Page 36 of Que Será, Syrah

I frown. “Is that another movie quote?” I’m pretty sure it is. The words—and more importantly, her delivery of them—are tickling something in the back of my memory.

She favors me with a smile of approval, and a quick nod. “Yes, it is.”

“Gonna tell me which one?”

“Maybe. But only after you explain about your name. Don’t think you’re gonna get away with distracting me with movie conversations.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, even though, yeah, I was hoping. “So, my mom was big into Astrology. Maybe still is. I dunno. She named me Clay because I’m a Virgo.”

Allegra’s brow furrows. “But isn’t Virgo the virgin? What does Clay have to do with— Oh, wait. Is this a Biblical reference? That’s clever.”

“Huh?”

“Sure. Isn’t it? You know, ’cause Adam and Eve were the original virgins, and Adam was made from clay.”

“Oh. No, it’s nothing to do with that.” It occurs to me that Legs and my mom would probably get along great—which is basically equal parts heartwarming and ball-shrivelingly terrifying. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. I mean, of course I do; she’s Mom, you know? But she’s complicated and far from perfect, and the same goes for my relationship with her. It makes me wonder if that’s not part of why I feel so attracted to Allegra Martinelli.

Not in a weird way, and you can fuck right off if you think that’s what I’m saying. But because there’s something familiar about her particular brand of crazy, something comfortable and comforting.

In a very strange, and otherwise inexplicable way, I feel at home with her. It’s like she’s someone I can talk to. Someone who I know won’t judge me. Someone who sees me for who and what I am—except that she doesn’t. Does she?

She has no idea who I am. She doesn’t remember how we met. Which means the entire idea that we vibe with each other is a product of my own imagination.

“Virgo’s an earth sign,” I explain in an effort to get my mind of its weird tangent and our conversation onto safer ground. “It’s also what they call mutable. So, one of its characteristics, supposedly, is that it’s changeable, moldable?—”

“Oh, like clay!” she says, catching on. Then she pauses. Eyeing me critically she asks, “Is that accurate? I mean, do you think that describes you? Because that’s not the impression I get.”

I shrug. I’m not really sure how to answer that because, no, I never thought of myself that way, either. Although, on the other hand, I don’t like to think of myself as rigid or inflexible, either. “Who’s to say? Like you said, I was assigned that name at birth. So, it’s more of an interpretation of a concept than it is a character description.”

“I get that,” she says, nodding thoughtfully. “You know though, now that you’ve explained it, I think it’s really?—”

“I have siblings,” I say, intentionally cutting her off. I don’t want to know how she’d finish that particular sentence. I’ve heard most of the variations. My mother is either brilliant, a genius, laughable, dumb, or legit in need of a 5150—the common term for a California law that allows people, who appear mentally unhinged, to be detained for a psych eval.

“Oh?”

“Twins. They’re Pisces. She named them Rain and River.”

“I like it.” Legs grins at me. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any of those names.”

“It could be worse,” I tell her. “Mom always said she wished I’d been a Taurus—fixed earth—because then she could have named me Rocky, and we’d all have had the same initials.”

“Not a fan of the movies?”

“Not a fan of the alliteration,” I say with a grimace. “Rocky Romero? No. I don’t think so.”

She laughs then, a joyous, infectious sound that causes my heart to clench and leaves me feeling like the envious woman in the Harry Met Sally diner scene. I want what she’s having.

“Omigod,” she says, suddenly sober. “That’s why you overreacted to me calling you Romeo. I’d wondered.”

“I did not overreact,” I’m stung into responding. I mean, I did, of course. But that wasn’t why.

“Dude! You so did. You impounded my car!”

I shake my head. “I don’t make the rules. Napa County has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to?—”

“Yeah, yeah. So you said,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “I remember.”

Of course she does. Take that, Miles, I think to myself, feeling disappointed even though I knew she had to resent that, at least a little.

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