CARA STOUT’s debut novel Enchanted To Meet You is a cosy happily-ever-after that’s full of our favourite book tropes from enemies to lovers, grumpy vs sunshine and forced proximity. Read on for an extract.
1
Imogen
I love the smell of burning polyester and hot dogs in the morning. I just didn’t expect the flames to reach so high.
My boss flings the restaurant’s glass door open with a shout. ‘Imogen, what the hell are you doing?’ His striped hat falls from his head, as he rushes outside.
‘Giving you back this uniform.’ I lean against the cement planter to admire my handiwork. ‘I think it looks better this way.’
I’ve dreamed of doing this since the moment they thrust the drab fabric into my hands. But mostly after the night manager decided it was cool to berate me in front of the whole restaurant for accidentally putting the wrong topping on a hot dog.
The thrill of seeing a dream come true brings a warmth to my heart.
It could also be the fire.
Customers huddle around the window to view the show, while my boss grabs a hose.
‘You’ll pay for this.’ A weak stream of water sputters toward the flames already licking a flower box under the window.
A delighted grin etches my face. This is worth all the nights I came home smelling like a deep fryer. Plus, I’m doing my co-workers a favour. Clearly, they didn’t bother to make these uniforms flame retardant – health and safety at its best. At least now everyone knows what type of people they work for.
You’re welcome!
I’ve quit countless terrible jobs over the last seven months. When I turned 16, I was told that now was the time to enter the workforce and learn responsibility . . . Gross. This might be the most dramatic exit to date, however. OK, fine. It is 100 per cent the most dramatic. But they made me wear a foam hot dog on my head and hand people coupons for questionable meat. I’ll consider us even. I’m typically easy going, but a girl can only handle so much. I wasn’t going to sit around and wait to be yelled at by a middle-aged man in striped shorts, with a bad attitude.
‘Well, this was fun.’ The flames fizzle out, a wisp of steam curling from the charred pile. ‘But it’s time for me to say farewell.’ I enjoyed the show, but I’m not dumb enough to stick around to see what consequences come from my arson.
Water drips from the front of the boss’s uniform. ‘How many jobs is this now?’
I bite my cheek, keeping a snarky screw you to myself. ‘You’re going to run out of places that’ll hire you soon. I took a chance on you, Imogen.’ He pushes a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Should’ve known better. Serves me right.’
Unzipping my backpack, I throw my name tag inside – all that’s left from this job. It lands with a soft thud next to the rest of my collection. I keep the name tags from the places I’ve worked. Morbid, maybe – it’s also getting heavy. My mom says they represent my failure, but to me, they’re stepping stones to my future. Wherever that might lead.
I look up to find my – former – boss staring between me and his phone.
Is he going to call the police?
My gut clenches. Explaining why I quit another job is stressful enough without a prison cell added into the mix. I raise my hands. ‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving.’ I slip on my bike helmet.
Maybe I didn’t think this through. Title of my memoir. ‘You can’t keep making people regret offering you a chance.
This job isn’t perfect.’ He fishes the smouldering fabric from the trash can with a shovel. ‘My uniform chafes like no other. But not everything is perfect. We don’t live in some fairytale where happily-ever-after magically happens. You need to learn to accept that, or you’ll end up alone and penniless.’
‘Better than being stuck here for the rest of my life.’ I peel out of the parking lot, bike wheels skidding, without a second glance.
Farewell, hot dogs, you won’t be missed.
Perfection is possible – I’ve witnessed it first-hand. My best friend, Divya, already knows what her dream career will be. My parents have been happily married for decades.
I know fairytales aren’t real. I’m not naive. But I do know one thing: I won’t find perfection with a hot dog on my head.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cara Stout has been a storyteller since a young age when she would spend hours coming up with intricate lives for her dolls. When she is not lost in her world of stories, she can be found drawing digital art, cooking, and binge watching her favourite TV shows for the hundredth time. She lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, but has never been skiing.
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