how much worse can it get?

The security car finally arrives and they open my car.

I’m annoyed, I admit it. But I’ve been standing here, trapped by my car door, for more than half an hour, waiting for them.

And in approximately 3.5 seconds, they have my door open.

Like, I could already be at work if they hadn’t taken their sweet time getting here.

But they offer me a ride to the terminal—which means I don’t have to see Roger—so I guess I’ll forgive them for making me wait so long. Yeah, I know. I’m a giver.

I’ve never hurried so quickly through security. I jog on the people mover in the terminal, trying to make up time—as if that’s possible. But if it is possible, it’ll be on a people mover—mark my words. They’re very handy in these types of situations.

Finally, in record time, I reach the cashier’s desk in The Wandering Reader newsstand. I bend over, putting my hands on my knees, and try to slow my breathing.

I pant out a sigh. I did it. I finally made it to work. I glance at my watch. And I’m only an hour late. Facepalm.

I stand up and offer Sheila a big grin. “Okay. I’m here. You can go now.”

She shakes her head, her brows raised and mouth turned down. Sliding a paper across the desktop, she sighs. “No, I can’t. They want you to go to security immediately. Apparently, your parking card has been cloned and was used twice today.”

I blink at her three times. “You’re kidding me, right? I just came through security. Why didn’t they say something then?”

She lifts an irritated shoulder—not that I blame her. “How should I know?”

“I’m really sorry, Sheila,” I rub at my amethyst, but it’s not working. I’m not feeling calm or balanced. Knowing my luck, it’s probably broken today. Or maybe my chakra is so out of whack, my amethyst can’t do its thing? Whatever the issue, I wish it would hurry up and get fixed.

I roll my eyes. I can’t believe helping that old lady is causing me so many problems. You know that quote, “No good deed goes unpunished”? I’m feeling that so hard right now. “I’ll hurry. I promise.”

She waves me aside. “Whatever. Philip should be here any minute to relieve me. I’ll be gone before you get back. It’s Philip you’ll be screwing over.”

My head snaps back slightly at her verbal smackdown .

Good ol’ Sheila. I can always count on her to say it like it is.

No sugar coating to spare someone’s feelings.

You’d think she was like eighty-five or something.

You know, that age where people realize they can say whatever they want and it doesn’t matter how offensive it is—they just chalk it up to being old?

Except that Sheila is only like three years older than I am.

I guess she’s just an angry eighty-five-year-old in a twenty-four-year-old’s body.

“Well,” I say, twisting one of my thin braids around my finger. “Thanks for staying late. Again, I’m sorry. My horoscope?—”

She lifts a hand. “No.”

My brows rise, and I take a step back. “No?” What is she objecting to?

“I stayed late, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to your ‘woo-woo’ horoscope talk.” She shakes her head and looks at me like I’m mold on a new block of cheese. “How you ever became the manager here is beyond me.”

There is so much to unpack in those few sentences, I’m not sure where to start. She doesn’t know how I became a manager? Try because I work my butt off. Not to mention I have the highest reviews of any other employee. And that counts the ones in the shop over in Terminal B, too.

Do I even get started on the ‘woo-woo’ comment?

In two words—even if they are made-up words—Sheila has laid it all on the table.

Not that it’s an accurate assessment. Sure, I read my horoscope and wear crystals—they are very pretty, if nothing else—and I might even dabble in chakras and essential oils.

But does that make me woo-woo? I don’t think so.

This onion has way more layers than that.

But, unfortunately, most people don’t take the time to find out what other layers are there.

I mean, Sheila has only worked at the shop for three years.

Three years! We never work together. We only see each other when her shift ends and mine starts.

But apparently our five minutes together as we shift change is all she needs, to know the real me. The real woo-woo me.