What’s Fate Got to Do with It?

Copyright © 2020 by Farra A.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

For Hana,

who inspired this story

Prologue

L et me tell you my side of the story before you read hers. She had so much to say, you might be tempted to believe her while mine get washed away in the rain. She’s in the other room now, deciding what to wear on our date night. I didn’t know why she bothered; we always ate at the same restaurant anyway, but more on that later.

She might introduce me as the cheating scumbag who broke her heart a decade ago. We met in high school, and I was non-existent in her eyes. Not exactly the easiest of places to start. I was the geeky kid in braces and parted hair who no one really cared about. Lia and I had the same History class for three whole years and every single time, I would sit behind her. If you’d ask her, she probably wouldn’t remember.

I wasn’t sure what attracted me to her in the beginning. She wasn’t outstandingly beautiful (let’s be honest here) but she was incredibly smart. She would sit in class, eyes on her lap, pretending she was listening to Mr Nufus when clearly she was sketching on her notepad. At first, I didn’t realise what the squiggly lines were; it could be a bird or plane for all I knew. But the more she drew, the more intrigued I became.

I knew I had to bring my A game and let her know my undying love for her in a way she’d appreciate. Even at that age, looking like that, I still had the ego of an alpha male. I knew only one thing: I had to make her mine.

So I started taking drawing lessons though I was nowhere as good as her. But as long as the painting spoke the words I wanted to express, it was enough. She thought I was naturally gifted. Pfft, as if.

The school’s art exhibition was my only chance to let her know how I felt. It wasn’t easy to hold a torch for someone for years and if I didn’t confess soon, I’d be left to burn. I was so nervous, my hands were shaking when I finally pulled back the cloth from the canvas. It was now or never, I thought.

At first, she didn’t notice what the commotion in the hall was about. That’s Lia for you. But soon, she saw a crowd starting to form at my booth and became curious. By the time she came over, the rest of the students were already whispering and pointing at her. They knew. It was hard not to since I made it plainly obvious - I didn’t want there to be any mistake.

Her eyes roamed through the drawing, absorbing every detail like a sponge. She didn’t have much of an expression but by the time they landed on the corner of the page, her eyes widened in surprise. Bingo.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she slowly started realising what was happening. She immediately turned to me and my heart jumped. Her cheeks flushed and before I could say anything, she bulldozed passed the hordes of students and I didn’t see her for the entire day after that.

Luckily, she wasn’t so freaked out to change schools. For weeks after that, she hid her face in her hands or pulled down the hood of her sweater over her face if someone teased her about it. They called her Drawing Girl, just like the title of my painting. I didn’t have a chance to talk to her - she completely blocked me out and refused to even turn her head to look at me. I felt like I had cooties or something.

I thought that was it. I blew my chance, though if you’d ask me, who didn’t like a public confession? Lia, she’s weird, as you’ll come to know later in the story. But I guessed fate had other plans and the memories we thought ended with the seasons would return the next time. I forgot that seasons were just that; seasonal and recurrent.

I guess I’ll have to let her take over now. I’ll check in with you at the end. But if you’d asked me, she might be exaggerating about a thing or two. For one, I definitely wasn’t the one who lost the watch.

1

I wondered if it was rude to tell someone his toupee was slowly slipping down the side of his cheek. I knew it was unbecoming of me but I simply couldn’t shake the image of this phony-haired man from my brain. Not that it wasn’t obvious - as soon as he marched into the restaurant, he had been tugging anxiously at the cheap piece of plastic. Each time, the wig shifted uncomfortably under his stubby fingers. The more it got rubbed, the more red raw it became.

His impatient eyes scanned the cozy diner. The bistro was located in the hospital district and had become a popular hangout spot for the night shift crew to slip away from the needles and drips. I’d been arranging my past five blind dates in the same place; I’d figured if I were to spend an evening with someone I’d barely knew, it would be best to have a room full of medical experts to resuscitate me should the night go awry. It almost happened one time; my blind date turned up with breath so bad, it nearly knocked me out. Blind dates were dangerous business, I reckoned.

I was waiting patiently for my date tonight who was running pretty late. I glanced at my watch. I started making a rule to give every of my dates a thirty minutes buffer time. It started off as a joke initially, but I had soon gotten hooked to the game just to see if he’d show up at all. Each time they did, it felt like a balloon deflated in me.

Mr Toupee looked at his phone and proceeded to scan the room again. I winced as he began scratching his head profusely. I took a quick look around the room; most of the tables were occupied except for a young brunette in the corner with a pretty neckline who was busy reapplying her lipstick.

But his eyes bulldozed passed hers and the other patrons before landing on mine. I immediately looked away so I didn’t catch his wandering eyes. He squinted into the warm, orange glare of the busy diner and started making his way over. To my table. The split-second temptation to crouch under the round table crossed my mind. I contemplated how long I’d be able to hold out under it before my old knees gave way.

Before I could make up my mind, we locked eyes and he waved excitedly. I pretended to be looking at the man behind him - who was taller than him, with eyes that bore the colour of autumn brown. His hair carried the colour of midnight and as he looked around the room, several locks of his thick hair fell down his face. He pushed the strands back impatiently and searched for a table. Then, his eyes met mine.

I froze. Without thinking, I raised my hand and signalled for him to come over. His eyes flickered in surprise and I could have sworn I saw a hint of a tiny smile crept up the corner of his lips. Slowly, he strode towards my table. The closer he got, the quicker my heart beat. The sheer shock of him actually coming over was making me lightheaded. I had never done anything this cruel to anyone before - I swear - but the last thing I needed was a meal with a man who mistook a bird’s nest as hair. Mr Toupee was probably too preoccupied with his patients in the hospital to bother with scalp treatments. I racked my brain for the long list of things my mother had said about this so-called potential husband material. Doctor… loaded… decent eyes… Trust her not to have mentioned his stunning lack of hair - not that I have anything against bald men. I just… pictured someone else - like the guy behind him for instance.

Just as the mystery man was about an inch away from my table, he stopped in his tracks. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief at the thought that he’d save me from Mr Toupee over here, but he didn’t take a seat at my table. Instead, he continued walking and stopped at the table directly behind mine. I blinked. What was that? It felt like a bucket of ice was poured over my body. His back faced mine as he sat down, and although I couldn’t see his expression, I definitely heard him give a small laugh. Was he playing with me?

My face became as red as the cherry on the sundae in the desserts menu. I was about to sink deeper into my seat when a thick pair of hands reached for the chair opposite mine. Too late, I thought as he dragged the chair back and plopped himself on the seat.

Hello, I’m Doctor Kid Richmond. You must be Lia Faris, he said, and cleared his throat. Sorry to keep you waiting, He smiled, showing off his set of perfect white teeth. At least he had time for oral hygiene, I thought.

It’s nice to meet you, and no worries, I didn’t wait that long, I said, a wave of guilt passing through me all of a sudden.

It took me a moment to recognise you, Lia. You looked so different from the picture … he squinted at his phone again. I forced a smile. My mom must have given his mother a photo of twenty-year old me during a rare trip to London. It was a favourite of hers; the photo of the Big Ben behind me as I smiled widely at the camera. She said that was the last time she remembered me having any sort of fun. I remembered the day perfectly. I was in London with my best friend, Rocky, who was so appalled that my last visit to London was thirty years ago that he promised we’d go during spring break.

It was probably unfair to Doctor Kid who was expecting someone more … full of life. But I expected someone with a full set of hair too. So I guess we win some and lose some. He continued peering at his phone, at me, then the photo again. I was starting to feel a lot like a spider behind a glass case - the kind that scared people away.

Is there a problem? I asked politely.

Not at all. Shall we proceed with the dinner portion of the date?

I nodded, and he scrutinised the menu on the table. I pretended to look too, although I had memorised it by heart now. Part of the reason why I loved this place so much was the ribeye steak with honey sauce. My mouth started to water at the thought of it. Each time I had a date here, I’d look forward to the food more than anything else.

Wow, what an expensive course set for a mediocre-looking place. Shall I suggest the butterscotch soup and chamomile tea? For mains, perhaps the aglio olio? We can save room for desserts - the yuzu tart is looking divine … he trailed off. Before I could object, he repeated our orders to the waiter and then peered at me carefully. I assume we are splitting the bill, yes? I mean, we hardly know each other, he explained.

I offered a tiny nod. This was going to be a long, laborious night and I didn’t think the tea would be any consolation at all. Where was the man in the yellow hat when you needed him? Clearly, there was a monkey on the loose, I sighed.

Twenty minutes later, I was watching him eat his pasta with the concentration of a pathologist during an autopsy. Only at the rate this disaster date was going, I seemed to be the only dead weight here.

We barely talked at all and he hardly gave me two glances. I cleared my throat. So … what kind of work do you do?

Oh I work with models and actors, he said distractedly, twirling another piece of pasta onto the metal fork.

You mean it’s high season for models to fall sick? I asked, confused. That wasn’t right, I shook my head. I knew that he was a cardiothoracic surgeon, not a primary care physician for the rich and famous.

I’m a plastic surgeon. My clients include supermodels who pay to get work done here and there, he said, gesturing to my nose and chest. I felt uncomfortable by his leery gaze. Of course, I do treat new faces too; just to make it tight and perfect, especially down there, he said, eyeing my chest area again. I hugged my jacket a little closer to my body, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. I charge anything from five thousand to five hundred thousand pounds. I take my work very seriously; that’s why my clients call me Mr Scissorhands, he beamed proudly. I wondered if he knew that the actual Edward Scissorhands was literally made of synthetics. I bit my tongue to stop myself from asking.

I thought you were a cardiac surgeon, I said reluctantly.

Well, am I any different from one? He said, chuckling loudly. There was something in his laugh that sent the hair on my skin into sharp, prickly tingles.

Lia, won’t you agree that looking good makes your heart feel happy? I may not alter the heart’s physical state per se, but I assure you, I have transformed the emotional state of my clients tremendously. They feel confident, happy and satisfied after engaging my services. There was the use of the word ‘client’ again which bothered me.

Okay, I guess he wasn’t wrong. Yet, something about his confession didn’t sit well with me at all. My stomach quenched at the thought. The stranger behind me shifted in his seat. I caught a waft of his cologne and for a split second, fantasised what it’d be like to be on a date with him instead.

I suppose so. There’s nothing wrong with cosmetic surgeons.

I was told to be careful of architects. Their words bite worse than a paper cut, he joked lamely. I cringed. I didn’t hope for anything close to a full-blown romance tonight but at the rate this blind date was going, I’d have more luck married to my paper cutter instead.

I heard the rustle of a fork and spoon and the low rumble of the man behind me. Was he listening in on our date? No, it couldn’t be, I shook my head.

… Of course, work must have been keeping you busy from finding a husband, Lia. The blunt words snapped at me.

Well, yes, I answered slowly. My mom thought she’d play matchmaker-

Maybe it’d be easier if you … you know, do your part, he interrupted, probably not realising I was even speaking at all. Excuse me?

My part, I repeated like a parrot on a perch. Only, I wasn’t the chatterbox here.

You know, he waved his hand dismissively in the air. He