Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Fair enough.” Daphne smiles. “How’s the settling-in process going?”
“Bumpy,” I admit. “I slammed my finger in the car door so hard I nearly broke it and am now wearing a splint.” I hold up the hand to show her. “And then I got that cold going around. And then Lillian’s hot water heater broke, and the guy who came to replace it got violently sick in the bathroom. That’s all I want to say about that—why are you smiling at my pain?”
“I’m not,” she says with a laugh. “It’s just… this is all so Mercury-retrograde stuff.”
I almost open my mouth to remind her that planets can’t actually move backward, and that it’s merely an optical illusion caused by the planets moving at different speeds from each other, but that’s scientist Miranda talking.
Astrologist Miranda is supposed to believe that Mercury rules all types of communication, and when it’s in retrograde, there is all sorts of turbulence and disruption down here on Earth. Wires getting crossed, a general sense of indecision and mayhem, blah-blah-blah.
I take my empty bowl to the sink, and then let out a frustrated growl when I glance out the window.
“I’ve gotta run,” I tell Daphne. “A chubby bunny is munching contentedly on one of Lillian’s plants again.”
“Oh, cute! Bunnies are my spirit animal! He must know you’re talking to me.”
I end the call before she can see my eye roll.
I hurry to the front door, intentionally making all sorts of noise to scare the little bringer of destruction away. The bunny is cute, I’ll give him that, but he’s wreaking havoc on Lillian’s “babies,” and I haven’t had the heart to tell my aunt that there’s no good place on the patio for her babies to get the right amount of sun and be out of reach of critters.
I’m no botanist, but I’ve been musing all week over a way to regulate the temperature out here and provide some sort of shelter…
“Oh. Okay,” I murmur aloud as inspiration strikes. I need a greenhouse.
I could build a greenhouse. That could be my home project.
I dash back into the house and begin researching.
Several hours later, I’m surprised to find that I’m the most excited and motivated I’ve been in days.
Just like my horoscope said I would be.
VIRGO SEASON
Apparently, even task-oriented Virgos can’t build a greenhouse in a single day. I couldn’t even plan one in a day, though I made a valiant effort. If I’m being really honest with myself, it chafed my ego a bit that the undertaking hadn’t been as effortless as I expected.
The thing is… I’m kind of, sort of technically a genius, says the IQ test my parents put us kids through the same way other parents sign their children up for soccer camp. It’s not something I talk about a lot, or even think about often, but the reality is that most things come fairly easy to me.
Apparently household projects are out of my wheelhouse, because even though I spent the whole day online researching how to go build a greenhouse, I don’t feel like I made much progress.
It’s not until I’m getting ready for bed that evening that I realize I spent so much time focusing on the downstairs plants that I forgot about Lillian’s precious rooftop flowers.
Setting my Waterpik aside, I stick my feet into fuzzy slippers and pull on a sweater that’s so cozy and oversized it hangs below the hem of my pajama shorts. Then, after I fill the watering can, I make my way up the skinny, winding staircase to the roof.
While I’m still a little puzzled by my aunt’s insistence on this rooftop chore, I don’t actually mind it. In fact, it’s quickly become my favorite part of my routine. Not so much for the mundane plant-watering task itself, which takes just a few moments. It’s more that the task takes me to the roof, which takes me to the stars.
Even more painful to admit than the fact that I can’t build a greenhouse is the realization that despite having built an entire career around studying the cosmos, I can’t remember the last time I actually looked up. Or when I last appreciated the night sky for its beauty, and not its educational value.
It’s during these quiet late-night moments up on Lillian’s roof—even more so than when reading my horoscope every morning—that I sense another Miranda. A Miranda who allows herself to see stars as twinkling little diamonds meant for making wishes, and not the giant spheres of plasma that Dr. Miranda Reed knows them to be.
Technically speaking, it’s mediocre stargazing. Lillian’s house is too close to the light pollution from Manhattan to see things properly.
But the time feels sacred and special all the same.
I realize halfway up the stairs that I won’t be doing even mediocre stargazing tonight. I’ve already taken out my contacts and neglected to grab the glasses I wear in the evening and early morning.