By Mistake Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © Sigal Ehrlich

  Also by Sigal Ehrlich

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  by Chance (Poison & Wine, book II)

  Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © Sigal Ehrlich

  ISBN: 978 0 9970114 2 5 (eBook)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  by Mistake

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright © 2021 by Sigal Ehrlich. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Cover designed by Damonza

  Editing by Nicole Hornbaker Langston

  Published by Sigal Ehrlich

  http:// www.sigalehrlich.com

  Visit the author’s website:

  http://www.sigalehrlich.com

  Version 06.09.19

  Interior design and formatting by:

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  Layers, Stark #1

  Inner Core, Stark #2

  Outer Core, Stark #3

  Retrace

  Leaving Me Behind

  Unplugged I

  Unplugged II

  Kiki, you gem, this one’s for you.

  Chickens and Challenges

  I can’t open the door fast enough even if I tried. Slam-dunking the keys into the bowl in the hall, I follow it with a lingering “wooo” and make my way to the living room to grab a wool throw blanket. I drape the blanket over my shoulders and haste my steps en route to the kitchen.

  I don’t care what they say, nothing beats a steaming bowl of ramen. Nothing! Whoever invented ramen takeout leftovers that taste better a day later is a true genius and I’m a massive fan.

  I’m famished like only a person who works her body as much as I do can be. Side note, I’m not a sex worker (not that there is anything wrong with that, your body do with it whatever you want). I’m just saying, let a girl inhale some food first. I type in my laptop password while happily slurping a juicy noodle, waiting for my inbox to synch. I spoon up some seaweed and mushrooms and ungracefully shove the heaped spoon into my mouth. I moan with delight and send my tongue out to lick off the soup making its way down my chin. The beauty of eating solo – you can pig out like no one’s watching. Being single is not all that bad, I tell ya. I let out an amused snort when an earlier chat group with my friends pops into my mind.

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Morning chickens, it’s the first Monday of the month, you know what’s coming.. . . . Monthly challenge! Chickens, this week you need to reply, KINDLY, to whatever’s sent your way. Lovely week!

  Kayla to CHICKENS: I know I’m sort of new around here, not sure I have enough seniority to say this, but can someone be blocked from sending cheerful messages ON A MONDAY before noon?

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Kayla Morning Drummergirl, may this beautiful MONDAY bestow love and positive energy upon you.

  Kayla to CHICKENS: I don’t do emojis so just imagine a gun to head.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: Victoria, elaborate, we need to answer what? Oh, and top of the morning to you too, Drummergirl. Keep spreading them unicorns and rainbows to the universe.

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Emails, messages, calls (yes, some people STILL do that) or if someone approaches you, you answer, kindly. No ignoring, no ghosting, no screening. Namaste, chickens!

  Anna to CHICKENS: Guys I have 2 open slots for the 80’s Aerobics class tonight at seven, who’s coming?

  Victoria: Me!

  Pandora: Yay! So much yes, only if I’m paying.

  Anna: Panda, buy me a tea later and we’ll call it even. Praise be.

  I laugh to myself and focus my attention back to the device on my lap. I hum along to the indie acoustic covers playlist playing in the background, mentally cataloguing the emails.

  Later.

  Later.

  Later. The kind that really means never. Which due to the monthly challenge, I probably will answer.

  Later.

  Bills.

  Where did HE get my email from? Report spam.

  Later.

  A frown settles between my brows as I notice the next email. Squinting my eyes, I search my head for the odd email address. Typically, I would probably open an email from an unfamiliar address last, if at all. But something about the subject caught my attention, not to mention my sister’s brilliant little monthly challenge. She knew what she was doing, the wicked hen. Also, the email subject – such poetry is a rare occurrence in this day and age.

  Hey wanker, got your new email address from the flamingo…

  How can someone really resist this? My soup coated, oily lips stretch into an animated smile as I click on the email.

  It’s been a while, man. I met Heather the other day and she gave me your new contact. Getting hacked is a huge bummer.

  Heard you guys were seeing each other. Who would have thought, ah? Took you only about a decade to get your head out of your ass and realize that the Flamingo was your destiny, after all? She said that you’re leaving in a few days. Africa, man. I’m playing with the idea too. We might end up “serving” together again. Safe travels and keep in touch, you little shit.

  Ps. Look what I found the other day, the good ol’ days.

  I let out a little chuckle after reading the content. Feels a bit nosy, inappropriate and much stalker-ish reading a message that was intended for someone else, but well, it did land in my inbox. But then again, given I’m already invested I might as well have a peek at the attachment, get a sense of how the “good ol’ days” looked. I unload another spoonful of soup into my mouth, waiting for the image to upload.

  Oh hi.

  I give the photo a thorough scan, the tipping of my lips comes as a reflex. It’s an image of two guys in
their late twenties, at a guess. They’re posing in the casual photo-bro-hug stance. Both fit and tall. Both sporting a white t-shirt with “Modern Day Slave” in black letters boasted on the front. The guy on the right is of the tall, dark, and handsome variety; the one on the left looks like the boy next door who’s grown into a fine-looking gentleman. They couldn’t look more different, yet both are more than easy on the eye, and that’s an understatement.

  I’m not sure who this Flamingo person is, but respect, sister, for knowing these two. Not to mention dating one of them.

  Okay then. The right thing to do as per common curtesy and monthly challenge protocol, is to let Mr. . . I narrow my eyes at the screen and frown. Who doesn’t sign their emails? Ok, time to let anonymous know that his email missed its destination.

  Hi there, anonymous person who doesn’t sign his emails,

  There must have been some mix-up and I got this email. By mistake, FYI. And I guess we don’t want Little Shit to miss this message, do we?

  Beautiful day,

  Anna

  “The distance between your dreams and reality is called action.”

  I shoot off the email, put the bowl in the dishwasher, and fill up the bath. After four advanced Pilates classes in a row, and aerobics, my muscles could really use some bath-soaking indulgence.

  Tolkien and Hippies

  Sonofabitch! I jerk back to check who just slapped me on the back. I dart Ronan, a fellow resident, a frown as I shrug on a shirt.

  “You’re going for a run now? You kidding me? Go home, get some sleep, man.” Ronan shakes his head, eyeing me as I tie my worn-out running shoes. He slides his hands into his white coat pockets. “It’s been what? A thirty hour shift? It’s unhealthy. Go home and rest.” He tugs at his stethoscope, “Doctor’s orders.”

  I hang my own stethoscope in the locker. “Well, this doctor says you’ve got to live a little.” I close the locker and head to refill my water bottle. Ronan follows me to the water fountain. I throw him a side glance. “You know what’s unhealthy? A work, sleep, work cycle.” “I managed to grab some sleep in-between,” I tell him, holding the bottle under the fountain. The cold spreads as the bottle fills up, sending a chill down the tips of my fingers.

  He gives me an objecting smile-grimace hybrid, knowing full-well what my so-called sleep really means. A couple of sleep cycles of somewhere between twenty minutes to an hour, if you’re lucky. I could go home and rest like my colleague suggests and practically let my life, at least for the foreseeable future, pass me by as I grind myself to the bones. But I believe that sports and entertainment aren’t any less crucial for a healthy life/mind.

  Peeling off a granola bar wrapper with a crackling sound, Ronan says, “Daphne asked about you again. At least give it a try, she’s cute. Hell, she’s much more than cute. I’d totally hit that.”

  Securing the lid on my bottle, I raise my eyes to him. “She seems like a nice person, but I told you, I don’t want to get involved with anyone at work. This place is practically our second home. We see these people all the time. What if it doesn’t work? We’ll be bumping into each other all the time. Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  Between chews on the granola, Ronan says, “You know what your problem is, Brody? You take things too seriously, loosen up a little.” He pauses to swallow. “So what? Hook up with the lovely redhead. You don’t have to move in with her the next day.” He then gives me back my own words. “Live a little.”

  I pat his chest, “Appreciate the advice, Dr. Phil. See you tomorrow.”

  And I head to the door.

  By the time I reach the heavy doors of the local library, the sun is set low in the sky and fatigue is starting to take its toll on me. After the run, I popped by the apartment for a quick shower, grabbed a sandwich, and headed out again. I smile at the librarian who smiles back at me in familiarity and I walk over to the fantasies’ aisle first. You know how some people chill at coffee shops or parks. One of my favorite downtime places is the library. Where I can still be surrounded by people, yet conversations and phones are hushed and my mind can unwind as it is immersed in book blurbs, musty-smelling hardcovers with worn spines, and my thoughts.

  I pick up a newly released book by one of my favorite authors, Kazuo Ishiguro, and an old one- by Tolkien. It’s my thing if you will. Once a week, I drop by the library; each time I go for a different genre from which I choose a new book and an old one. Feels like, in a way, I get to discover new and old worlds.

  I give the room a swift scan and choose a secluded corner where I’ll read for a while, work on the endless MSF—Doctor Without Borders documents, and catch up on what I’ve missed in the past twenty-four hours in the real world. And by real world, I obviously mean news and social media.

  It takes me more than an hour to fill in the application for MSF. I glance at my watch and decide to start the thick Tolkien book later tonight if I manage to keep my eyes open. I have to wrap it up here before the friendly librarian becomes a little less amiable and kicks me out. Just before switching off the tablet, I catch myself grinning at the reply to one of the emails I sent yesterday. Even though this one doesn’t really require an answer, I decide to answer it anyway while amusedly wondering who this hippie kooky human is who signs off her emails with bullshit motivational quotes.

  An Attempt at Adulting

  “Sure, no problems, I’ll call you right after. Yeah, I promise,” I say to the phone, while applying mascara. “Mmmhmm,” I hum, checking my makeup in the mirror. With my pinky, I fix the nude-ish lipstick at the corner of my lips. I spray perfume and walk through the scented cloud, pick up the phone that’s on speaker, and continue to the kitchen.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come with you, Bean?” My mom asks via the speaker.

  I give my travel mug a quick rinse and fill it with fresh ginger and mint tea. “No, mom, thanks.”

  “I can be there in ten—”

  I shake my head, albeit in an animated, fond manner. Cutting her off, I say, “Hey, mom, your job is complete. You raised me well, it’s on me now.”

  My mom’s easy laughter prompts a smile. I secure the mug’s lid better as she says, “Smartass.”

  “Love you too, mom. And yes, I’ll call you later. Wish me luck.”

  I played it cool when talking to my mom, for two main reasons. A. I know just how bad she feels about not being able to lend me the money, and that if I showed even the slightest apprehension, she’d go and do something mad like sell her apartment. My mom would do anything for my sister Victoria and me. B. I’m a capable grown-up woman who can and should handle things by herself.

  But now, sitting here in the reception area at the bank, waiting for my appointment, I feel the tension tight in my stomach. I have all the necessary papers with me, and most importantly a business plan for my own fitness studio. The owner, my boss of the last three years, decided to retire and sell the studio. Knowing how committed I am to the place, seeing I’ve been practically running it for the last year or so, investing in things, buying some of the gear out of my own pocket, she turned to me with a proposal before putting it on the market. Owning my own studio is a dream. One I assumed I’d be pursuing somewhere in the future, maybe after some business classes and a greater fortune for a down payment. It’s not a big studio by any means: three smaller rooms and a large one with a capacity of about twenty people. Personnel-wise, there are four instructors including me. Mrs. Rotfield, the owner, hardly teaches anymore. We offer Pilates, Zumba, body balance, aerobics, and yoga classes.

  The studio is doing well, could be better but nothing to complain about. Taking it on would be quite the challenge. I love teaching but managing the place and the people would be a whole new experience for me, one that I’m not entirely sure I’m up to. But when the offer came, the more I thought about it the more it seemed like a leap I’d like to take. A great idea that still gives me one heck of a case of heartburn. Committing to something like this at the age of twenty-seven – that’s
full functioning adult territory. I hope I know what I’m doing. I seriously hope I’m ready.

  But I’m jumping the gun here.

  First and foremost I need to get approved for a loan, which brings me to the current moment, where I’m sitting on an uncomfortable sofa, tapping my feet nervously, in a killer pantsuit and some serious heels, feeling like a little kid who’s about to be patted on the head with a consolation smile and a gentle encouragement to go home and come back in a few years. I try to remind myself that the studio is doing more than well, mostly due to my classes (if I may say so myself). My Pilates, and not to mention, the 80’s Throwback Aerobics are always at capacity, with a prominent waiting list.

  I cross my legs and uncross them again, check my watch for the umpteenth time, and try to subtly take some deep yoga breaths. Nothing helps. I’m still a tight spring of edginess. I pull out my phone, looking for a diversion. It comes in the form of an email I’ve practically forgotten about.

  Hey there, nice person who signs off her emails weirdly,

  First off, let me rectify my lack of proper email signing etiquette. Nice to e-meet you, Anna, I’m Liam.

  Thanks for being a cool person and letting me know you’re not Little Shit.

  I trust you will find this reply satisfactory, and remain yours faithfully,

  Liam

  “The first step for change is to become aware of your own bullshit.”

  PS. What’s up with the motivational quote sign off, Anna?

  An involuntary laugh leaves my lips. So many things to address in this message. First, who thanks random people these days? Bonus point to Mr. Liam. Then, if there’s something I find special about guys, and by special I mean scorching hot, it’s got to be guys who read. A guy with a book? Visual/mental foreplay. This Liam guy signed off his email with a J. R. R. Tolkien quote, nonetheless! Okay, the little jab about my quote wasn’t cool, but his responding quote was sort of funny. And he quoted Tolkien! Not to mention—