Page 1 of The Lovers
Chapter One
Kit
Shuffling the deck is more than a nervous habit. The weight of the cards in my hands, theswish swish swishas they slide into each other, rearranging themselves based on the rhythm in my soul; it stops the spiral I so easily trip right into. I trust them more than I trust myself, and maybe that’s part of my problem.
One flies out and turns over against the steering wheel.
Strength, a major arcana card, and not one I pull for myself often. It’s a card that’s all about flexibility, letting go of the status quo to transform again, truer and clearer than in the past. It’s about courage, passion arising to spontaneously flow, washing through all your dead or dying places.
Okay, Universe, no need to paint with such a heavy hand.
It’s only brunch.
Mom’s birthday brunch, to be precise.
A Larson family tradition five years running. Location: the Polo Lounge, a Hollywood icon. The idea: my father’s. Like he plucked it right out of one of his favorite movies and planted it inour life for cinematic flair—his favorite kind. He really loves a gesture—grand or mini, doesn’t matter.
If Tom Hanks would do it to the tune of Jimmy Durante, so would Dad.
The Polo Lounge is located inside the Beverly Hills Hotel, a stunning pink palace right off Sunset Boulevard that is impossible to visit without feeling like the main character in a golden age romantic comedy. Even if you’re wearing an off-the-rack dress du jour instead of couture and taking selfies alone instead of walking hand in hand with a hot, bronzed movie star to theflash flash flashof paparazzi light bulbs.
Last year I brought Gavin, the sculpted-from-marble veterinarian I was dating at the time. He was already on his way out of our relationship, but at least I had some arm candy for the photo op.
This year, I was supposed to bring my live-in boyfriend, David. The reservation is still set for four people, the split so fresh I hadn’t had time to change it. It’s going to get awkward when I have to sheepishly say “just three.” Mom and Dad will look at me with wide eyes and furrowed brows and ask if everything is okay, and I’ll have to tell them, “Yep, all is absolutely peachy. I’m just single and momentarily without a home again.”
For the second time this calendar year.
I snap the mirror on my car visor closed and smack my glossy lips together.
David Young was everything I thought I wanted.
On paper, anyway.
He was quick-witted, tall, dark, and handsome, with long, perfect fingers, and hair the color of ink. He was also gettingthat lookin his eye. The one men get right before they drop downon one knee with something sparkly. You’d think that a believer in rom-com-style happy endings would be gunning to put a ring on it, but the directive handed down from my screenwriter-in-progress father was not simply to “get married and settle down.”
It was to “find love, the kind that lasts forever,” just like Meg Ryan inFrench Kiss.
It was to “never settle for less than a guy who gives speeches,” like Hugh Grant at the end ofNotting Hill.
It was to “be the ingenue in your own life.”
I liked David. We had the kind of chemistry that makes sex good, kissing great, and conversation easy, but he could go days without texting and I’d almost forget I was dating him until he called,hey babe, and asked me out for sushi or to go to some new swanky club. Because David liked the aesthetic of a manic pixie dream blond on his arm, and I liked how easy it was to be that blond when I was with him.
He also had the hookup with a lot of celebs I was hoping to convert to clientele. Celebs and semi-celebs who can pay more so I can hopefully work smarter, not harder.
Dad, however,reallylikes David. A lot more than me. Dad likes that he’s a good dresser and is polite and smart, but he likes David’s industry connections even more. Dad is a perpetually sleep-deprived orthodontist by day, and a screenwriter on the brink of his next great script by night. David is a successful TV exec. They talk about the biz, and in Dad’s mind, that talking might one day lead to pitching, which could possibly lead to his big break.
On some level both Dad and me using David for his clout is what made me realize the relationship needed to end. Dad, however,wasn’t let in on that train of thought, so I need to make sure he is at least one pink sangria in before I break the news.
The valet attendant, Robbie—a slim, nervous-looking barely-adult with a bright shock of red hair he’s tried to tame with too much gel—passes in front of my car. Again. I told him I needed to use the Wi-Fi to finish my upload, so he let me idle in the drive.
But he’s getting antsy.
My computer chimes to alert me the upload is complete. I check all the details one final time before closing the laptop. It’s one of my “Choose Your Own Tarot Adventure” videos, which is just my way of doing a tarot card reading for the masses. It’s a signature video on my channel, and always gets me dozens of new inquiries for private readings.
My subscribers hold firm at one million, slowly growing now that the initial publicity from my Kardashians appearance has calmed down. Before, I was Mystic Maven Kit Larson, YouTube personality and high-end event entertainer; now, I’m that,plusthe woman who predicted Kim’s most recent dating scandal.
My bestie, Nina, coined the name Mystic Maven in college when I got into tarot as a way to help curb my growing battle with anxiety and panic attacks. It stuck like glue, and before I knew it, I was giving readings at sorority parties, before finals, any time anyone wanted to know if their crush liked them back.
