Page 12 of The Lovers
Unfortunately, my verified status doesn’t protect me fromMom seeing my post, immediately liking it, and sending me a DM to ask why I’m heading into the desert.
Are you trying to get away from me, Kitten? Is this because I’m bisexual?
Yeah, she spells out the whole word.Bisexual.And then she sends three hearts, the colors of the bi flag, and I wish I could bury my phone in the sand right beneath the giant pink brontosaurus on the other side of my white Jeep Wrangler.
My phone then starts buzzing with an incoming call. Dad. A FaceTime.
I message him that I’m driving and I’ll text him later.
He hates texting because he’s a stickler for grammar and punctuation, can’t get past it to send a quick message.
We still haven’t talked about brunch. I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be. This is not ideal, is it, cupcake?
I yank my car door open and throw my phone in the passenger seat.
Ideal.
If I had a nickel for every time my dad has used that word to describe me, Mom, our roles in the rom-com movie of the life he’s writing, I’d have a vacation home to escape to and wouldn’t have to work this wedding. The word burrowed beneath my skin and tattooed itself on my bones, fusing with my own identity. Dad’s definition of the ideal rom-com ingenue is more Meg or Drew than Sandra or Kate. She’s dreamy, funny, quirky, cute; she has acreative job and carefree attitude, and girls and guys both adore her.
I snort at the last one.
Closer to home than he thought.
I release a deep breath and wring out the tightness in my upper body, twisting around to the backseat to grab my tarot deck from the inside of my purse. I hold the cards in my hand, closing my eyes and inhaling a few quick breaths. My eyes open and land on the top of the cards. This deck is personal, not one I use with clients or in my “Choose Your Own Tarot Adventure” readings. It was the first deck I ever got, a birthday gift to myself when I was nineteen. Some people believe you should be gifted your first deck, but when tarot came into my life, I needed help understanding my emotional world more than I needed to listen to superstition.
I chose this deck because of its botanical design. A Cali girl through and through, I’m aesthetically inspired by nature in all her wild forms. Even in LA we love a run through a canyon, or a mountainscape at sunset.
The back of the cards is black matte with a winding white vine running over it.
Each card is uniquely designed, though it follows the Rider–Waite structure of traditional decks. I shuffle,swish swish swish, and place the deck on my bare thighs. The cards feel warm and heavy, alive with energy. I cut the deck with my left hand and hold my palm over the two top cards. The one that radiates extra warmth is it, always, even when my soul doesn’t understand why. I reincorporate the deck with that one on top. Breathe. Turn it over.
The Two of Cups, upright.
A beautiful card featuring two serpents entwining their tails. In the center is an orange poppy. This card doesn’t have to mean romance, but it almost always comes to you when there is or will be attraction, partnership, unity.
Romance vibes are so not what I’m sending out, Universe. Please take my hint and act accordingly.
I shake myself out one more time, listening to the chimes of my bracelets rattling together over my wrists, and shuffle the deck again. A single card sticks out askew from the others. I flip it out, turning it over in my right hand.
The Wheel of Fortune, upright.
My heart does a nosedive into my stomach. Spikes of heat shoot over my chest, down the length of my arms, to my fingertips.
I’ve seen this card combination one other time in my life.
Just one time.
The Haunt O’ Ween festival in Old Pasadena is a suburban kid’s playground in the week leading up to Halloween. My friends and I had been attending it since we were tiny tots, and the year I pulled those cards, my new, cool best friend had joined us. Julia Kelley had transferred into Forrest Chapel Private Academy the fall of seventh grade. A scholarship kid, a wild card even if she was mostly just sarcastic. Everyone had immediately been fascinated by her.
Fresh meat in middle school always draws a crowd. But while the other girls had mostly lost interest after Julia refused to play any of their mind games, I’d gotten attached.
She was more than fresh. All her dark, sharp edges made my bright, pretty curves feel safe. So when Karen MacMillan, theresident queen bee, dared Julia to visit Madame Moira—psychic reader and neighborhood legend—I couldn’t let Julia go it alone.
Madame Moira’s tent was set up beside the South Pasadena Historical Museum, a wood-frame building that looked like it was dragged from a ghost town out West. Purple velvet curtains draped over the entrance to her den. Julia and I clutched hands, whispering promises not to abandon each other no matter what Madame Moira’s reading revealed.
Madame Moira was not a crone, not even close. She was a pretty woman with raven-black hair, long fingers, nails painted midnight black, and a face that appeared ageless. And not LA ageless. Legituntouched by the hands of timeageless. Julia handed over her five dollars, which got her a three-card spread, and Madame Moira got started without much preamble.
Her shuffle was fast. The cards almost looked like they were flying; Julia noted that they seemed to float in the air for a second, and it totally spooked her out.
