Page 205 of Falling Offsides

“I see… a house. White, sun-drenched, with a wild garden and room for too many shoes. I see laughter echoing off porch swings and muddy boots on polished floors. A yard big enough for children, and maybe second chances.”

Tears cloud my eyes.

How does she know all this?

How does she know about our house?

“Before that…” She squints, circling her hands over ours. “I see ivory and blue. A union on the water. A kiss as the tide rolls in. The sky will cry just a little. But only for joy… for fortune…”

“Mmm… it’s time.” The fortuneteller spreads the deck in a semi-circle in front of her and then tells us, “Pick one. Together.”

I look at Auguste and he looks at me and we do as she says without looking.

She turns the card face up to reveal a golden child riding a white horse across it. “The sun.”

“The sun?” Auguste asks, his fingers lacing with mine on the table.

“Yes, you’ll have warmth. Clarity. Love that glows long after the fireworks fade. But first, you must survive the coming and going of the tide. Let it crash. Let it pull.” She picks at the table cloth on either side of our wrists and out of nowhere, she plucks a gold thread. While tying it around our wrists she says, “Just don’t let go of each other.”

I forget how to breathe. The air in my lungs turns solid, and my heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Next to me, Auguste is so still I wonder if he's breathing. His hand around mine has gone tight, almost painful.

She reaches behind her, fingers pulling a small leather pouch from a nail on the wall. The movement is fluid, practiced. When she presses it between our joint palms, the leather is warm, like it's been sitting in sunlight instead of hanging in this dim room.

"This is an alm," she says. "Blessed in the name of Saint Valentine. For protection. For passion. For forever."

Not another word comes from her mouth as she sits back in her chair, head lowered, hands clasped in her lap. Exactly how we found her when we walked in here.

Neither Auguste or I speak as we leave. Not for a while.

The night air feels colder now, or maybe it's just the chill that's settled in my bones. I keep glancing down at the charm in my hand, the faint smell of lavender and salt clinging to it. It feels heavier than it should, like it contains something more substantial than herbs.

“That house she described…” I start.

“I know,” he says with nod.

“How…”

“I don’t know,” he says, pulling me to his side as we cross the road. “But I like it. Everything she said.”

“Me too.”

He keeps glancing at me, his fingers finding mine, twining and releasing, as if he can't bear to be disconnected from me for more than a few seconds.

We're halfway back to the apartment when the horns start.

A jazz band has spilled out onto the sidewalk, music pouring into the night. The trumpet player sways as he plays, eyes closed, lost in the melody. The saxophonist leans against a lamppost, his instrument gleaming gold in the streetlight.

Auguste stops. Turning to me with a tender smile, he offers me his hand.

I raise an eyebrow. "Here?"

"Practice with me, Princess."

"Here? On the street?"

"Right here. Right now."

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