Page 16 of The Lovers
A memory flashes in my mind, lightning fast. Three cards laid out on a black lace tablecloth. Our hands clutched, her breath in my ear,are you scared?I was, more than ever before, and that rush never left me when I was beside her.
Now, Kit shuffles the cards deftly with both hands. Her fingers curling over the edges, sliding them into each other, sliding them out and back in.
“Our intention here is to bring Millie and Sean together.” Kit says, her voice mellow. Zoe edges closer, transfixed, just like everyone else at Homebase.
Just like me.
I blink, cross my arms, glare at my watch, but my eyes unwillingly travel back to Kit’s hands. The shuffle. The surety of her movements. The way she does it all without ever pulling her focus from her subject.
“Tourmalines breaking, that’s not the vibe we want, so we just need a nudge from Spirit to uncover where we’ve gotten off track so we can get back on.” She makes it sound so obvious, simple even, and Healer Arynne and Zoe both nod, taken in, mouths parted. It’s only then that I realize my mouth hangs open, too, the inside dried out. I clamp my teeth closed, wishing for water to quench the desert on my tongue.
“Now,” Kit says. The sound of the shuffle ends, and I shift my eyes back up. Hers drift to mine; her brow hooks up. “Cut the deck once.” She lifts the cards toward Healer Arynne.
We all watch as she curls her hands around the cards, breathing out before breaking them into two uneven stacks. Kit raises her left hand over the two, hovering, before nodding.
“This is the one,” she says, tapping the top card on the section of cards in Healer Arynne’s hands. She nods for her to turn it over.
From this angle it’s hard to see at first, but the noise of relief and understanding that bursts from Healer Arynne’s lips immediately lets me know she’s appeased.
“Temperance,” Kit says, taking the card between two of her fingers and lifting it toward her face to examine it. “The card depicts an angel whose gender is not immediately obvious, expressing a balance between the masculine and feminine energies. She is firmly footed between the spiritual world and the material.” Kit takes the rest of her deck back from Healer Arynne, leaving the Temperance card face up on top. “You are someone who has mastered the art of not letting little things get to you.”
I have to stifle a snort. Zoe and Kit both glare at me in warning. This fire is so close to being stamped out; I do not need to be the reason it reignites. Especially since the reason it’s dying down is thanks to Kit Larson.
“With balance and flow you can find a compromise to this stumbling block with the florist,” Kit goes on, her voice easy, almost hypnotic. “Let go of control, accommodate all perspectives for the best possible solution.”
“I know you’re right, you’re right,” Healer Arynne says, sounding resigned. She raises both hands to Kit’s shoulders, squeezing them tight. “An angel.”
I can’t tell if she means the reader or the card. Kit blushes, clearly certain it’s the former.
Healer Arynne snaps her fingers. “Come along, we have some balancing to do.”
Attention, march!And with that she and her band of merry shirtless men leave, taking the scent of sweet smoke and sharp earth with them.
“Follow them,” I say to Zoe. She’s staring at Kit, awestruck.
“Wow,” Zoe says. She’s a cartoon character with stars in her eyes, my God.
I clap. “Zoe.” She jolts, her eyes flick to me, and she nods, but then looks once more back to Kit.
“Just. Wow.” She offers applause and Kit curtsies.
And then, just like that, we’re alone at Homebase. Just the two of us. Just the girl who broke my heart and grew up to be a goddamn masterminding magical goddess.
“A professional,” I say, my voice raw.
“It’s a calling.” She shrugs. “It pays the bills and I love it for that.”
Our eyes connect; years stretch out between us, mysterious and magnetic. I have to be the one to pull away first, to look down at the table where all the staff hotel keys are laid out, room assignment information printed. I scan the stack, and sure enough, there’s her card.
“Mystic Maven,” I read aloud.
“That’s me,” she replies.
My fingers brush the soft pads of her palm as I lay the key in her hand. She closes her fingers over it, the very tips grazing my skin. It’s a real metal key with a quaint piece of plantable paper dangling from a string, containing instructions to her accommodations.
“It’s an Airstream trailer,” I say, glancing down at my dossier notes. “Millie wants it to be Instagrammable.” I cringe.
“Wow, good job not puking.”
