The Second Chance Year

by Melissa Wiesner

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

In this unforgettable story full of charm, wit—and just a bit of magic—a woman down on her luck is given a second chance at fixing her life and trying one year all over again. Perfect for readers of Josie Silver and Rebecca Serle. 

Sadie Thatcher’s life has fallen apart in spectacular fashion. In one fell swoop, she managed to lose her job, her apartment, and her boyfriend—all thanks to her big mouth. So when a fortune teller offers her one wish, Sadie jumps at the chance to redo her awful year. Deep down, she doesn’t believe magic will fix her life, but taking a leap of faith, Sadie makes her wish, opens her eyes, and . . . nothing has changed. And then, in perhaps her dumbest move yet, she kisses her brother’s best friend, Jacob.

When Sadie wakes up the next morning, she’s in her former apartment with her former boyfriend, and her former boss is expecting her at work. Checking the date, she realizes it's January 1 . . . of last year.  As Sadie navigates her second-chance year, she begins to see the red flags she missed in her relationship and in her career. Plus, she keeps running into Jacob, and she can’t stop thinking about their kiss . . . the one he has no idea ever happened. Suddenly, Sadie begins to wonder if her only mistake was wishing for a second chance.

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

December

If the last year of my life were a season of the Great British Bake Off, I would’ve been sent home on the first episode. My performance in the signature challenge would’ve left the judges shaking their heads, my technical bake would’ve ended up raw in the middle, and my showstopper would’ve collapsed in a heap of gingerbread and shame.

So, when New Year’s Eve of my Very Bad Year rolls around, all I want to do is sit on the couch with a bowl of buttercream icing in my lap and an episode of The Golden Girls on TV. But my best friend, Kasumi, has other plans.

“Come on, Sadie, it will be fun.”

I peer at Kasumi from beneath the ball cap I’ve been wearing because I haven’t washed my hair in three days. “Nothing that starts with ‘come on, it will be fun’ is ever fun.”

“This will be, I promise.” She snatches the plaid blanket I’ve wrapped around myself like a fluffy layer of fondant and throws it on the chair where I can’t reach it.

“Hey,” I protest, half-heartedly making a grab for it. Kasumi is just jealous because that blanket is my new best friend. We’ve been hanging out almost exclusively for months. We were going to paint each other’s nails and have a pillow fight later.

Kasumi plops down on the other end of the couch. “My friend Devon rented an empty warehouse that he’s turning into a giant New Year’s Eve carnival. Picture acrobats hanging from the ceiling, magicians sawing people in half, and cotton candy cocktails. It will be epic.”

“You lost me at carnival. You know how I feel about clowns.” I open my phone to find an email about another pastry chef job that went to someone who isn’t me, and my shoulders droop. “My New Year’s plans include sitting on this couch and reading my rejection letters.” I click over to Instagram, the only thing that can make me feel worse. “If I’m really feeling festive, I might creep on Alex’s social media to obsess over the new woman he’s dating.”

Kasumi’s face softens. “Oh, honey. You need to stop torturing yourself. At least quit following Alex on Instagram. Nothing good can come of this.”

She’s right, of course. It’s been months since my boyfriend, Alex, and I broke up. But we were together for three years, and I thought it would be forever. But now he’s on a tropical island with a pretty blond woman who looks fantastic in a bikini. And I’m… well, I’m eating Nutella straight from the jar. I mean, I have some standards; at least I’m using a spoon. But it’s impossible not to feel gutted that Alex has moved on with his life while I clearly… haven’t.

“I’m worried about you, Sadie. I can’t remember the last time you went in the kitchen and baked something. Your relationship with this couch is growing deeply dysfunctional. Come to the party,” Kasumi urges. “It will get you out of this rut. And I’ll splash it all over Instagram to show Alex that you’re not sitting home wallowing.”

I eye her black tulle skirt, suspenders, and sparkly red-and-white–striped T-shirt. “I don’t have anything to wear to a New Year’s carnival costume party.” When I lost my job as a pastry chef and had to move out of my apartment, I packed up almost everything I owned and had my brother, Owen, haul it out to Gotham Storage in Flatbush. For the past three months or so, I’ve been working as a barista, and I live in black T-shirts and jeans that hide the coffee stains.

“I knew you’d say that.” Kasumi tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and grabs a tote bag from behind the couch. She dumps out the contents—sparkly gold minidress with a poufy A-line skirt, cropped red blazer, and sequined black top hat—flashing me a grin.

The thing is, a year ago, I would have loved a carnival-themed party with an over-the-top outfit. But that was before Xavier, my former boss and the executive chef of one of the most exclusive restaurants in town, threw one of his epic tantrums over some bad pâté and screamed at a line cook. I’d stepped in because honestly, it was pâté, not world peace hanging in the balance. If the pâté had been an isolated incident, I might’ve kept my job. But I had a history of refusing to stand down for bad behavior, and the pâté was the excuse Xavier needed to finally get rid of me.

Then, as icing on my crap-cake of a year, Alex broke up with me after I made a scene and told off one of his sexist coworkers outside a party with some of his clients. It wasn’t the first time I’d done it, and for Alex, it was the last straw. He couldn’t have a girlfriend who was hurting his career prospects.

At the time, both those incidents had seemed justified. Someone had to speak up, right? And that someone was usually me. My mom used to tell me that my big mouth would get me into trouble someday. Sadie, when are you going to learn not to be so abrasive all the time? You’ll attract more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Back then, I’d responded that no chef in her right mind wants to attract flies, it’s a health code violation. But now, as I head into my third month on this borrowed couch, having put not only Alex’s job prospects in jeopardy, but mine, too, I wonder if maybe my mom had a point. Maybe there was a better way to handle my boss and Alex’s coworkers that wouldn’t have left me single, homeless, and struggling to find a job.

As Kasumi holds up the gold dress, Jacob, my brother’s best friend and the owner of the apartment where I’m currently crashing, walks in. Kasumi waves the sparkly frock in his direction like a road worker directing traffic. “Jacob. Hey, Jacob.”

Jacob stumbles to a stop, blinks, and then pulls an enormous pair of black headphones from his ears, leaving them hanging around his neck. “Sorry? Did you say something?”

Kasumi neatly folds the dress and sets it on the pile. “Sadie and I were just talking about a carnival party my friend is throwing tonight.” She cocks her head. “Don’t you think she needs to go out and have some fun for once?”

Honestly, I don’t know why she’s asking Jacob. I’m pretty sure a carnival-themed party, or any party, really, is his worst nightmare. But then again, he’s probably dying to get me off his couch, so he’d say yes if she suggested I bungee jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Jacob’s dark eyes drift from Kasumi to the clothes on the coffee table. Finally, they settle on me. “Will there be clowns at this carnival?”

Kasumi rolls her eyes. “What is with the two of you and clowns?”

“Sadie is terrified of them.”

I glance sharply at Jacob. Ever since my brother made us watch Stephen King’s It when I was in sixth grade and Owen and Jacob were in fifth, I’ve been afraid of clowns. But I’m surprised that Jacob remembers that. I’m surprised he knows anything personal about me at all.

When I lost my apartment, the last person I expected to come to my rescue was Jacob. We’re not exactly what you’d call friendly. He’s so introverted and uptight, and I’m… well, a loudmouth. Abrasive, as they say. I can’t imagine how it tortures him to have me in his space. But no matter what Jacob thinks of me, he’s always had Owen’s back, and I guess he didn’t want my brother to get stuck with cramming me into his studio apartment when Jacob had a spare room he wasn’t using anyway.

Kasumi looks him up and down. “What are you doing tonight? You could come along to the party to protect Sadie from the clowns.” She gives me an eyebrow raise, which I know she thinks is subtle, but it’s about as obvious as if she’d yanked down my neckline, hiked up my boobs, and shoved me in his direction.

A slow heat drifts across my cheeks, and not because I’m interested in Jacob. Because—Ew. He’s my little brother’s best friend. The kid with the too-large glasses and pimples who I once caught flipping through my Victoria’s Secret catalog. Who, along with my uber-nerd brother, never had a date to a high school dance because the two of them were glued to our basement computer writing bizarre ambient music and hacking the nuclear codes.

But Kasumi never knew Jacob as an awkward teenager, so her view of him is entirely different from mine. I mean, objectively, I can see the pimples did clear up, he shot up past six feet when I wasn’t paying attention, and his clear-rimmed glasses are trendy now, probably from one of those indie eyewear brands. Plus, he’s become so successful at composing his electronic music that he was able to afford to buy this bright, spacious apartment. But, still. He’s Jacob.

He hesitates, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. If he were anyone else, I’d say he’s considering coming to the party. But more likely, he’s judging me and the glittery outfit Kasumi picked out, because Jacob would never deign to attend a theme party.

I smile to myself, trying to imagine him dressed up in a black jacket and sparkly top hat, waving a magic wand. But as my gaze settles on him, my amusement fades. A suit would highlight his tall, lean frame, and with his glasses and that razor stubble on his jaw, I think he could actually pull off sexy-magician. I realize I’m staring as soon as our eyes meet, but for some mystifying reason, I don’t look away and neither does he. Even more inexplicably, my breath catches.

“So, are you coming or what?” Kasumi cuts in loudly.

Jacob breaks eye contact first, and my cheeks grow warmer. This is all Kasumi’s fault for planting the seed of Jacob as a smokeshow in my clearly addled mind. “I’m sure Jacob has better things to do tonight,” I stammer. “Some creepy sci-fi music to compose, or something?”

Jacob’s eye gives a little twitch, but then he nods. “Yeah. I’ve got a deadline. You should go, though.” He pulls his headphones back over his ears and turns back toward his bedroom. “I’ll probably get more done with a little peace and quiet.”

As he walks away, I haul myself up off the couch with a sudden urge to get out of here for a while. “Okay. Let’s go to the party.”

Kasumi jumps to her feet. “Yay!”

I grab the gold dress off the coffee table and head down the hall to get ready. As I pass Jacob’s bedroom, I can hear him moving around, probably tinkering with his sound mixer or electronic keyboard or whatever other equipment he’s got in there. I stop outside the door, recalling his hesitation at the party invitation and his dark eyes locked on mine. Will Jacob be here all by himself when the clock strikes midnight? Something about that leaves me as hollow as a cannoli without any filling. He always seems like such a loner, aside from his friendship with Owen. But could he actually be a little lonely? I picture sexy-magician Jacob, and my cheeks heat again. Maybe I should knock, apologize for my snarky comment, and see if he wants to come to the party after all.

As I hover there, debating, the door swings open, and Jacob is towering over me. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, as if to summon what little patience he has left. “Did you need something, Sadie?” He stares over my shoulder as if he could not be more over this conversation.

“Uh. No. Nope. Not at all.” I back up a few steps. “I was just heading to my room. Just this way. Down the hall here.” I gesture toward my bedroom door, which is, of course, unnecessary. It’s his apartment; he knows where my room is. But he reduces me to this nervous babble. Every. Single. Time. “Okay, well. Have a good night.”

And with that, I turn and flee.

In retrospect, I probably should have passed on the buttered popcorn martini, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’ve downed three carnival cocktails at this party in the hopes that the alcohol would help fun-Sadie rise from the ashes of my Very Bad Year, but so far, all I feel is nauseated. For the past half hour, Kasumi’s been dancing with a shirtless, tattooed sword-swallower, and there’s a dirty joke in there somewhere that I don’t even have the heart to make. I’m happy she’s having fun, though, and I don’t want to drag her away to deal with my attitude.

Kasumi’s friend Devon really outdid himself on this party, and for a social media famous event planner, that’s saying a lot. The steel beams of the warehouse ceiling are obscured by huge red-and-white–striped curtains that mimic a circus tent, and acrobats in sparkly leotards contort their bodies like rubber bands on long silks that hang above the dance floor. A DJ wearing a yellow cat-ear headband and furry gloves spins records from inside an old-fashioned lion’s cage on red-painted wheels while partygoers pulsate to the beat.

I should be out there shimmying up against the strong man in the red leather bodysuit, or at least checking out the array of circus-themed baked goods to see how they compare to my own recipes. But I can’t seem to move from my makeshift bench on the leg of a giant fiberglass elephant installation. This party feels like a metaphor for my life. Everyone is out there, living their best life, while I sit on the sidelines.

I know I ought to focus on the silver linings: I have a job at the café, even if it does pay a third of what I used to make at the restaurant, and I’m lucky that Jacob is letting me live rent-free in his spare bedroom. But none of it is what I imagined when I moved to New York with the dream of working my way up to executive pastry chef at a place like Xavier’s, opening my own bakery, and catering buzzy events like this one. Nothing about my current life is going to prove to my parents they were wrong when they said I was wasting my time on culinary school and should go to college like my brother.

As I sink deeper into my pot de crème of self-pity, a red-wigged clown pops out from behind the elephant’s trunk and cocks his head at me. It’s irrational, I know, but my heart whirs like electric beaters set to high speed, and my breath grows shallow. The clown tiptoes closer in his gigantic red shoes and I jump to my feet and slowly back away. He gives me an exaggerated frown, and then raises his gloved hands to his mouth, miming the motion of pulling his lips into a smile. And then, oh God, he reaches for my mouth as if he’s going to do the same to me.

I’ll smile at you over my dead body.

I lurch backward, ready to bolt, but my shoulder blades hit the hard surface of the elephant’s rump, and there’s nowhere to run. The clown creeps toward me, slowly wiggling his fingers at my face. I look around wildly for help, but I’m alone in a dark corner with this bozo and suddenly it seems possible that my dead body could actually factor into this story.

My thoughts ricochet around in my head. If I scream, will anyone hear me? If I fight back will he overpower me? I am frozen, pinned against an elephant’s ass. Is this how it ends?

At that moment, a couple comes strolling around the elephant’s trunk, the taller man’s arm around the shorter man’s shoulder. I open my mouth to cry for help, but it comes out choked, and the sound is quickly swallowed up by the thumping bass of the dance music. I reach out an arm, almost in slow motion, to flag the couple down. They’re my only hope. But oblivious to my plight, they only have eyes for each other, and they keep walking. No, I’d yell, if only I could form the words. As they pass by me and the clown, I see my chance slipping away.

And then a miracle happens. The shorter man, clearly tipsy, stumbles, and when he takes a step forward to catch himself, he trips over the clown’s colossal shoe. His shoulder hits the clown squarely in the chest, and both the man and clown go flying sideways and sprawl on the floor in a heap.

I take off running, weaving in and out of the dancers until I’ve made it to the far end of the warehouse. Only then do I glance over my shoulder for signs of curly plastic hair or a bright red clown nose, but the pulsing strobe lights and bodies moving on the dance floor leave me disoriented. Swinging back around, I scan for an exit, and in front of me looms a purple-and-gold velvet tent. I duck inside and lean against a tent pole to catch my breath.

“Well, hello there,” a deep voice intones.

“Oh my God.” I jump about a thousand feet into the air and spin around.

In the far corner of the tent is a tiny old woman in a scarlet-and-gold peasant dress with a matching scarf tied over her long graying hair. She sits behind a table covered in a gold cloth with a crystal ball resting in the center.

“And who are you?” the woman asks in a husky two-pack-a-day voice.

I open my mouth to spill the story of my Great Clown Getaway when a thought stops me in my tracks. “Wait. Aren’t you a fortune teller?”

She nods in acknowledgment.

I prop my fists on my hips. “Then shouldn’t you already know who I am?”

The woman folds her hands on the table. “I’m a fortune teller. Not a psychic. I need to consult the crystal ball.”

At that moment, the lustrous orb in front of her seems to glow brighter, and I blink, wondering if maybe someone slipped something into my carnival cosmo when I wasn’t looking.

“Would you like me to tell your fortune?” the woman asks.

Part of me knows this is completely bogus, but for a moment, I consider the offer anyway. What if someone had looked into a crystal ball last December and warned me about the terrible year I was about to have? Would I have done something differently?

I know I’m outspoken and quick to react if someone offends me. What if I’d reined it in? On those nights out with Alex, when his coworker was being a jerk, maybe I could have taken a deep breath and spoken calmly instead of telling him off in front of the whole bar. If I had, would Alex and I still be together? What if, instead of yelling at my boss when he was being a bully, I’d tried having a reasonable conversation with him? Would I still have my job at Xavier’s and my cute studio apartment with the walk-in closet?

And would I still be on track to making my dreams a reality?

I sigh. None of this really matters. I don’t need to see the future; I need to change the past. And that’s not on the table…

Is it?

I eye the old woman’s crystal ball. “Does that thing do any other tricks?”

Her eyes drift from the crystal ball to my face. “It’s not an iPhone. You can’t use it to watch TikTok videos.”

“I know…” I sink down onto a tufted-velvet stool. “Look, the last year of my life sucked like a straw in a milkshake. I can’t help thinking if I’d known what was coming, I would have made different choices. So, while knowing my fortune is fine and all… what I really need is a do-over of the last year.”

“Ah, yes. I see.” She nods sagely. “You’re one of those.”

“One of those… what?”

“One of those people who want to go back and meddle with the past. It’s not a good idea. I’m telling you”—she waves a crooked finger at me—“it never ends well.”

A shiver runs up my spine, but I shake it off, keeping my eyes on the prize. “So, you’re saying you can help me?”

The woman looks me up and down. Finally, she throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. I can grant you one wish. But before I do, you must be sure you want to go through with this. It may not turn out the way you think it will.”

Goose bumps pop up on my skin, which is ridiculous because this whole thing is a total sham, and if I weren’t slightly tipsy and there wasn’t a clown stalking me, I’d be out of here. But for some reason, I find myself nodding anyway. “Yes. I want this.”

The old woman sighs deeply. Then she slowly pulls a wooden box out from under the table and opens it. I sit up on my stool, trying to peer over the top. “Is that where the magic happens—?”

She holds up a hand, and I stop talking. Reaching into the box, the woman pulls out a ceramic bowl and several small glass jars full of what look like dried herbs in an array of colors. She tosses a handful of red herbs into the bowl, followed by green, then a pinch of blue and a dash of orange. Smashing it all together with a pestle, she grinds the colors into a maroon-colored powder that she pours into a small cloth bag.

“Now. Go to the bar and order a shot of vodka,” she instructs me.

I wrinkle my nose. Vodka tastes like lighter fluid. “I’m really more of a tequila kind of girl. Do you think I could—”

The woman cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Silence!”

I press my lips together, examining the bag full of powder. It occurs to me that the fortune teller might want me to pour that stuff in a shot of vodka and drink it. That’s going to have to be a hard no, and not just because I don’t like the taste of vodka. If I was worried about someone slipping something into my drink before… well. This is not a good idea. But I’ve come this far and I can’t quite make myself get up and leave.

“Order a shot of vodka,” she repeats. “Drink it. Then close your eyes, spin around three times, make your wish, and toss this powder in the air.”

Even though the rational part of my brain is rolling around on the floor laughing at these instructions, I nod along, going over the steps in my head to make sure I have them straight. Vodka, spin, wish, powder… vodka, spin, wish, powder… Got it. “And then what happens next?”

“What do you think happens next?” She closes her eyes and shakes her head like I’m the dumbest person on the planet. “And then your wish comes true.”

I feel like that answer only raises more questions, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate to point it out when she’s gone to all this trouble . . .