The Cuffing Season (The Anti-Cinderella Chronicles) Read online

  Vivian was silent for a moment—digesting all of this, I imagined, or maybe measuring the distance to exit and trying to figure out if she could maneuver the stroller out of the coffee shop before I stopped her.

  But then as I watched her face, her eyes went wide and a huge smile curved her lips. She reached over and gripped my wrist.

  “I have a fabulous idea.” Her excitement sang through her voice.

  “Okay.” This time, it was my turn to be cautious. “And that idea is?”

  She wriggled in her chair. “Do you remember me telling you how I got started with my column?” she asked.

  A little bit of panic gripped me. I had some vague memories about how Vivian had gotten her big break. It had something to do with frogs, and guys, and maybe kissing, but I didn’t remember all the particulars.

  “Well, sure,” I said, hoping that I sounded confident.

  “I don’t know it,” Preston interrupted, and I could’ve kicked him under the table. “Tell me about it.”

  “Uh,” I stalled, wondering if she expected me to do the telling, but happily, Vivian launched into the explanation herself.

  “A couple of years back, I won a residency on a train. That means that I was invited to ride on AmeriRails trains for six months while writing about my experiences and posting the articles on their website. It was a promotional gig for the company, but it was also a huge honor for me.”

  “Totally.” Preston nodded. “Riding the rails and writing about your adventures. It’s living the dream.”

  “Yeah, well, you might think so. In reality, trains don’t always take the most scenic route, and the little sleeping cars—they’re really little, almost claustrophobic sometimes. The food is so-so on most of the routes. And six months is a long time.”

  The baby made a small noise, not quite a cry, but Vivian reached for the handle of the carriage and jiggled it a bit, until he was quiet again.

  “When I came home from my residency, I found out that my life had basically imploded while I was away. My boyfriend had met someone else. My parents had sold their house and were taking off on an adventure of their own. My job, which was supposed to be held for me, had vanished, because the paper had been sold.”

  “Awww, man.” Preston’s brows drew together in empathetic pain. “That’s cold. What did you do?”

  Vivian shrugged. “I moved in with my aunt Gail, got a job at a pet grooming business, and tried to figure out what should happen next. In the course of that, I came up with the idea of going out on a series of first dates and writing about them—chronicling the reality of dating in the early twenty-first century. I called it Fifty Frogs, because Aunt Gail told me that I had to kiss fifty frogs before I found my prince.” She smiled, her expression the epitome of happy contentment. “Lucky for me, I met Charlie—my aunt’s neighbor—before I had to kiss that many frogs. We found our happy ending, and I was able to translate those stories into a long-term writing gig.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re Vivian, aren’t you? The Vivian?” Apparently, while we’d been preoccupied, the barista shift had ended, and a new one had begun. The woman in the apron who stood just behind Vivian had silky black hair that reached just about to her shoulder, almond-shaped brown eyes and a pierced nose. She was slim, and the oversized tee she wore with her uniform black shorts and flowered apron emphasized that slenderness.

  She also happened to be Sophia, my other best friend, along with Preston. I’d known her for a long time, but I’d never seen her fangirl like she was doing now.

  Vivian turned in her seat, one eyebrow raised. “Well, I’m Vivian. Not sure anyone’s ever called me the Vivian.”

  “Oh, geez.” Sophia pressed her hands to her face. “I’ve read your column since the very first one, when you told me about the airport and the clothes—I laughed so hard, and my sisters both said that was totally something I would do. I haven’t missed one of your pieces since.”

  “Thank you. I’m flattered.” Vivian’s eyes flickered down to the nametag pinned to her shirt. “Sophia?”

  “Yes, that’s me. I’m Sophia.” She pointed to her chest.

  “Soph, we’re kind of in the middle of something here.” The minute the words left my mouth, I realized how rude I’d sounded. I hadn’t meant it that way, but I didn’t want Vivian to be uncomfortable with Sophia’s fawning. In case I hadn’t figured out my mistake, though, Sophia rolled her eyes to clue me in.

  “I can see that, Harry. But Vivian’s totally cool. I don’t know why she’s hanging out with you two doofuses.” She shrugged. “No offense to you, Vivian.”

  “None taken.” Vivian looked amused. “You must spend a lot of time at this coffee shop, Harry, if the barista has already formed an opinion about you and your buddy.”

  “They’re here more than I am, and they’re not getting paid, even the little bit I am. I can’t figure it out.” Sophia smirked. “Either they love the coffee, or one of them is madly in love with me.”

  This was getting out of hand. “Sophia is a friend of ours,” I sighed. “We’ve known each other for years. She’s just being obnoxious on purpose.”

  “I think you meant to say amusing.” Sophia shot me a wide, toothy grin and then turned back to Vivian. “Vivian, if you ever need a place to write, I will reserve a table for you.”

  “Thanks.” Vivian pointed to the baby carriage. “But this sweetie keeps me working at home these days.”

  “I’d be happy to babysit.” Sophia peeked into the coach. “Oooh, he’s, like, really tiny.” Glancing up at Vivian, she added, “And cute. Super cute.”

  “Yeah, he is.” His mother nodded. “And I’ll definitely keep your offer in mind.”

  “Okay.” Sophia flicked a glance my way. “I’ll let you get back to your . . . talk or whatever.”

  Once Sophia had returned to her spot behind the counter, Vivian regarded me with interest. “Well, she’s lovely.”

  Next to me, Preston snorted. “She’s a ball buster.” He snuck a glance at Vivian. “No offense.”

  I shrugged. “She’s okay. Preston and I met Sophia in a college class a few years backs—right around the time you went on that residency, I guess. It turned out we all had a thing for horror movies, rock climbing and sushi.”

  “Hey, marriages have been built on less,” Vivian joked. “But all right. We need to get back to business while I still have time.” She tapped her finger on the edge of the table and looked lost for a moment. “So, where was I?” Her expression cleared. “Oh, yeah. That’s right, the writing gig.” She resumed her story. “The long and the short of it is that I turned my search for love and all of the adventures I had before I met Charlie into a very successful column. What I’m thinking, Harry, is that you could do the same thing with this . . . what did you call it again? The cuffing season?”

  “Yeah, that’s it!” Preston nodded. “And that is a fascinating idea, Miss Vivian.” He looked over at me, his excitement barely contained. “You’re gonna write about us, my boy, and you’re gonna make us famous.”

  Somehow, his excitement wasn’t quite contagious.

  I turned back to Vivian. “I get what you’re saying, but where am I going to publish this column? Do I need my own blog? And even if I have that, who’s going to look at it? No one’s heard of me.”

  “No. I’m not suggesting you publish your own blog. I’m thinking that the cuffing season would be a temporary replacement for my column—for Fifty Frogs—while I’m on maternity leave.” Vivian looked triumphant. “Don’t you see? It’s a win-win situation. I don’t have to worry about rushing back to writing, and you get some exposure. It’ll be good exposure, too. Because all my readers are the same demographic that you’re going to be seeking. These are the people who are interested in reading about love and the search for it.” She clasped her hands together. “I think this is kismet.”

  “Totally is.” Preston nodded. “Harry here can chronicle our adventures as we seek yees to enjoy the upcoming season with us.”


  I ignored him for the moment. “Do you really think anybody’s going to be interested in this, Vivian?” I tried to keep the doubt out of my tone. “I mean, Preston and I aren’t anything special. We’re just two normal guys.”

  “That’s exactly why people do want to read about that,” Vivian said, leaning forward in excitement. “They want to know that love and relationships and all of what you’re looking for is possible for them, too. So by telling your story, you’re going to form a connection that all of them can relate to.”

  She pulled out her phone, opened up an app and begin typing on the keyboard. “I’ll write a short intro, explaining how we know each other, Harry, and introducing you and Preston. After that, you’ll just need to submit a two thousand-word piece every week on Tuesdays. The column goes live on Friday afternoons. Oh, and I’ll send you the name and email address of my editor.”

  “Don’t you need to, like, check with this editor first?” I questioned. “This all seems to be moving pretty fast.” My head was spinning.

  “Technically, I do,” she admitted. “But I know that Laurie will love this idea. Also, it’s in my contract that I have the right to have input on my substitute, if I have to be out for any length of time. It has to be approved by Laurie, but I don’t think she’s going to fight me on this. It’s not like I’m changing out the format or anything.”

  She finished what she was typing and put her phone away. As she did so, loud cries began to come from the baby carriage, and immediately, her attention snapped to her son as his small feet kicked under the blanket.

  “Shhh,” she shushed. “It’s okay. Mom is here.” Lifting the squirming bundle out of the carriage, Vivian held him close. He settled down as soon as he was in her arms, and she smiled at me.

  “Do you want to hold him?”

  For a few seconds, panic gripped me. “I appreciate it, but I’ve never held a baby before in my life. I don’t want to, like, break him or anything.”

  She laughed. “You’re hardly going to break him. He’s a lot more durable than what you might think.”

  “I’ll take the little dude,” Preston volunteered. He held out his arms, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Vivian handed him her son.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, holding the baby like an expert. “I have two sisters and a brother. All of them younger than me. I know the baby drill.”

  “So you do.” Vivian was messing with her shirt, and I realized with dawning horror what she was about to do. My suspicion was confirmed when she announced, “He’s probably hungry. I’m going to feed him before we head home.”

  I jumped to my feet. “Okay, then. Should we . . .” I glanced around. “Do you want us to leave? Or find you someplace, ah, private?”

  “Nah, this is fine. Don’t worry.” She pulled some kind of cover deal over her head. It was like a barbershop cape, shielding her front. She took the baby back from Preston and settled him beneath the cover. “Now, do you have any questions about the column?”

  “Yes.” Of course, I did. I still wasn’t sure what I was getting into with this. “What if I don’t find anything exciting to write about? What if people don’t care about two guys and their dating adventures?”

  “Listen, Harry,” Vivian began. “I didn’t mean to force you into anything. It was just an idea. If this isn’t what you want to write about, then it’s totally fine. It was only an idea.”

  “I understand that, and I appreciate it,” I assured her. “I do. It’s just… what if I’m not good enough? What if your readers don’t care about two everyday guys and the women who they’re dating? What if my columns are boring, and your readers leave by the droves? And what if I just suck?”

  “He’s got a point,” Sophia interjected from her place behind the counter. “I mean, who knows if he can even get enough dates to give him material? And is his writing good enough?”

  “It is,” Vivian replied with complete assurance. “I worked with Harry before, and I know he’s got the stuff. I know that he could totally rock this. And I’m sure that my readers would love to read whatever he writes about.” She tilted her head. “But as I said, it’s up to you. What do you say?”

  I felt three pairs of eyes on me, waiting for my decision. The thing was, I really didn’t have any choice. It wasn’t like the world was knocking down my door to offer me writing gigs. If I didn’t take up Vivian on her offer, I’d probably be working at Alister’s for the rest of my natural life.

  “Okay,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll do it. I’ll write about the cuffing season.”

  Vivian beamed at me. “Excellent,” she said. “I’ll set it all up and get you the details as soon as possible.” She reached beneath her cape thing and produced the baby, flipping him around. He seemed to be asleep, but she moved him to her shoulder and begin whacking his back a little harder than I thought was probably necessary. Still, I was hardly an expert on these things. I assumed she knew what she was doing.

  Preston hitched his chair closer to mine. “My boy, this is going to be epic,” he said. “You and I…we’re gonna find our yees, and not only that, you’re going to become a famous writer, and I’m going to be the guy who helped to get you there.”

  I smiled weakly. “That sounds like a plan,” I said. I just hoped that it wasn’t a plan I was going to end up regretting.

  2

  Welcome to The Cuffing Season. First of all, big thanks to my friend Vivian for trusting me with this space over the next months. She either really believes in me or she’s really desperate, and I’m going to hope it’s the former and not the latter.

  My name is Harry Davis. I live in central Florida, and I graduated from college with a degree in English this past May. With that kind of degree, you can guess what kind of job I was able to get.

  Yeah, I work in retail. I’m a manager at a store you’ve probably visited at least once or twice. We’re in most of the malls in America, and if you wear jeans or T-shirts, I’ll bet at least some of our merchandise is in your closet.

  When I’m not working, I’m either climbing at our local rock-climbing gym or hanging out with my best friends at Espresso Wishes, our favorite coffee shop.

  Let me introduce those friends, as you’ll see them mentioned here often. One is my buddy, Preston. We met in high school when we were partnered on an assignment in English class. The other is Sophia, who Preston and I met in college. All three of us like to drink coffee and climb, though Sophia is the one who works at Espresso Wishes, and Preston is the one who is the most serious about rock climbing.

  I guess that makes me the one who chronicles our journey.

  We work in jobs we see as temporary, because we have bigger dreams. Sophia is a photographer with crazy talent. For now, she does freelance gigs on her time off, like weddings, big parties, family photoshoots, and even school pictures. She’s the only one of us who has her own place, since her mom and dad moved to Colorado last year. Preston and I still live with our parents, which, as you might imagine, comes with its own set of challenges.

  Preston is the oldest of four kids, and his degree is in physical education. He’s been climbing longer than any of us, and he has the skills to go all the way in this sport. I know he’s going to make it.

  Most importantly for the purposes of this column, all three of us are single. Oh, we’ve dated over the years, but nothing has been serious, and nothing has stuck.

  But this year is going to change all of that. This year, Preston and I are seriously pursuing True Love, and we’re determined to find it before the holidays descend upon us. We’re taking full advantage of The Cuffing Season.

  Sophia would like it known that she is not part of The Cuffing Season challenge. Mostly, her job is to roll her eyes whenever Preston and I talk about yees.

  (A yee, by the way, is a gorgeous, perfect woman . . . in other words, exactly who Preston and I want to find.)

  If you have questions about us, about our lives or about The Cuffing Season, send them t
o the email address listed at the bottom of this page, and I’ll do my best to respond in upcoming columns.

  And hey, if you have ideas about the best place to meet women, I’m wide open. These days, if I’m not at the gym or the coffee shop, I’m at work, so I’m hoping some beautiful yee wanders by soon . . .

  “Welcome to Allister’s. Can I help you find anything today?” I put on my best happy associate face as the customer alert chimed. It was a sound I heard in my sleep some days; the gentle tones were meant to be non-disruptive to the overall customer experience, but in my mind, they heralded complaints, demands and only the occasional pleasant shopper.

  The woman who’d just entered had a teenage boy with her, and from the looks of it, neither of them were happy to be in my store.

  “Well, I certainly hope so.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the kid. “He just informed me that the jeans I spent an insane amount money for before school began no longer fit him.” She hooked a thumb at her son. “It’s only . . . what late October? He wore those stinkin’ pants for two months, tops. And he tells me this now, in the middle of the week, at six o’clock at night. That’s why I’m at the mall on a school night. So my kid doesn’t have to go to class in just his boxers tomorrow.”

  The son’s face went red, and he muttered something under his breath.

  “Okay, well . . .” I glanced over my shoulder, wishing that Dora would return from her break already and take over with these two. As manager, I didn’t routinely have to handle customers, unless there was a problem, but tonight, we were short-staffed, and I had to cover whenever someone went on break.

  “Let’s start with your size.” I measured the boy with a practiced eye. “I’d say you’re about . . . what, a 30 waist and maybe a 32 length?”