How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead Read online

  How to Bring Your Love Life Back from the Dead

  Wendy Sparrow

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Wendy Sparrow

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Cerridwyn Publishing, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products or copyrighted material used throughout this work of fiction, including the following: iPod, I Will Survive, Oreos, Fire and Ice, Sherlock, M&Ms, Gollum, Han Solo, Hoover, Harley, Jaws, Leia, Star Wars, Bluetooth, and Catcher in the Rye. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cerridwyn Publishing, LLC.

  Kissimmee, Florida, United States of America

  Visit our website at http://cerridwyn-publishing.com/

  Gradh is an imprint of Cerridwyn Publishing, LLC.

  Cerridwyn Gradh Smashwords edition October 2013

  To my siblings, David, Adam, Heidi, and Jaime: You made Halloween scary good fun.

  She wasn’t actually going to grab the magazine from the library, not where everyone could see her doing it, not just for that article—especially since it was more than likely available online. Everything was online these days.

  Lauren wasn’t desperate, and borrowing an entire magazine of dating advice was a little over the top. She was, however, dateless for the annual Halloween party with her friends, which would make her the laughingstock among them after she’d goaded Tammy into trying a dating agency. Tammy had found someone immediately. They were head over heels for each other. Of course they were. They made it look so easy, so simple.

  So, Lauren had tried that same agency…and failed—failed so completely they’d not only quietly and privately refunded her money, but they’d made it into a police report. It wasn’t that she hadn’t garnered dates. Her dates had just turned out to be raging psychopaths. Something about her profile had brought only very deeply disturbed people.

  The first date, a man named Roger, she’d assumed was talking on his Bluetooth for the first twenty minutes—intermittently—which was rude in and of itself. It wasn’t until the gazillionth time he’d addressed Jerry that she’d asked him in a polite voice who his friend Jerry was.

  “Jerry is the man who lives in my head. He doesn’t like you very much.”

  She’d laughed…and then realized he was serious. She’d gotten the hell out of there.

  The second date was a guy named Carl who’d seemed normal enough—until he started telling her about all the things he’d made with human hair. It was amazing and disturbing how much you could make out of hair. Even two weeks later, she still sometimes woke up in a cold sweat after dreaming about it. Also, she couldn’t even look at anything knitted without a shudder. Carl had been wearing a hair shirt after all. An actual hair shirt. This was going to be a cold winter without any sweaters around to warm her, but she couldn’t bring herself to even look at them. Her brown sweater might be permanently dead to her.

  She was getting ready for her third date when Roger showed up—with Jerry in tow. They’d taken a bat to her car while she stayed inside and called the police while cancelling her third date via text. Her third date had seemed normal, but she didn’t trust her instincts anymore.

  Then, since she’d definitely never given either Roger or his alter ego her home address, she’d contacted the dating agency, and “oops” there’d been a mistake with her profile. Her full name, address, and phone number had splashed up on the dating site for a few minutes earlier that day. Not to worry they’d told her—it had been fixed. The sirens had arrived around then.

  So, here she was, in the library, intending to pick up a book on pumpkin carving for her nieces, and her eyes had been drawn to a small heading on the Halloween edition of a woman’s magazine that was riddled with advice. The small black print said, “How to Bring Your Love Life Back From the Dead in Ten Easy Steps.” She’d opened it—after glancing around surreptitiously. The ten steps did seem easy and straightforward. There was a step and then an explanation underneath.

  She could do that.

  The first step was logical. It made sense that you’d be able to find who you wanted if you knew what you wanted. Plus, making a list of your ideal qualities in a mate should be fun—in theory.

  She’d picked up the pumpkin carving book and hurried home. A web search pulled up the article which had been picked up by a few dating sites too, including the one she’d used—which almost made her change her mind. No, it was solid advice. Even if it was written by someone identified only as a relationship expert. It couldn’t possibly go any worse than her brush with Jerry, who should have been listed in the police report since that bastard apparently had it out for her…even if he was just a figment of someone’s imagination.

  Sitting down, she tackled number one by making a list.

  Things she wanted in a mate….

  Things…she wanted…in a mate….

  Well, she knew what she didn’t want, but listing “Jerry” might be too specific, and how many men really heard voices? Hopefully not many, but, if there were, she would have met every last one in the greater Portland area with that dating site profile.

  Her pen bled through the page before she could move it into words.

  What did she want in a man? Besides being of the male persuasion and having only one personality.

  Maybe that was part of her problem. Maybe that was why she was still single at thirty-one. She’d always thought it was because she hadn’t met the right person, but maybe she wouldn’t have recognized him even if she had met him.

  Well, hell. She tossed her pen.

  Then, she retrieved it.

  She could do this.

  If you’d asked her ten years ago, when she’d been twenty-one, her list would have been so idealistic that it would make the thirty-one year old version of herself roll her eyes and possibly vomit in her mouth just a bit.

  Twenty-one year old Lauren would have wanted him interested in saving the environment. That was a big deal to her. It was still important, but if he didn’t recycle—well, she could teach him. Any relationship where you let paper or plastic come between you wouldn’t have survived anyway.

  Twenty-one year old Lauren also would have listed that he should love animals and kids.

  A sense of humor was a must. She’d always gone for funny guys. He should make her laugh and not make her cry.

  What else? Physical stuff…she’d have had physical requirements, but not too many because she didn’t really have a type. He should be in good shape, but not super muscular. She’d already been in the process of getting a degree in Health and Physical Education, so health-conscious and fit would have made the list.

  Then, because she was a bit of a dork at twenty-one, she’d have insisted he be intelligent, possibly with a degree in some esoteric subject like Medieval Studies. Of course, thirty-one year old Lauren would rather a guy have a job than a useless degree.

  Finally, her twenty-one year old self would have insisted he be romantic—sweep a girl off her feet romantic. She’d been heavy into romances at that time, and it m
ay have colored her vision of reality. Maybe that’s where she’d gone so wrong. Maybe there weren’t guys out there like that. If there were, maybe they were a figment of someone’s imagination. Who knows? Maybe if she and Jerry had hit it off better….

  Oh for hell’s sake.

  Thirty-one year old Lauren tapped her pen on the notebook paper and stared at it and stared and then stared some more. She might make fun of twenty-one year old Lauren, but at least she’d known what she wanted. Thirty-one year old Lauren would settle for a guy who didn’t talk to voices in his head and never made anything out of hair.

  This was no good. This was so not good. The party was less than a week away.

  Sighing, she wrote down twenty-one year old Lauren’s list. It was better than nothing, and thirty-one year old Lauren had nothing to show for a love life right now. It was time, past time, to bring her love life back from the dead.

  On that note, she went to sleep and dreamed of small figurines made out of hair who took over the world, and every last one of them was named Jerry.

  The day dawned but the dawn never really took off—which was often the case in her part of Oregon. The fog shrouded out the sun, and the two fought for dominance for an hour or so before the sun kicked some butt. Lauren didn’t have time for the daily battle of wills to work itself out, so she went for her Saturday morning run in the fog.

  Running in the fog meant sometimes you didn’t see someone until you were right on top of them, even if you could hear them from quite a ways away. She normally ran with music but she’d forgotten to charge her iPod, so she was singing “I Will Survive” under her breath and hoping it would cut it for the three miles she was pushing herself to do.

  It was so foggy.

  Crazy foggy.

  She almost slammed into a mailbox before giving up on running beside the road.

  He came out of nowhere. One minute, she was ramping up for the chorus, and the next, she was body-slammed by a male chest covered in gray cotton and her singing was replaced by spastic barking from the sheepdog at his side.

  They exchanged a quick “I’m sorry” and pushed off each other. She chose the wrong side to attempt to circumvent him—compounded by him doing the same thing. His dog went one way around her, and he went the other.

  It was a classic moment in chick flicks—especially romantic comedies. In the movies, they’d get tangled up together, laughing, and manage to get untangled and fall in love.

  It wasn’t, of course, accurate in any way.

  The leash clothes-lined her, slamming her back into that cotton-covered chest as the nylon rope wound around her, rubbing against her forearm viciously. The man’s dog had decided running in circles was the order of the day. Around and around and stinging, stinging “Holy freaking hell! Is that a garrote, not a leash?” pain.

  The other jogger wrapped his arms around her and twisted, so they hit the ground in a whump—during which she kneed him and elbowed him in several vital locations if his groans of pain were anything to judge by.

  The sheepdog managed to break free and run off into the fog, dragging his leash behind him while barking constantly. That dog was good and gone. Possibly forever. He’d taken his chance at freedom and bolted into the fog—full-tilt. His barking faded as fast as he did.

  Lauren rolled off the man. She and her assailant—though, really, she’d come out the victor here, lay side-by-side on the ground, panting and gasping for breath. It was nice that he’d given her a soft landing. She’d thank him for that when she was sure they were both alive.

  She glanced at him as he did the same. He gave her a half-hearted smile. It managed to express apology, but also—you won—I give up. Okay, so she’d landed on him pretty hard.

  If you were going to be body-slammed in the fog…there were worse bodies to slam into. Down, Lauren. You’re not so far gone that you need to pick dates up off the street. She should let that one go…even if he looked a sort of sexy-sweet, even breathing hard and beaten.

  No. Just no.

  And, okay, not that she had a type, but his blond hair looked great against his tan, and she’d felt those pecs pressed up against her cheeks, and they weren’t bad.

  Still no.

  Because, on the other hand, she probably looked like hell—a mess of sweat and bed-head—and she’d just added blood and dirt to the mixture. Instinctually, she brushed her brown hair back from her face where it’d escaped from her ponytail, but she was really a lost cause.

  Well, he was still smiling.

  “I feel like you’ve managed somehow to extract my kidney with your elbow.” He had laugh lines in the corners of his blue eyes that crinkled as he said it.

  “I think your leash cut me clear to the bone.” She held up her arm where an angry red welt was seeping blood.

  “Ouch,” he said, sitting up and taking a closer look at her arm. His warm fingers on her cold skin sent goose bumps across it and flutters through her stomach. “I’m so sorry. I can see why you screamed.”

  She’d screamed? Okay, she may have. Yeah, that was a definite possibility. Lauren cleared her throat. “It really wasn’t as pleasant as that might make it look.” It stung. And if seeing him hadn’t distracted her, she might be curled around her injury shouting obscenities.

  “I’m sorry. My dog….” He looked around. “Did you see which way he went?”

  Lauren sat up and squinted out into the fog. It was a white curtain all around them. “I’m not even sure which way I was headed.” The fog, if anything, had thickened. They sat there, surrounded by fog, with the air sticking to them.

  “Do you need that looked at? I can take you to a doctor, and I’ll be happy to pay for it.”

  She stared down at her arm. It didn’t look pleasant. On the other hand, it wasn’t doctor’s office levels of injury. If her team found out she went in for something as pathetic as this, she’d never hear the end of it. They had a saying on the team: rub some dirt in it, and you’ll be fine. She’d definitely rubbed some dirt into it.

  “I was thinking of being a zombie for my friend’s Halloween party. This might work perfectly actually,” she said. “How about you?”

  “My injuries won’t work for a costume,” he said. “Unless I’m intending to go as a monk, in which case it’s perfect because I’m fairly certain I’m sterile now.”

  She laughed, but tried to cover it until she saw him smile and then burst out laughing.

  “My name is Daniel,” he said, holding out a hand.

  She shook it. “Lauren.”

  His hand held hers still, and he leaned closer. “Really?”

  Warning bells went off. Abort! Abort! Abort!

  She tried to pull her hand free. Normally, people didn’t have follow-up questions like that to an introduction and, given her recent experiences in dating, she didn’t trust follow-up questions anymore. She’d had a lot of follow-up questions with human hair guy that had just led to more terrifying discoveries.

  He didn’t give up her hand.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Lauren? It’s me, Daniel.”

  She tugged a smidge on her hand. “Yeah, I got that.” Okay, time to make another running exit. This was when being in shape paid-off.

  He laughed. “Sorry, I sound inane. We had a date two weeks ago but you cancelled at the last minute.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you. You look just like your picture.”

  She did? It was definitely time to make a running exit. He’d been interested in her psychopath-bait profile, and he thought this dragged-across-gravel look was okay. That hurt actually. She’d scoured her entire hard drive for a photo that said “like me” without looking desperate. Finally, she found the one and put this best version of herself on that dating profile, and apparently it wasn’t all that and equated to trolling in the psych ward.

  “Sorry about the text thing. I had a previous date outside vandalizing my car. I decided I wasn’t really good at dating after that.” Or picki
ng men. Or attracting men. Or even looking that great apparently. She was going to take a hard look at that profile picture, maybe even hold it up beside her in front of a mirror. Her zero and ten look were far too close together for comfort.

  “You did?” He released her hand, at least.

  Lauren got to her feet, brushing off the back of her pants. “Uh-huh, he said the voice in his head, Jerry, hated me…and my car too, I guess. I counted Jerry as the third strike against my dating experience.”

  “I’m sorry—that’s horrible.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’m not really good at dating using websites.”

  “Me neither, apparently. You were the only profile I was interested in, and you cancelled on me two hours before our date by text.”

  She winced. “That was bad. I’m sorry. It was just…the guy before you had worn a shirt he’d crocheted from hair he’d collected from the dumpster outside a hair salon.”

  Daniel blinked. “I feel like I keep saying this, but…are you serious? You can’t be. Did the voices tell him to do this?”

  “That was a different guy.”

  Daniel laughed and then stared and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I have absolutely no logical response to that.”

  “I didn’t either. That’s why I cancelled our date. I think something about my profile attracted only crazy people. I’d actually turned down some guys I could tell were genuinely crazy.” One guy brought up his mother one too many times for Lauren’s comfort. Another felt clothing was optional.

  “So, you’re saying I’m crazy?” he asked, looking bemused.

  “I have no idea, but I wasn’t willing to take the chance.”

  “You’re right. I probably am crazy.”

  She shook her head. “No, now I know you’re not. If you can acknowledge the possibility that you’re crazy, then you’re not crazy.”

  “That’s a crazy theory.”

  “It’s one hundred percent accurate in practice when it comes to my dating life. In fact, the hair guy even said, “I know what you’re thinking…I’m crazy, right?” and I was agreeing with him for the first time all night, and then he told me he wasn’t.”