Page 13 of The Lovers
But I was mesmerized. By the cardsandthe woman who didn’t fit in any sort of box. Unmarried, unconventional, and absolutely un-fuck-with-able. She had both of us cut the deck with our left hands, which surprised me since the reading was supposed to be for Julia alone. Julia had been dared; she was the one who paid.
The cards drifted out of the deck, balanced perfectly in Madame Moira’s long, trim fingers.
First, the Fool.The spark of a new beginning.She looked back and forth between us.
You two, each, both. This.She motioned at our hands, still clasped, dangling unseen at our sides.
Then, the Two of Cups. The art in her deck featured two girlsholding their cups up toward each other, smiling, laughing. Full of love. I knew, even without Madame Moira saying it. I knew they were Julia and me.
This bond is special. Unique.The flame of her candle flickered and her eyes sparked with interest. She flipped over the last card.
The Wheel of Fortune.
Twin Flames, two halves of the same soul.Her candle flame sparked and expanded. She smiled, then frowned.No matter what you do, you will break apart one day. Lose each other, believe it’s forever, brokenhearted. But Twin Flames are rare and they can’t be extinguished.
They always find their way back to each other.
I flip the Wheel of Fortune card over now, blinking away the memory.
How long has it been since I thought about that night? Easily, the day comes back to me. I was eighteen. August heat enveloped me as I packed up the back of my car—a Bronco my dad had gotten cheap for me when I got my license. I was leaving for Berkeley, putting space between myself and everything that had happened between Julia and me that summer. I had kissed my parents goodbye, gotten the directions ready to go; the only lingering, unfinished thing was her.
Julia.
She had texted me and called a couple times since that fateful night together. I had avoided her in person, kept the conversation light, noncommittal. She got the drift, and she was angry.Seething.That much I knew. Her anger was easier for me to deal with than telling her I wasn’t ready would have been. That I couldn’t do it. That I had never felt more lost or confused in my life, that I didn’t feel like myself anymore and couldn’t start college like that.
I just had to put it aside. Push it down.
I had plans; so did she. She’d forget about me eventually.
Twin Flames always find their way back to each other.I heard Madame Moira’s words in my head and I ignored them.
What did she know about us?
I reshuffle the cards, my heart doing a dance in my chest. My breathing uncomfortable, unsteady.
Fuck off, I think, directed at the Universe herself.
And I yank my car into gear.
?I walk inside the Celestial Sands lobby sweaty, my jean shorts riding up my crotch, my silk camisole drenched at my cleavage.
“Hi there,” the manager, a sexy Black man with an Afro and a winning smile says as I approach.
“Hey,” I say, and I sound grouchy even if I don’t mean to. His bright grin falters. I try again. “This place is gorgeous.” I adjust. No need to be a bitch to him; he didn’t give me that horribly nostalgic reading. That was all me, myself, and I. “Kit Larson, checking in for the Morgan-Hayden wedding.”
His smile is back. “Wedding party or Love, Always staff?”
“Neither. I’m the tarot reader.”
“Ah! Then you’re staff. Report to Bungalow Ten. It’s theHomebase”—he places air quotes around the word—“of the operation. They have your room assignment.”
He directs me on how to get there by exiting the main house and taking the path toward the bungalows. I snap some shots of the interiors to post in my stories when I leave the hotel next week. As a rule, I never share my location until after I’m well on my way home. One stalker at the Mercer in Soho was enough to teach me that lesson.
I push through the back doors into the breezy garden space, following the winding path toward the bungalow. November in Joshua Tree is my idea of the perfect weather. Warm during the day, chilly at night. You can still sunbathe, and then don a sweater and sit by the fire roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories, blanketed by starlight.
Bungalow Ten is a small cube with a hammock slung right outside. The door is open, and out of it comes a twentysomething woman with gorgeous black hair and a harried expression on her face.
She nearly bowls me over, barely sideswiping me before stopping short.
