Lucky Number Seven

**Note: This story contains very mild swear words.**

I'm steps away from the coffee shop when I'm stopped dead in my tracks. Even in the darkness, I can see it. The same black cat I've seen for the last three weeks is crossing my path. Again.

I'm not one for superstitions. In fact, for the most part, I think they're ridiculous, but this is just weird. Because it just so happens that since I started seeing the little fur ball, I haven't been on a single good date.

If you're anything like me, you're probably tempted to roll your eyes right about now--laugh it off as just a coincidence. After all, how could running into a presumably stray cat affect a person's love life? But I'm telling you, there is something to my theory.

In the last three weeks, I've been on six dates. In the three weeks before that, I'd been on another five. Ordinarily, I'm not so active when it comes to my social life, but six weeks ago marked one year since my breakup, and I decided it was time to unearth myself from the mountain of books I'd been reading, ditch my sweatpants, and get my single--and hot--ass back out there.

The first five dates? Very promising. I was getting my feet wet again, remembering how to be witty and charming--how to draw my companion in with a coy smile here, a laugh there--and I was doing a pretty good job, if I do say so myself. Of the five dates, I had received five second-date invitations--a success rate of one hundred percent.

Then, three weeks ago, on my way to my next date, I saw my feline foe for the first time. And the date? A complete and utter disaster. It started the moment I said hello--he leaned in for a hug as I extended my hand for a shake, inadvertently poking him in the stomach. After apologizing profusely, I led him to my favourite, and thus far, lucky spot in the coffee shop: a pair of broken-in brown leather lounge chairs with deep seats and high backs in front of a cozy gas fireplace. Romantic? You'd think. Except, not so much when someone decides to change the usual heat setting, causing my new mascara to melt down my face and turn me into Emily Rose. I had no idea what the problem was as I watched my date's eyes get bigger and bigger, horrified as if it was my entire face and not just my make-up melting off.

I excused myself to the bathroom to figure out what the hell the problem was and when I got back a few minutes later, face restored, my date was gone.

Since then, it's been one lousy date after another, six in total. Whatever charm I'd honed on the first set of dates now replaced by a series of blunders. It's as if I've lost not only basic dating skills but basic human interaction skills. And it's all the cat's fault.

I pull my shoulders back, hold my head high and cross the street, approaching my nemesis. There are only two weeks until Halloween and he leaves have changed, painting the streets with streaks of copper, amber, and rust, and there's a new chill in the air, pairing perfectly with this ominous little creature that won't leave me alone.

"What?" I say once I've closed the gap between us. "What do you want?"

Naturally, on account of the fact that it's a cat, it just stares back at me, probably mocking me in its furry little head.

"Look," I continue as if this is perfectly normal, "I have a date. I am going to walk into that coffee shop, sit down, and manage not to embarrass myself for one to two hours. So whatever mojo you're working, I need you to cut it out. Okay?"  

The cat, along with a pair of teenagers I quickly realize are pointing their phones at me, stare back at me in silence. "Well, okay then," I say and sidestep the animal to head into the coffee shop.

It's a little busy for a Thursday night, so I pull out my phone to check the photo on my dating app. Confirming my date hasn't yet arrived, I make my way over to my lucky chairs, encountering another unwanted being.

"Excuse me," I say to a dark-haired man with his head in a book. "You're in my seat." When he doesn't look up, I clear my throat and try again. "Hello?"

He finally looks up, blue eyes piercing into me through thin-rimmed glasses, and oh my god, the squarest jaw I've ever seen. He's Superman disguised as Clark Kent.

"Did you say something?" he asks. The deep tambour of his voice only makes me swoon harder.

"Uh, I--" And just like that, I've forgotten how words work. Clark puts his nose back in his book while I fight to regain my shit. Giving my head a shake, I try again. "I said that you're in my seat."

He looks up and then around the café. "I've been here for half an hour. Were you like, in the bathroom? For 30 minutes? What were you doing in there?"

I roll my eyes at his implication. "I just got here, but this is my usual spot. I have a date, and these are the best seats in the house."

His pouty lips pull into a straight line. "I see. Well, I'm pretty comfortable here, and I'm not done with my book yet, so I guess you'll have to sit somewhere else."

I huff out a sigh. "Or, since you're clearly not with anyone, you could go sit somewhere else and let me have my spot back."

There are empty tables so close that Clark would have to take all of three steps to get to one. I would sit in one of them, but being close to the fireplace doesn't quite have the same magic as being by the fireplace. I'm sure of it.

He slowly nods as if considering my counterargument, then says, "I think I'm good, thanks."

The muscle in my jaw tightens on reflex. I step past Clark and take a seat in the chair opposite him.

"You don't understand," I say. "I've been having a bit of bad luck lately, and for my last few dates, I've sat in other seats, thinking maybe these chairs were the problem. But I've since realized the problem is something else." Namely, an annoying black cat that I sure as hell am not going to mention out loud. "So now," I continue, "I think I'll have better luck here."

Clark opens his mouth as if he's about to speak, but before he can, a handsome blond guy with very familiar dimples interrupts.

"Merrin? I'm Scott." He shifts his gaze to Clark and looks back at me, brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, am I late? Or..."

Well, shit. It's my date. My date, who is understandably confused to find me sitting with another man.

I shoot up from my chair. "You're right on time," I assure him. "I was just--"

"Wow," he says before I can finish. "This is just great. I finally meet a cool girl I get along with on this stupid dating app, and she's killing time with another guy before I even get here."

"No," I say, looking to Clark to back me up, but he slowly lowers his gaze back into his book. Traitor. "I wasn't killing time," I go on, a little more frantic. "I was asking this total stranger if he would give up his seat so that we could both sit by the fire. It's nice, isn't it?"

Scott cocks his head to one side. "Do you really expect me to believe that? God, it's been one thing after another on this app. I give up." And before I can say another word, Scott turns around and marches out of the coffee shop.

I'm still watching the door as if he'll change his mind and come back when I hear Clark say, "You weren't kidding about that bad luck."

I exhale sharply and drop back into my chair. "You could have said something. Backed me up."

Clark shrugs a shoulder, eyes still on his book. And whether out of curiosity or a perverse need to irritate this insanely handsome man who just cost me a date, I shrug off my coat and settle in.

"What are you reading, anyway?" I ask. While I wait for him to answer, one of the baristas walks by, so I flag him down and ask for my usual: an oat milk latté with extra foam.

"We're not doing this," Clark says once the barista retreats.

"Doing what?" I ask, my tone as sweet as ten tonnes of syrup.

"This. I'm going to read. Quietly."

In response to his declaration, I simply stare. A long, fixed gaze, like I'm hitting him with Superman's laser eyes. After a very long beat, he sighs and holds up his book so I can see the cover.

I bite back a laugh. "Frankenstein, huh? Do you identify more with the titular mad scientist or the monster he creates?"

One side of Clark's mouth tips up like he's about to smile, but he catches himself. "Depends on the day."

I tilt my head, considering his answer. Then I consider what it would take to make him fully smile and have the urge to make it my personal mission.

My latté arrives, along with another of whatever Clark is drinking.

"I didn't order this," he calls out, but the barista is already on to something else.

"Maybe he thinks we're on a date," I deadpan. "You wouldn't want me to drink alone, would you? Now that you've scared off my actual date?"

Leaning towards the small round console table between us, Clark trades his empty mug for the full one. "I didn't scare him off. And I didn't say anything because I didn't need to. Any man who spooks that quickly, not to mention gives you no shot at an explanation, isn't really worth your time anyway."

He has a point. He opens his mouth again, closes it, opens it, closes it, and then opens it again as if fighting an internal battle on whether or not to continue conversing. I can't tell if he's won or lost in his mind when he finally speaks again.

"How many bad dates?"

I rest my head against the back of the chair, shifting my gaze to the ceiling. "That was number seven." I laugh, but it comes out pained. "I thought seven was supposed to be a lucky number." When Clark doesn't say anything, I blurt out, "Do you date?"

He softly shakes his head and holds up the book. "These days, I tend to prefer my own company."

"Bad breakup?" I ask because, apparently, all tact has gone out the window.

Surprisingly, Clark nods. "Me too," I say. We lock eyes for a beat, and the blue in his strikes again like lightning, making my nerve endings all tingly. "I'm Merrin, by the way."

"I heard," he says. "I'm Caleb."

I smile. Not Clark, but still a C-name. Shifting in my chair to get a little more comfortable and cradling my warm mug with both hands, I say, "So, what did you read before Frankenstein?"

He takes a breath--the deliberate pause piquing my curiosity.

"Pride and Prejudice," he finally says.

I sit up a little straighter. Pride and Prejudice was one of my post-break-up go-to's. "So, your interests are... diverse."

He shoots me a look. "Yes. Men can read Pride and Prejudice."

I hold up one hand in surrender. "Of course, they can. I'm just a little surprised. Shelley to Austen isn't exactly a straight line."

He sits back in his chair, and dammit if I don't almost get another smile. "That's kind of the idea. What was your last read?"

We spend the next hour and a half trading book lists, discussing our favourite characters, which books kept us up at night, and which were particularly therapeutic for getting over an ex. After one more refill, I stand, worried if I push it any longer, I'll turn into a blundering pumpkin again. Caleb stands too, helping me with my coat--adjusting the collar and resting his hands on the lapels once he's finished.

"I'm glad you bothered me, Merrin."

I laugh. "Me too. If it's okay with you, I'd like to consider this my seventh date."

The corners of his mouth turn up, and I swear, my heart leaps to the moon.

"You know, you shouldn't worry about your luck," he says. "A few weeks ago, I adopted a black cat. If I bought into all that superstitious stuff, my luck would be totally shot by now."

I do a cartoon-like double-take. "What? You adopted a black cat?"

"Sort of," he says with a shrug. "This cat showed up on my doorstep three weeks ago. I gave him some food, and he went on his way. Then, a couple of days later, he came back. And then the day after that and then two days after that. So I took him to the vet to check for a chip. He didn't have one, so there was no one to call. Since then, the little guy visits me when he wants, leaves when he wants, and sometimes even follows me around. I wouldn't be surprised if he was outside right now."

I pressed my lips together to stop my grin from swallowing my face. "You don't say."

"Do you like cats?" Caleb asks, eyes lit with hope.

"Not usually," I say, "but I think I might like this one."

THE END