The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  2

  Sabrina

  Today I will get rid of the albatross.

  I will extradite it from my life and make some moolah to boot.

  I gaze up at the sign on the glass door for the consignment shop in the West Village. This shop has the highest ratings on Yelp for its offers on never-been-used items. The sign Once More is etched in calligraphy on the glass.

  I square my shoulders, run a hand over my braid, and turn to my best friend, Courtney. I give her a crisp nod. “Today’s the day.”

  She pumps a fist and utters a quiet but victorious yes.

  “Try not to get too excited,” I tease.

  “I can’t help myself. I’ve been waiting for this moment for, oh, the last eight months and three days.”

  “Some things take time,” I acknowledge, as a soft summer breeze blows by. I run a hand over my leopard-print skirt, which hits several inches above the knee. Like a leopard, I’m tough, and I’m fierce. That’s what I tell myself, at least. Surely leopards give themselves pep talks too. “But when you’re ready you’re ready.”

  She squeezes my arm. “And you’re ready. You’re so ready.”

  I fashion my hand into a fist. “We’ll seal it with a vow.” I cringe at my last word, then I shake it off. A vow between friends is different. “No matter what, today is the last day we see that dress.”

  Courtney squeaks, knocking her fist with mine. “Nothing you say could make me happier. Well, you dating again could.”

  I scoff. “One step at a time.”

  “I know, but the prospect of it makes me want to jump up and down and set you up with all the hot, sexy single men I know.”

  I arch a brow. “The men you know are hot?”

  Laughing, she waggles her hand like a seesaw. “That’s debatable. Maybe only a few are hot.”

  “Let’s deal with the dress first.”

  I reach for the door handle and pretend I’m heading into an interview, dealing with a CEO who’s been trying to stonewall me or with a biz-dev guy who doesn’t want to give up the goods for an article.

  When I open the door, bells chime.

  They sound like wedding bells.

  Damn it.

  With a hand on my back, Courtney gently but ever-so-firmly pushes me over the threshold. Not exactly the threshold I thought I’d be crossing eight months ago.

  A cute teenager with ringlet curls and combat boots rushes over to us. “Hi, there! Can I help you?”

  I look her square in the eye, saying words out loud that were once far too painful. “I’m Sabrina. I have a wedding dress I never wore. I dropped off the unused dress this morning and was told that Sasha would appraise and have a price for me this afternoon.”

  The teen offers a sympathetic smile. “It’s all for the best,” she says, and I wonder how often she says that and if she means it. I wonder what questions she asks the other once-upon-a-time brides who never were.

  I wonder if they’re anything like the questions this dress has asked me every day for the last eight months and three days.

  Would you like to turn me into drapes?

  Would you prefer to slash me with a knife?

  Would you like to sell me to the highest bidder on eBay?

  “It’s completely for the best,” Courtney cuts in. “And I’m sure Sasha can find it a good home.”

  “Sasha knows everything about dresses.” The teenager flashes a big smile. “Let me go find her. Feel free to look around. I should be back in a couple minutes. Also, love your boots,” she says to me, and I look down and realize we’re wearing the same style.

  Boots, short patterned skirts I made myself, and solid tops. My uniform when I’m not working.

  I wear my uniform most of the time these days.

  We wander to a shelf full of vintage pots and pans in army green and lemon yellow. They’re fifties kitschy and not my style on account of the fact that I have a hate-hate relationship with the kitchen. The oven detests me as much as I despise cooking. I swear, sometimes I think the stove plots my death since it overreacts every time I try to cook rice. What other explanation is there for the way the pot bubbles over?

  I run my finger over the handle of a pot. “Unused,” I say, and the word tastes vile. “That’s the worst kind of adjective to assign to a wedding dress. Especially one like mine. No wonder I couldn’t sell it at the other two shops we tried.”

  Courtney gives me a skeptical stare. “You tried shops that don’t carry wedding dresses.”

  “Be that as it may, I don’t know if anyone wants a wedding dress that was never worn.”

  “Of course someone does, and that’s why we’re here. This store specializes in reselling dresses, among other things. And just think, your dress will soon go to some other bride who’ll give it a good home,” Courtney says, ever the optimist.

  The dress is the last vestige of my almost nuptials.

  I’d returned all the plates and mixers, as well as the Keurigs (Ray registered for three coffee makers? Was he going to set up an underground Keurig ring?) and the two pasta makers (show me anyone besides a cook on the Food Network who even knows how to operate one of those contraptions). I sold the ring recently, and thank God my ex-fiancé had a mildly decent salary, because that little stone will help pay some bills for the next few months.

  Which is a good thing, since I lost my job last week.

  Yeah, that only sucked a little bit.

  But it wasn’t my fault.

  I take some solace in the fact that the newspaper where I’d worked for the last six years cut half its reporting staff, so it wasn’t personal.

  Courtney wanders past the pots to a collection of vintage glasses, the kind with old-fashioned sayings sold at roadside hotels out on Route 66.

  “You really think I should sell the dress?” I ask. “I’m not that bad off for money.” I force a positive attitude not just into my tone but into my entire musculoskeletal system, as well as the circulatory one too. “Maybe I could turn it into a cute little retro dress?”

  She stares at me, one hand poised over an old-fashioned glass that says Sleepy bear lives here. The daggers in her blue eyes tell me a retro dress is an unacceptable answer. “No. You’re not going to wear it again as a cute little dress. That’s bad juju.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. “Wait. You’re a venture capitalist and you believe in juju? Do you believe in voodoo too?”

  She scoffs. “Please. No. Just juju. And we are going to turn your juju around. Also, once you get rid of the dress, you can date again,” she says, bright and cheery, like she’s dangling gummy bears before a child in the woods. Follow the trail of candy now. Come a little closer. They’re so very tasty. “You could even consider answering some of the knocks or pings or pokes you get online.”

  I shudder. “No way. I met Ray online. Not going there again.”

  “Be that as it may, I bet a date or two would take your mind off the whole work situation. Let’s kill two birds with one stone. Come to the masquerade gala my firm is sponsoring. It’s a charity fundraiser and a great way to get you out in the world of the living again.”

  “It’s not as if I’ve been sulking. Work did keep me busy,” I say, because I didn’t go full hermit when Ray ditched me at the altar. More like full office, burying myself in story after story, in investigative piece after feature piece after news article. I took it all on, hungry for every single distraction.

  Now I have none.

  “Let’s find you more work.” Courtney waggles her blond brows and says my new favorite word. “You can network.”

  My ears prick. “Network? Don’t get me excited.”

  “It turns you on, doesn’t it?”

  I laugh. “Yes, the prospect of paying my bills is quite arousing.”

  She presses her hands together in a plea. “Come with me to the party. A ton of tech publications will be there.”

  Before I can answer, the sound of heels clicking across the floor with purpose greets my ear
s. A voice shrilly shouts, “No.”

  My spine straightens.

  “You.”

  A chill runs over my skin.

  “Go.”

  I spin around to find a woman with jet-black hair, a gypsy shirt, and bangles up one arm. “You with your French braid and the barrettes in your hair.”

  I point at myself—who, me?—but there’s no one else she could be referring to.

  “You brought that cursed dress into my store this morning,” she says, her voice wobbling, as she covers most of her mouth with her hand. My dress is draped over her other arm. She must be Sasha.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, because . . . she reeks of Crazy with a capital, bolded, and underlined C.

  Sasha raises her other arm, the one with my dress in its garment bag draped over it, and brandishes a jagged pink fingernail. “Today alone, I broke a nail.” She turns her wrist in my direction. It’s covered in Band-Aids. “And my cactus tried to kill me.”

  “You have a homicidal plant?”

  Note to self: murderous plants might be an interesting feature story for a consumer magazine. A warning sort of piece. Wait, that’s more Dateline.

  Sasha drops her hand from her mouth, baring her teeth.

  I flinch.

  Her front tooth is chipped. She points to it. “This,” she hisses. “This is your dress’s fault. I cracked a tooth.”

  “On the dress?”

  “On a walnut,” she says righteously. “But I eat walnuts every day and today a nut attacks my tooth. How else do you explain that? Coincidence? I think not. Your dress swirls with negative energy.”

  No kidding. I swirl with negative energy. I’m surprised the store hasn’t swallowed us into a sinkhole.

  Still, I’m not letting my dress take the fall for a broken chopper. “I don’t think it’s the fault of the dress,” I say, trying to reason with her.

  Sasha thrusts her arm at me, pointing to the door. “Take it back, and don’t come here again. I can’t sell it to another bride. I couldn’t live with myself if something horrid happened because of that evil dress. Imagine some unlucky woman struck dead by lightning on her wedding night! And in her groom’s arms.”

  I give Sasha a look. “Okay, let’s not be so dramatic. When was the last time a bride was hit by lightning on her wedding day? Just say you don’t want the dress. I get it.”

  I grab the dress from her, and she recoils as if it’s burned her.

  “You need a dress exorcism,” she says. “You need a ghost hunter to cleanse your dress of evil spirits.”

  I wave her off. “I’m sure you have a cousin who’ll perform such a service for $159.99.”

  Sasha shrugs. “I do. I come from a long line of ghost hunters.”

  “Okay, I’m going. I’ll get my evil dress out of your store,” I say, turning my tone spooky before we get the hell out of Once More, land of the Looney Tunes shop owner.

  Out on the sidewalk, fumes of frustration roll off me. “Can you believe that? Can you freaking believe that?”

  Courtney frowns. “I’m sorry, sweets. I had no idea she was one of those dresses are cursed people.”

  “Is that a thing now? To believe dresses are cursed? Maybe I’m cursed. No wedding, no job—maybe I’ll go home and find a crazy rabbit has tunneled through my place and my cousin is kicking me out of the last rent-controlled apartment in all of Manhattan.” I heave a sigh of irritation so gigantic it stretches to Brooklyn. “I can’t believe I can’t sell this freaking dress.”

  “We can find another shop.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I made a promise to be done with this dress. If this dress is cursed, I’m not going to bring that kind of bad luck on another bride.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  The wheels turn so quickly in my head, they’re a blur.

  But the answer is clear. So clear I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.

  I don’t need to sell this dress. I need to sacrifice it.

  A wicked grin forms on my face as I stand on Christopher Street in the Village, New Yorkers rushing past me and barking into phones, hailing cabs, and ordering Ubers.

  “You want me to go to your costume party?”

  “Of course I do,” she says, excitement etched in her eyes.

  “I’ll be there.”

  When I reach my apartment, I grab my scissors because I have the perfect idea for a costume.

  3

  Flynn

  “Would you like me to start your morning coffee, Flynn?”

  “Yes, Kate.” Grinning wickedly at the query from the melodic female voice, I lean back in the leather armchair and stretch my legs on the ottoman in front of me as the nearby coffee machine whirs to life. “Please run the dishwasher too.”

  Kate replies, “Of course. I will get that started on the energy-saving mode right away. Just the way you like it.”

  I laugh, pointing at the white disc on the chrome coffee table. “I love how you know what I like, Kate.”

  “Would you also like me to turn on the heat in the shower?”

  Damn, this woman is an absolute genius. I do enjoy a toasty shower. Shaking my head in admiration, I answer her, “Yes, and please turn off the lights when I leave this morning. That’s all I need right now.”

  “As you wish.”

  Spinning in my chair, I turn to my two colleagues—Carson and Jennica, my right- and left-hand people. Carson’s dark eyes are lit up with excitement. As one of my top executives, he’s been working tirelessly on the final touches for the voice recognition in our smart-home system. “Carson, all I’ve ever wanted since I was a kid is to live inside The Jetsons, and it’s happening at last.”

  “I’ll work on launching you into space next. But for now, I’m glad this works so well,” Carson says, gesturing to the showcase for our system, dubbed Haven.

  I give Kate, the voice I like to converse with, one final command, telling her to cancel the shower, since I don’t actually plan to shower here in our demo home. But man, am I ever glad the system is firing on all cylinders.

  Haven rocks. If I’m popping into a wine shop on the way home, I can check on the dog cam and see if Fido, Fritz, and Mitzi are lounging in their dog beds or eating yet another roll of toilet paper. From the subway, with the press of a button, I can flick on the thermostat to warm the place—I can even start the washing machine. If I want to talk to the lamps or the blinds, I can do that too.

  Jennica flips her red hair off her shoulders and chimes in. “How about giving me the hot British voice when you’re showing me all the whizz-bang features? Do I have to listen to Kate? Or can I please have Henry, Tom, or Daniel?”

  I hold out my hands in a question. “What is it with British guys?”

  Jennica leans forward, her blue eyes bugging out. “Hello? Have you heard them talk? It’s like listening to sexy British butter.” She brings her index finger to the tip of her tongue then touches the air, making a sizzling sound.

  Jennica and I have worked together for ten years. I knew her in college, and she was by my side when I had my first company, and now she’s here again with Haven. She’s an unstoppable force and like an older sister to me. A second older sister, since I have one already.

  “Butter?” Carson shoots her a quizzical gaze.

  “Butter good. Butter yummy,” Jennica says. “And I want Kate to be a hot guy with a sexy British butter voice. Switch her to Daniel for me, please.”

  Carson shrugs and tips his goateed chin at me. “We can’t compete.”

  “Hey, speak for yourself. I have a deep baritone that’s like sexy American butter.”

  Jennica cracks up. “Flynn, you should use that voice to go as a bad boy to the masquerade ball.” She snaps her fingers. “Wait. I have a better idea. Why don’t you go as a bad boy piece of code? Just get a leather jacket, some boots, and write some crap code on a T-shirt. Speaking of, I’m going as a Polaroid.”

  I pretend I’m deeply annoyed. “Why’d you tel
l me? Now I can’t guess what you are when I see you.”

  “If you couldn’t tell I’m a Polaroid, then I’d be doing it wrong. Steve is going to be a Snapchat filter,” she adds, mentioning her husband.

  “I already have a costume. Plus, I find bad code so morally offensive, I’m not sure I’d choose that. But my costume does rock,” I say, proud of what I picked out.

  “Tell us.” Jennica grins.

  “I’m going as ID theft,” Carson blurts, and I spin and stare at him.

  Dread drops into my stomach. “What did you say?”

  Carson nods excitedly. “I have one hundred name tags, and I’m going to slap them all over me with different people’s names.”

  And there goes my idea.

  “That’s a great plan,” I say with a forced smile.

  “What about you?” he asks innocently, since he doesn’t know he picked my idea.

  “Guess you’ll all just have to wait and see.” I rub my palms together, moving on. “Now, let’s review the final tweaks in Haven.”

  “No one can come close to Haven.” Carson walks us through the updates he’s made to the automation system that’s rolling out next week. “Haven is far better than anything else on the market. And it’s absolutely better than ShopForAnything,” he says, meeting my gaze. There’s a touch of nerves in his eyes, and I get it—I feel them sometimes too. Our newest competitor is merciless, and I have to guard our company from its pending ambush.

  I can’t fail because I have hundreds of employees depending on me to succeed, people counting on me for paychecks, for jobs, to make sure the company doesn’t become ShopForAnything’s cornflakes.

  I won’t let us fail. I’m well aware that while I might be fine and dandy in the nest-egg-for-generations department, I have people who rely on me for their daily bread. What motivates me every day at work isn’t making more money to pad my coffers. It’s building something new and taking care of the people who make it possible.

  “And you’re ready to roll out the marketing plans on a wide scale?” I ask Jennica.

  “We are going to market this like Christie’s marketed the holy hell out of that lost da Vinci. That was genius. Advertising, PR, videos—the works. And, go figure, but for some reason”—she points at me and rolls her eyes—“people seem to like you, so we’re going to market the hell out of you. The secret weapon of the boy-next-door genius.”