Bad Luck, Fake Dating, and the Miracle I Didn’t Expect

ACT I – The Curse (Chs. 1–8) Establish bad luck, emotional wounds, and the impossible setup By December third, I’d already broken a heel, spilled hot chocolate down a stranger’s coat, and lost my job to an email that began with We regret to inform you… So when the bus skidded to a stop and the driver announced that the engine was dead—again—I didn’t even sigh. I laughed. Because that’s what you do when the holidays have decided you are their personal enemy. Outside the fogged-up windows, the city sparkled like it was auditioning for a holiday postcard. Strings of white lights looped around lampposts. Store windows glowed with fake snow and fake joy. Somewhere nearby, a choir sang about peace on earth. Inside the bus, thirty exhausted people groaned in unison. “Everyone off,” the driver said, tugging on his hat. “They’ll send another bus. Eventually.” Eventually. My favorite word. Right up there with unfortunately. I stepped down onto the icy sidewalk, my suitcase thumping behind me, the broken heel finally giving up and snapping clean off. I stared at it for a long second—then looked up at the gray December sky. “Go ahead,” I muttered. “If you’ve got one more thing planned, just get it over with.” The sky did not respond, but a cold gust of wind whipped my scarf loose and sent it tumbling into a slushy puddle. Of course. This was the seventh year in a row December had found a new way to prove my theory: the holidays weren’t magical. They were cursed. Specifically, cursed for me. It had started years ago, innocently enough. A broken ornament one Christmas Eve. A forgotten reservation the next year. Then the stakes escalated. A breakup on New Year’s Day. A hospital visit on Christmas morning. Last year, my fiancé—fiancé—had decided to confess he’d been cheating on me during the annual family gift exchange. Right after Grandma handed me the scarf she’d knitted by hand. This year, the universe clearly wasn’t planning to show mercy. I dragged my suitcase along the sidewalk, my phone pressed to my ear as it rang out unanswered. “Mom,” I said to voicemail, forcing brightness into my voice. “It’s me. Minor delay. Everything’s fine. I’ll be there soon.” I hung up and let my arm fall to my side. Everything is fine. Another holiday lie. The job loss was the real sting. I’d been so careful. So proud of myself for finally getting my footing, for building something steady. And now—gone. Downsizing. Budget cuts. Sorry. Maybe it’s a sign, people loved to say this time of year, eyes shining like the universe was a Pinterest quote board. If this was a sign, it read: Do Not Trust Happiness. I ducked into a coffee shop to escape the wind, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully as if mocking me. The place smelled like cinnamon and roasted beans, warm and inviting and everything I didn’t deserve. “Hi!” the barista chirped. “Holiday special today—peppermint mocha?” I hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. Why not.” If I was going to suffer, I might as well do it caffeinated. I spotted my reflection in the glass display case while waiting: wind-reddened nose, hair escaping its clip, one shoe clearly lower than the other. A woman unraveling, just in time for Christmas. The barista called my name—slightly wrong, as usual—and I took the cup, wrapping my hands around the warmth like it might anchor me. For a moment, standing there, I let myself imagine an alternate version of this day. One where December didn’t always end with me losing something. One where the holidays didn’t feel like a test I kept failing. Then my phone buzzed. A message from my sister. Can’t wait to see you! Just a reminder—everyone’s bringing their partners this year. I stared at the screen, the familiar pressure building behind my ribs. Right. The annual gathering. The questions. The looks. The well-meaning concern dressed up as small talk. Still single? What happened to the last one? Don’t worry, it’ll happen when you least expect it. I typed back with stiff fingers. Can’t wait. Another lie. The door opened behind me, letting in a blast of cold air—and a man juggling two cups of coffee and a paper bag. He slipped on the wet floor, cursed softly, and collided into me. My coffee sloshed. His bag crumpled. Chaos met gravity. “I’m so sorry,” he said at the exact same time I did. We froze, then laughed—mine shaky, his warm and surprised. “No injuries?” he asked, steadying the cups. “Just my dignity,” I said. He smiled at that, quick and crooked, and something in my chest shifted in a way I didn’t have time to analyze. “Holiday season,” he said. “High casualty rate.” “You have no idea,” I replied. Our eyes met for a second longer than necessary. Then reality returned, sharp and insistent. Bad luck or not, I still had a family gathering to survive. A suitcase with a missing wheel. A life that felt like it was fraying at the edges. As he stepped aside to let me pass, he offered a sympathetic glance. “Hope your day gets better.” I almost laughed again. “Me too,” I said. But as I walked back out into the cold, one heel uneven, suitcase rattling behind me, I knew better. December had already made its intentions clear. And this holiday? This holiday hated me.