Page 33 of The Fate Factor

“She lives with me, actually. In my spare room. Well, currently she lives with her boyfriend in a van.”

“Avan?”

“It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

I snort. “That’s wild.”

“Very. Anyway, Nana needed a lot of care management, and she took care of me for so long.”

“That’s young to take that on. When I was that age, I was living with three other guys in a shitty three-unit on the outskirts of the city, brewing beer in the garage, and spending Thursday through Sunday at the bars.”

I’m what my stepdad used to call a late bloomer when it came to getting my shit together. I’ve been playing catch up ever since, no matter how successful the brewery has become. Sometimes this whole grown up job thing still feels like a disguise or a costume I’m trying on.

Noel raises her cup. “Sounds like career training to me.”

“Maybe I was smarter than I thought.” I huff a laugh. “So, your parents didn’t mind you being gone for months at a time?”

“It was just me and my mom then too, and it was either that or spend the summer in a different camp each week, which she couldnotafford. She relished her own time, anyway.”

There’s more to that story. I consider asking her about it, but my own childhood was messy enough that I know not to treat other people’s dirt like it’s my business.

“It was just me and my mom when I was a kid too,” I tell her. “Well, us and whatever guy she was married to at the time. Actually, it was mostly just me.”

Fran comes back, dropping our food. She shoots me another less-than-fond look, and this time Noel notices. “Not your biggest fan?”

“Fran? She’s coming around, I think. Another ten years or so and we’ll be vacationing together.”

“What did you do to piss her off?”

I squeeze ketchup onto my plate, flashing her a grin. “Let’s just say, I’ve had to grow into this charming personality.”

This earns me a laugh, a giggle actually, with her cheeks full of pancake and a dot of whipped cream on her upper lip. I stare at it until she licks it away. Until I can almost taste the sugar on my own tongue.

Friends. You’re a goddamn idiot, Bishop.

eleven

Noel

Ifeellikeatopthat’s been given a good spin by the time Jamie collects his car and is pulling out of my driveway. After breakfast, we took the long way back to my car, walking Commercial Street where the fancy restaurants and the hustle of the working waterfront all mix together in a uniquely New England cocktail.

Colin said science and magic used to be one in the same, and I found myself studying Jamie like a specimen, comparing his dimples and lazy grin to my own sweaty palms and general awkwardness. The way he seemed completely at ease with this supernatural chess game while I had to stop my brain fromspinning out on multiple occasions. A mismatch if I’ve ever seen one.

But as I kick off my shoes and wade back into the silence of Nana’s cottage, I have to admit that in between the studying and the spinning, Ihadenjoyed myself. Just like he promised.I’m a good friend. You’ll see.

I’m not ready to claim friendship, definitely not more, but it would be a lie to say I didn’t like the new little bits of Jamie I spent the morning collecting, once I decided to stop being so afraid of him. Like the way he sometimes trails off mid-sentence, an ellipses hanging in the air while his brain catches some other drift. Or the extra pinch in his right eyelid that I’d noticed the night on the roof. I could see it again, now that the swelling around his eye has gone down, and I find it just as charming.

Rationally, though, I know it’s possible I’ve convinced myself that I’msupposedto like these things. Our magical history is like a weight added to Jamie’s already abundant charm. I’ve seen myself knowing Jamie intimately, likingsomethingabout him enough to wake up naked in his bed and make out with him on Nana’s porch. Not to mention Kate and Colin have filled my head with thoughts of soulmates and love stories. The jury has been unequivocally tampered with if not completely tainted.

To keep my head on, I’m sorting my current life into boxes, and for the rest of Saturday, I put Jamie in his, fit the lid on top, and shove it away for something more pressing and concrete—my future ability to pay my mortgage.

I unpack my laptop and settle in at the dining room table to work. This sabbatical was meant to help me convince Vi she should give me Ned’s job, but I’ve been here three days and this is the first time I’ve even checked my email. Before I left Connecticut, I delivered drafts on the two remaining designs that Vi gave me an advance on, and she sent them back with only minor edits. Of course, I’d immediately panicked that I wasalready in the middle of the interview, that the sparse feedback was a test to see if I’d find a way to evoke the emotion she wants without her having to hold my hand. Now, I find myself fretting over the smallest of decisions until I can’t seem to look at my screen without seeing my uncertain future in every blink of the cursor.

Usually when I feel like this, I’ll give myself a brain break. Light a candle, put in my earbuds, and set a timer. I sketch until it dings, and nearly always come out of it centered and inspired. But I’m not really into playing with candles right now, and my whole life feels like a big blank piece of paper, so it seems unlikely I’ll find the solution in another one.

Being blocked professionally is one thing—scary, stressful. Sure. But being unable to do the thing I love, to tap into what’s always made meme, is a lot harder to stomach, and I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’ll find if I swap my mouse for a pencil.

Maybe, I think, practicing that grace Kate told me to give myself,I just need the weekend to rest.

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