Chapter 3

I wake up in the morning with a mix of excitement and dread. I get to meet Zelda, but then I’ll have to excuse myself and go to therapy. And I can’t tell her about therapy, because I don’t want her to think I’m a huge screwup.

When I step outside, I take a deep breath.

“Oh, Riley!” Cathy, my Crazy Cat Lady neighbor, trills. “Can you help me? Sprite got herself stuck in the tree again.”

“Sure thing.” I wave to assure Cathy that I’ve got her cat emergency covered, and I climb the blossoming cherry tree that Sprite loves so much. If there were Manic Pixie cats, Sprite would be one. She’s not the talking sort, but she’s a quirky quicksilver, with extreme white fluff and a pink heart-shaped nose. I click my tongue to get her attention, but she refuses to directly acknowledge me, instead opting for a prance on a slim, wobbly branch. She loses her balance and falls, but luckily I catch her and bring her down to the relative safety of Cathy’s arms.

Cathy pinches my cheek to show her gratitude. “A nice boy like you—when are you going to get yourself a girlfriend?”

“One of these days,” I assure her, and Zelda pops up in my mind.

Sprite curls herself around Cathy’s neck like a scarf and purrs. Cathy ties her ratty bathrobe tighter. “Don’t wait too long. Unless you want to end up like me.”

I shudder. I like Sprite, but Cathy has at least another basketful of felines lurking in her apartment that she hides to avoid extra pet rent. I can sometimes hear their plaintive chorus of mews late at night through the walls. Is it possible for a Manic Pixie to turn into a Crazy Cat Person Type? Are existential ennui and extreme loneliness the triggers? I hope I never find out.

I’ve been to the Ooh La Latte Café before. In fact, it’s one my favorite places. Favorite because the baristas don’t charge extra to substitute almond milk in my latte. Favorite because they dim the overhead lights to simulate twilight, and the décor is faux old-world French. And now a favorite because Zelda enjoys their teas.

Last night I pored over Zelda’s character trait sheet and learned she’s into sci-fi movies, collecting rare comic books, and cosplay. And at the pool hall she wields her cue like a professional hustler, leaving broken egos in her wake.

I enter the café. Zelda lounges on a blue velvet loveseat in the corner under a canopy of tiny lights strewn over the ceiling like stars. She sits with her chin tilted up and one eyebrow quirked. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, like she’s having all these fascinating, hilarious thoughts, but she’d never deign to share them with the likes of you. Nevertheless, I approach her after procuring my latte.

“Hey, Z. Which tea’s a-brewing today?”

Zelda snickers and stretches her long legs out under the round marble table in front of her. “Double O Cinnamon. Shaken, not stirred.”

“Sounds like you have a license to chill.”

“Tragic, Riley.” Zelda peers up at me. She wears her chunky brown glasses and bulky sweater like armor. And the silver Ti-22 pin at her collar completes this impenetrable impression, as it seems she chose titanium for a reason. Her judgment stings like a rampaging prickle of porcupines, deflating me more than the prospect of going to therapy.

“You wound me, fair maiden.”

“Oh, don’t pout.” She scoots over to let me sit next to her, close enough that even in the hazy light I can see the flecks of green in her brown eyes. Score!

“How’s work?” I start off with an easy question while I raid the condiment chalice at the center of the table and stir a packet of sugar into my coffee.

She shrugs. “Oh, you know, the usual Early Days stuff. Showing up at three a.m. and knocking on his bedroom window. Making snow angels in the park under the moonlight. Destroying a unicorn topiary to show how rebellious I am.”

God, how I wish she were doing all that stuff with me.

Does Zelda lie awake at night like I do, wishing she could go Off-Page and have adventures she dreams up herself instead of following the scripts she is handed every day?

“How about you?” she asks.

“My next project has been delayed. The Author suffers from writer’s block.”

“Do you actually believe in writer’s block?” The way her question drips with disdain hints at her position on the issue, and my instinct is to agree with her, even though I don’t have an informed opinion. It’s risky to insult Authors, though, especially in a public place where anyone or any hidden device could be eavesdropping. I don’t need any more black marks on my record.

“This Author must believe in it.”

Zelda smirks. “That’s exactly what Finn would have said.”

“Yeah. He taught me well.”

I’m not surprised to learn she knew Finn. He got around. As the original Manic Pixie Dream Boy, Finn trained me when I first arrived in TropeTown. We became poker buddies and best friends who told each other everything—or so I thought. But some fatal flaw forced him to board the Termination Train without saying goodbye to me, and I never even knew he was having problems. Why couldn’t he confide in me? I beat myself up about that a lot.

“May he never go out of print.” Zelda offers up the traditional TropeTown blessing for the terminated.

We sip our respective caffeinated beverages in respectful silence. Soft piano music plays over the café’s speakers, and Zelda taps her foot on the swirl-patterned rug beneath our table in perfect rhythm. I take a deep, satisfying breath of air freshened with baking baguettes.

As I’m working up the courage to ask Zelda what she’s doing later and if she wants to do it with me, a troop of Plucky Street Urchins enters the café and starts a song and dance number. Lead Urchin, a soulful little boy with tousled hair and grubby cheeks, presents me with a long-stemmed rose.

“Buy a flower for your lady, mister!” he implores.

Would Zelda find such a gesture romantic or not? She might consider it ironically charming and blush, or she might judge it sociologically abhorrent and lecture me.

Before I can decide, the Trendy Barista chases Lead Urchin out with a broom. With her attention focused on him, she doesn’t notice when the Supporting Urchins stuff their pockets with almond croissants and mini-quiches from the display counter.

Once she’s swept them all outside, she slams the glass door behind them and turns to us, her only paying customers, with an apologetic expression.

“Can’t they stay on their own side of the tracks?” she grumbles. She trades her broom for a mop and a bucket and begins attacking the muddy footprints the Plucky Street Urchins left as souvenirs.

Zelda sighs. “I’d better go.”

“But . . .” I blurt but stop myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from working on romantic comedies, it’s that timing is everything.

“What is it?” she asks, but she’s not present in the moment anymore. She’s already far away, probably thinking about whatever’s next on her agenda.

I make up a quick cover. “You haven’t savored your Double O Cinnamon to the last drop.”

She slides her mug over until its rim touches the rim of my mug. Hers features the pink, glossy imprint of her lips. “Would you like a taste? It’s all yours,” she says in a flirty voice, and I nearly fall over.

“Uh, thank you,” I say. “I would like that very much.”

She gets up, does a little sexy spin so that her skirt swirls around her legs, and saunters out of the café without a backward glance. It takes me about five minutes before I can stand up without making a scene, if you know what I mean. By the time I remember to taste her tea, it’s cold.