Page 11 of The Breakup Artists

“You’ve already donemorethan enough,” she says, and for a second, I’m shocked; while I regret the way that played out, the lack of acceptance of my apology is unexpected.

I wipe a napkin down my coffee-splattered face. “I’m not saying I don’t deserve that... but there were definitely two of us involved in that collision, one of us with very bad timing and one of us with a hammer elbow, and even though it doesn’t really cover the damages, at least the badly timed one apologized.”

“Apology not accepted,” she says and goes directly back to cleaning coffee off her things.

And I laugh, not because it’s funny but because it’s so spectacularly bad—the actual worst introduction I’ve ever had to another person.

“Asshole,” she says under her breath.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m failing here, and if I don’t do something fast and clever, I’ll have no shot of ever talking to her again.

“Scorpio,” I retort and wipe coffee off my arms.

Now she turns to me. “Excuse me?” she says, squeezing coffee out of her long wavy hair. “I’mnot aScorpio. I’m a Leo.”

I do know her birthday after all. But as someone who knows what it’s like to obsess over specifics, I knew she literally could not resist correcting me. “Then don’t act like one.”

Her mouth hangs open. “I’m...” she blusters and settles on, “Ugh.”

I suppress a smile. “Nice try, but apology not accepted.”

“Seriously?” she says like she can’t believe I’m allowed to exist. “You’re amenace.” Her eyes narrow. “And a Gemini,” she declares. “Definitely a Gemini.”

For a split second I falter. She’s spot on. And she knows it, because she looks pleased by my reaction.

“Are you saying that because half of me is charming?” I ask. Even though I hate astrology, I do know the basic idea that Geminis are supposed to have two distinct sides of their personalities. I can practically hear Tiny trumpeting her victory over me for utilizing astrology. A little piece of my pride just withered and died.

“Wow, just wow,” she says, and even though she’s not being friendly, she no longer has ice in her voice.

“And because the other half of me is funny?” I try again.

She shakes her head, unconvinced that I should be making jokes.

“Look,” I say, conciliatory. “I know I’m not your favorite person in this café right now. You may have even ranked grumpy suspender dude above me.” I gesture at the guy behind the counter, and despite the fact that she tries to hide it, the corners of her mouth tilt upward. “But I really do feel bad about what happened. I’d love to make it up to you by—”

She stops me. “If you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you could hit on me after—”

How is it possible that every single thing I don’t want to happen in this conversation is happening in hyperdrive?

“Whoa,” I say, holding up my hands. “I definitely don’t want to date you.”

Her eyes widen, and I know I’ve offended her even though she has no interest in dating me (funny how that works).

“I just meant that I’d love to pay for your dry cleaning,” I continue quickly but reconsider after seeing how stained her dress is. “Or maybe pay for a new dress entirely?” And as much as I hate to lose a bet to Tiny, I grab the newspaper and tear the crossword puzzle out of it, reconciling myself to go to Bob’s godforsaken Beachfront Diner.

I scribble my phone number on the back and then add:

Sorry again, Scorpio.

I hand her the note and she frowns, readjusting her bag on her shoulder. “I’m not going to call you.”

“No worries,” I say. “A text is perfectly fine.”

She opens her mouth but closes it again, shaking her head. And she walks away. She doesn’t say goodbye and she doesn’t look back, but she does stare at my note longer than she needs to.

I look at my phone, which now has a billion texts from Tiny, the last of which reads:What if this strategy is CURSED?!?

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