Page 15 of The Lovers
My eyes shoot open. “Of course you are.”
“You were hoping I’d run.” She cocks her hip out in a challenge. The motion ruffles her camisole so that it reveals a sliver of golden-kissed skin above her waistband. I ignore the magnetic tug to look closer.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
She grits her teeth, probably to hold in her own venomous response.
“Why are you here, Katherine?” Her face twitches at the name, and that gloriously curved hip uncocks in retreat. The sliver of skin mercifully vanishes.
Katherine is an old queen name, I can still hear her say, nose scrunched like an accordion, while we ate gelato outside the library that late-summer day before we turned fourteen.If I were a queen, I’d only ever want to be a young one.
“There’s a wedding,” Kit replies.
“I’m the wedding planner.” There is no way she’s a guest—none of the general attendees are arriving until Sunday. She can’t be a bridesmaid, because I have dossiers on all of them, including headshots and social media profiles. She’s not family. She’s not Love, Always staff. That leaves only one thing.
“You’ve got to be kidding—”
The rest of my exasperated guess is cut off by Zoe entering in a whirlwind of long, lean limbs, smelling faintly of patchouli and panic. She abruptly manifests a deer-in-the-headlights freeze before widening her massive brown doe eyes in SOS alarm.
“Geometric altar crisis averted, but Healer Arynne would like a word.”
A curl of smoke wafts through the open door to collect around Kit like a fog machine at a rave. She lifts her fingers to her nose to delicately block out the scent.
“This energy will not land on me,” comes a syrupy voice.
Zoe nudges Kit heroically out of the way, just as Healer Arynne and her entourage of burly, barely clothed men enter Homebase. They aren’t carrying her on a pillow, waving fronds and feeding her grapes, but that’s the aesthetic they bring. Shirtless, pecs oiled, booty shorts leaving nothing to the imagination, they flank her.
She’s shaped like a ripe plum, with a fuzzy spray of multicolored, predominately silver-streaked hair, and a plethora of crystal-covered jewelry. She turns heavily lined, hooded, huge eyes on me.
“The entire vibe is off out there and I’m told you’re responsible for fixing it,” she says, waving her smudge stick at me like it’s a dagger. She begins to circle, plucking invisible grime from my aura as she talks. “The crystals in the centerpiece arrangements are a complete disaster, your florist is a sadistic monster—three tourmalines broken, do you even comprehend how apocalyptic of an omen that is?”
I twist away, trying to get clear of her plucking, desperate to bat her hands back but conscious of my responsibility to remain professional, to defuse.
Healer Arynne is both the provider of the crystals for the ceremony—which are featured everywhere from around the altar to the head table for both rehearsal dinner and wedding reception—and the officiant of the ceremony. She’s TikTok famous for her interfaith marriage ceremonies and crystal healing rituals, all of which can be purchased for a hefty price on her website.
When I don’t reply right away, she snaps, “I can’t possibly allow this ceremony to go on,” head shaking in angst, seconds from dropping to the ground in a heap.
This can’t be happening.
The bride hasn’t even arrived yet and the officiant is already objecting to the nuptials.
It is too goddamn early for this huge of a red flag to be flying high.
“Healer Arynne?” Kit’s voice is wispy. Nothing like the tone she was using with me before chaos arrived at my doorstep. She takes a graceful step forward, stretching out her hand toward Healer Arynne. A stack of delicate bracelets made of gold and natural stones circles her wrist. She tosses her hair over her shoulder just as her hand comes to rest lightly on the older woman’s forearm, stilling her. “Millie hired me to read tarot for the weekend’s events.” Her smile is coy, accented with a scrunch of her perfect turned-up nose. “Maybe the cards can show us the way forward. What do you think?”
Healer Arynne’s shoulders immediately drop out of high alert stance.
“I don’t know why, but Iinstantlytrust you,” she breathes, the anguish leaking out of her voice. Her hand falls to rest over Kit’s. Her eyes flash and she squeezes. “Why, yes, of course, we were canaries together in a past life.” She releases what can only be described as a chirp.
Kit’s smile broadens. “Naturally.” She gives a teeny shoulder shrug and releases her own cheerful chirping reply. Healer Arynne lets her smudge stick drop to her side.
“Thank Spirit you’re here.” The sigh of relief issizable.
“Just in time,” Kit replies.
She can’t be serious. Her eyes flick to mine. A momentaryconnection or an invitation to play along, I’m not sure, and I’m not engaging. She’s not luring me in—that is not how this is going to play out.
Kit reaches into the pink monochromatic Louis Vuitton satchel slung over her shoulder, tugging out a rectangle of hunter green velvet. She quickly unfolds it to reveal a set of tarot cards, the iridescent pastel of their design catching the light, making the tops of the cards practically glow.
