Page 18 of The Lovers
I crouch, yanking the handle to reveal a bottle of rosé from a winery in Temecula, plus some simple snacks and bottles of water. I consider going straight for the wine—maybe it would help calm my nerves. I opt for water instead.
I drop to the couch, curling my legs underneath me.
Julia ishere. The reality crashes over me.
Our lips crushed together, our swimsuits there and then gone. Fumbled questions of consent, muffled giggles as we explored each other’s bodies.
It hits me in waves. The desire, the yearning, the prickle of fear mixed with that giddy, almost drunk, heady feeling of want.
I had never had sex with a girl, but I was pretty sure that our fingers counted asall the way. She seemed to think so, too, because later on—as we sat on the couch together watchingWhen Harry Met Sallyfor the thousandth time, her fingers tracing symbols over the skin on my thigh—she told me. I was her first, and she loved me.
I said it back—it didn’t even occur to me not to.
I remember watching the movie and thinking how silly it was that after they hooked up, Harry bolted. Ghosted on his soulmate—what a tool. And sure, he eventually gets her back, but what wouldhave happened if she had moved on? Why risk losing the love of your life, just because you’re scared?
My eyes prick with tears. “So silly.” I breathe in and out, fast, through my nose.
What a tool I was, too.
What I understand now—which was impossible to comprehend when I first saw those cards spread out on Madame Moira’s table—is that the reading she gave us told a very specific kind of love story. One that would start way too early, one that was reciprocated, one that may always be out of sync.
It’s why the Wheel of Fortune holds so much meaning.
And why, even though I have tried hard to forget her, Julia showing back up in my life smacks like a slap from destiny. Sharp and sure, with painful inevitability. Just like the turn of that goddamn wheel.
I huff and shake my body loose. I gotta get my head in the game and out of the past. She’s here, and so am I, but we’re both professionals. We can handle this. I won’t play the Universe’s little game, no matter how tempting it tries to make it.
I pull my phone out to FaceTime Nina. It rings a few times before connecting. I can tell immediately that Nina is working at one of her temporary gigs she takes in between acting jobs. She’s been a dog walker, a plant waterer, a brow specialist at a pop-up makeup kiosk in The Grove mall, and currently, a candle au pair at the Farmers Market for her friend Cara’s witchy brand.
“You’re working,” I say. “I can call you back.”
“There’s a lull,” she replies, flopping onto the stool behind her. The purple fabric of the tent mixed with the sunlight makes her glow aubergine. Her eyes travel to look past me in the camera.“You’ve arrived at…an Airstream trailer?” She both looks and sounds confused.
“Celestial Sands has a wide selection of lodging options outside the main facility,” I say, spinning the phone around to show her the digs. “I think they even have a dome.”
“Like for viewing stars and/or aliens?”
“Max Evans is not here, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” I snort. Nina and I discovered the original WB masterpieceRoswellat the last remaining DVD rental store in downtown Berkeley. We binged it the weekend after midterms sophomore year, solidifying it as one of our comfort shows for the rest of our college careers.
“You know good and well that there isn’t a single alien on that show I would kick outta my bed,” she says. The casual mention of Nina’s queerness sets my own secrecy in stark contrast. She’s been out since she was in high school, and I know it wasn’t always easy—especially when she was still living in North Carolina. A Black queer teen was scandalous to say the least. “Well, except for that teensy blond bitch who tried to split Liz and Max apart. You can’t separate soulmates.”
Soulmates.The word sends a shiver down my spine.
As far as fated love types go, Twin Flames and soulmates aren’t exactly the same thing. One is complicated in a way that feels combustible. The other is what they make movies and write sonnets about. It’s not a sure thing that Twin Flames ever get on the same page long enough for a Happily Ever After.
It’s not that I really believe in the concept, anyway. Just because a psychic used those words to describe the relationship between Julia and me doesn’t make it true. It also doesn’t make it romantic. There are plenty of Twin Flames—and even soulmates—who don’t fall in love romantically.
I take a swig of water and let out a groan.
“Whoa, that was guttural,” she says. “More mom shenanigans?”
“She’s not taking my unsubtle hints that I need space from her in particular, but no, that’s not what the exasperation is about.”
I should tell her about Julia. The whole story, even the parts I’m scared to look right at.
Oh, by the way, I’m into guys and girls, and a girl I once gave my heart and soul—and almost everything else to—is at this wedding looking like a snack.
Nina wouldn’t blink. No matter how surprising the information was, she’d roll with it, offer support, encourage, send thirst traps, whatever I needed to get used to the truth being out there.
