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)
He makes a grunting noise that might be a thank-you.
“Do you prefer it?” I ask, shifting my weight to the side of my hip so I can study him. “The drawings up here, versus the painted pieces you sell?”
He sips his drink, seeming to let the whiskey roll over his tongue before he swallows. “Maybe. But nobody wants to buy charcoal drawings done in the moonlight.”
“But the other painted stuff. That sells well?”
“Acrylics,” he says. “I paint mainly with acrylics, and… yeah. I do okay.”
“Your pieces are very beautiful,” I say. “Even seeing them online rather than the real thing, they’re quite… vivid.”
He lifts a shoulder and I shift my weight again to look upward, since I sense Archer’s nearing the end of his sharing, if I can even call it that. It still feels like progress, though to what, I have no idea.
After a while, I start to feel sleepy and contented, though the hard chair puts a serious damper on the latter, until finally I stand, ready to retire for the night.
“Thanks for this,” I say, lifting my empty glass.
He nods.
I pick up the watering can and hold it to my chest. And then because the whiskey has loosened my mind and my tongue just a bit, I look down at Archer.
“My horoscope predicted this, you know.”
“Rye whiskey in a mason jar?”
I laugh a little. “No. An unexpected connection. I must say, I didn’t anticipate it would be with you.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “Wishing it were with the kid’s dad?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “Though this wasn’t half bad. Why, were you wishing I was… what’s the publicist’s name?”
“Agent. She’s an agent.”
“Aha! So there is someone.”
He sighs. “There’s a woman with whom I’ve had an understanding.”
I stare at him. “Could you please be more vague?”
Unsurprisingly, he remains stubbornly silent.
“Okay, well.” I give his shoulder a friendly pat as I pass. “I guess we’ll count that as conversational progress.”
“No,” he says a little tersely, just as I’m about to open the door to go back inside.
“No, what?” I ask.
“No. I wasn’t wishing you were her.”
I smile as I head down the stairs. As far as Simon Archer goes, that was rather high praise.
LIBRA SEASON
Mercury is in Libra today, and as it’s your ruling planet, you’ll feel the effect. Be prepared for a happy accident, a mistake that will initially feel uncomfortable, but is necessary for growth and moving forward. Resist the urge to take the easy way out, dear Gemini. A bit of risk and exploration will do you good.
Here we are,” I say, carefully carrying two mugs back to my kitchen table, where my pupil awaits. “Two hot cocoas, extra marshmallows, and my special ingredient: just the tiniest sprinkle of cinnamon.”
Kylee immediately fishes out a marshmallow, pops it into her mouth, and then extends a piece of paper my way as I take my usual chair across from hers. “What’s this?”
“Let’s see,” I say, accepting the paper. I barely withhold the cringe when I see what she’s been studying.
“That would be a natal chart.” I try to say it matter-of-factly, and also a bit dismissively. As though it’s not worth discussing. As though I’m not kicking myself for somehow leaving it out instead of putting it where it belongs: with the astrology stuff I hide for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday while Kylee’s at my place.
“What’s a natal chart?” she asks, not buying my dismissal. She snatches it back before I can discard it, peering at it in a way that makes my heart sink. Her expression is the same one I see when one of my students—well, former students—latches on to a particularly cool concept like quantum entanglement.
Only this isn’t advanced science that Kylee’s latched on to. It’s an ancient belief that’s been proven wrong by science time and again. My first instinct is to put on my firmest teacher voice, take the chart away, and refocus her attention.
But then a memory bubbles up of when I was about Kylee’s age and at the science summer camp my parents had sent me to instead of Aunt Lillian’s. During one of the stargazing sessions, I’d wished on a star, just as Lillian had taught me.
But I’d made the mistake of saying as much aloud.
A counselor had overheard and been swift to tell me that shooting stars were merely a small piece of rock or dust hitting Earth’s atmosphere—and that, by the way, wishes weren’t real.
The most acute emotion in that moment had been the embarrassment at being called out. With cheeks hot with humiliation, I distinctly remember resolving that from then on, I would make sure to learn the facts of something before speaking on it.
I haven’t wished on a star, a penny in a well, or a birthday candle since.
And I wonder if that hadn’t been the real wound caused then. Not the sting of embarrassment that faded in a day or two, but the loss of a sense of wonder, the squashing of the possibility of anything magic.