7:22 ... Think ... think! It occurred to me that Nancy Drew would have had this case solved by now, so what was I, a top-of-my-class engineering major and MBA grad, missing? I let my eyes roam around the room. This wasn’t the sort of place where unexpected, magical things happened. Everything that happened here was practical and preplanned. And until tonight, it all made complete sense! I needed a connection, an explanation ... basically a “Why Me?”

I dragged my eyes back to the page to scan it yet again, and this time, I made myself focus on the words themselves.

Ms. Nicola James will be sensible(!) and indulge in a little romance?

It would seem that the journal had been soaking up inspiration as it sat, unsupervised, alongside my much-loved collection of Austen novels all week long. Now I just needed a single man in possession of a good fortune, and I was good to go. To continue the metaphor likening the appearance of the journal to that of the Bingleys, this snarky bit of commentary could be viewed as the introduction of Mr. Darcy, spouting off unnecessarily.

Forgetting for a minute the stranger-than-fiction details of this whole situation, I was offended now on a whole other level. I was nothing if not sensible, but I wasn’t about to be prodded into “indulging” until I was good and ready. And yet, perversely, I was impressed. I didn’t remember using half of those words in my own entry, but obviously I had, because there they were, big as life, taunting me in my very own handwriting.

A glance at the clock had me thudding back into a near stupor of helplessness. The antiques store was a no-go until tomorrow afternoon. Surely there was something I could be doing about this predicament right now... . Then it hit me: I’d re-create my original entry and get it back, fully intact. How that might help, I couldn’t imagine—I was simply driven by a desperation to put things back the way I’d left them, the way they made sense.

Thrilled to have a specific task to perform, I scrambled to get a pen, then changed my mind and grabbed a pencil instead—one with a good chunky eraser.

My ringtone blithely sounded off from the kitchen counter, and I jerked nervously away from it. Glancing at the journal, my decision was instantaneous: I was sooo not telling anyone about this. Scrabbling for the phone, my greeting came out as something of a croak.

“Good, I caught you.” As usual, Gabe was oblivious. I could hear his fingers clicking over a keyboard and assumed he was still at work. My gaze shifted curiously to the timer yet again.

Gabe was my best friend, and maybe that should have entitled him to a juicy divulgence, but he was also an engineer, not to mention a coworker, and his mind worked, more or less, the same way mine did. Seeing as I’d already classified this whole situation as un-freakin’-believable, I really didn’t need, and couldn’t stomach, his second opinion. I decided to stay mum, perched against the counter, a watchful eye on the journal.

“I assume you’re aware that South by Southwest kicks off tonight,” Gabe continued when I hadn’t spoken.

“Aware, yes; indifferent, also yes.” I wasn’t the type to get excited about the city’s annual movie slash music fest, no matter how prestigious.

Gabe ignored me. “So the music part of the festival doesn’t start till next week, but some of the bands arrived early and scored some extra gigs.”

I’d tease him for using the word “gig,” but I needed to speed things up here.

“So ... ?” I heard myself asking, my feigned interest the closest I intended on coming to any plans he might have for me that evening.

“So I’m heading down to Fadó with a couple of expats and a guy in from Glasgow, and I thought you might like to come. It’s a Scottish band.” With Austin nicknamed Silicon Hills and Glasgow dubbed Silicon Glen, many companies operated sister facilities, here and across the pond, creating somewhat of a foreign exchange program for the high-tech set.

“You are not trying to set me up.” Less of a question, more of a stern reminder.

“God no. I’m just offering you an evening of men with accents.”

And here I’d thought my best chance of going international tonight was a lawn full of lesbians salsaing to a karaoke rendition of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

“I think I’ll pass, but you get points for a good, solid effort.”

“Ah, come on, Nic—don’t pass. You can’t expect to earn a Weird shirt by missing eight consecutive years of South by Southwest.”

“Why not? In this particular instance, I’m the epitome of weird.” My eyes skimmed over the journal and quickly darted away. “Who else would choose questionable backyard karaoke over a legitimate Scottish band?”

“You’re going next door?” Cue massive sigh.

“Of course. I’ve got cupcakes baking as we speak.”

“Never mind that you need an intervention more than you need another cupcake.” I started to react, but it quickly became clear that this was just his starter jab. “You’re. Not. A. Lesbian. Nic. And you wouldn’t karaoke for a hundred bucks.” That was true. Sad, but true. “So what in the hell are you doing over there every Friday night?” And then he lapsed into absurdity: “Are they brainwashing you? Luring you into some sort of sexual cult? Should I come over?”

I rolled my eyes and responded accordingly. “Don’t worry—it’s nothing I can’t handle. Just a little girl-on-girl action.”

After a couple beats of uncharacteristic silence, Gabe eventually surfaced. “Okay, I’m getting a sarcastic vibe here, and it’s throwing me off.”

“Wishful thinking doesn’t make it so, Gabe. Remember that.”

“Damn. I thought not. So how exactly do the weekly lesbian potlucks fit in with the Nic James Life Plan?”

By now immune to Gabe’s (and everyone else’s) disdain for my carefully considered, down-to-the-detail life plan, I answered matter-of-factly. “It’s actually a rather elegant solution. As you’ve just pointed out, I’m not a lesbian. As a result, I’m relatively immune to their charms. So no strings attached. Ingenious, huh?”

“I guess. Define ‘relatively.’”I ignored this too. “Are there gonna be any guys there, trying to coax a few back to our team?” He sounded positively titillated over such an opportunity.

“Nope. And I consider that a definite draw.” My patience was drying up.

“Are men even allowed?”

“Only for the occasional ritual sacrifice. Now I really—”

Gabe’s laugh blasted back over the phone line, and I imagined him throwing back his head to punctuate the jocularity. For someone so obviously opposed to my attending these Friday night get-togethers, he seemed vicariously enthralled.

“Gabe, I gotta go.”

“Okay, but I hear these guys are good. If, as you claim, you are still playing for our team, maybe they could get you off the bench.”

The corners of my mouth began to curl despite my best efforts. “I’ll suit up next season,” I parried, nudging a spatula through the bowl of ganache sitting beside me on the counter, looking dangerously delicious.

“Are you telling me that men are on your agenda for next year?”

“I thought I was being lured out for a night of Austin culture and camaraderie?” As opposed to a night of Austen culture and camaraderie with my traitorous journal.

“Just sayin’ ...”

“Anything’s possible,” I allowed, suddenly distinctly uncomfortable with that admission, given what I’d been dealing with for the past quarter hour. “Bye, Gabe. Have fun tonight.” I hung up before hearing his reply, just as the timer went off.

Retrieving the cupcakes, I set them on the baking rack to cool, swiped a finger through the ganache, and dropped back down at the kitchen table. I glared at the offending journal page and its few remaining survivors and underlined each of them with a short, sharp motion.

Then suddenly I remembered. My one-entry stint as a journaler had sprung from plans to attend a coworker’s wedding this weekend—tomorrow, in fact. And the reality that I’d been going alone.


Miss Nicola James, 1 will attend.


Tentatively at first, I let my mind play through some possibilities. I mouthed the words and tapped my pencil over the page, checking the spacing. Within seconds, I was feeling very déjà vu.


I’m going solo. As per The Plan. Sure it’d be kinda nice to have a date, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the complications just yet. Besides, I’ll do just fine on my own.


Dateless, I was a free agent. I didn’t have to stick close to anyone, entertain anyone, or worry about anyone—I could leave when I was ready. I actually loved weddings. And just like that, it all started coming back to me... .


A wedding is the perfect opportunity to dress up in frilly, feminine clothes and far-from-sensible shoes,


Not to impress anyone—just for me. Well, maybe one other person...


to mingle and indulge in a plate of fancy little hors d’ oeuvres, and enjoy the

That last part was a little vague (not to mention over-the-top), but I’d remembered the general gist, and it fit the space, more or less, so I wasn’t going to worry about being too precise. And I suppose the rest of it really didn’t matter, as no words beyond “romance” had been deemed keepers. There’d been a vague mention of flirting, but that was it.