Personally, I blame Pretty Woman. I mean, if a billionaire can fall in love with a call girl and come for her, then surely I have to rate at least one rescue? Of course, Tyler showing up would depend on him knowing I was leaving on this particular flight. Since I hadn’t called him, unless Tyler was psychic I was out of luck. Not that I had squirreled away a huge amount of luck so far, but however small my stockpile was, it was now gone. The worst part was that I couldn’t even blame this on bad luck since the odds of me running into him, him being gay, and him liking me were the statistical equivalent of winning three Powerball lotteries back to back. Fate had tossed a perfect sixty-yard Hail Mary right into my numbers, and I dropped the ball. I mean, what else could I do with that perfectly tossed pigskin but drop it? People like me weren’t meant to be happy. We were too sad, too gloomy for normal people to handle on an extended basis. Sophia had told me repeatedly—I wore my sorrow like a raincoat and no matter how sunny a day might be, there I was, all ready for rain.
