Chapter Eleven

Kit

I swear I can feel Piper's eyes boring into my head. She was standing right next to Julia, and that momentary rapport we shared seems to have put me on her radar. The last thing I need at this wedding where everyone is a social media darling is a pissed off bridesmaid making my job more complicated.

I have to keep my head in the game.

I decide to focus my attention on getting into the vibes. The domed ceiling of the yurt has wooden planks that extend out from the center, where a broad circle skylight reveals a snatch of the nightscape. On the wood floors are mismatched rugs of varying sizes and patterns, some with fringe, some without, some fluffy cream like an Abominable Snowman's hide, and others of the dark luxe faux fur variety. In the center of the room, on her own fluffy Abominable hide, stands the sound bath healer, surrounded by an array of frosty white bowls.

Suni is well-known on the wellness/spiritual entertainment circuit—I don't know if she knows Healer Arynne, but she does know me . We've been booked for a handful of events together, and I have always been impressed with the presence and composure she brings to her work. Her dark eyes catch mine as I make my way to a purple crocheted puff. I wink a hello and she returns the sentiment. She's Native American and Aztec, born in San Diego and now based out of Culver City.

It's a small community that I work in—it helps to know who the competition is so you can decide who will make the best ally. Suni and I often refer each other for gigs looking for a roster of spiritual entertainment.

I drop down to my cushion, just as another woman comes around with a bamboo tray holding small silver cups. She bends, offering me one.

"Cacao," she says. "For heart opening." I take it, gratefully, even if I'm not sure if I'm actually supposed to participate in the sound bath, since I'm here to work, not play.

"Cacao, Coco," Coco says from beside Millie, who cuts her a look laced with warning. "This is my first sound bath. I'm a little nervous."

"Oh, wow," Suni says, her voice a warm, low rasp, deep like a cavern hidden well within a mountain. "How many here are the same? First timers?"

Coco raises her hand unnecessarily, as does the fitness model—whose name I have learned is Maddie—and in a great non–plot twist, both Piper and Julia lift and then lower their arms at lightning speed from the opposite side of the room.

"I love virgins," Suni says, and the seductive tone sends a shiver up my spine.

Julia's eyes bulge out in surprise and I have to pinch off a snort.

Piper and Julia aren't sitting next to each other. Natalie took the plush velvet cushion in between, but Piper is edging her body language toward Julia with precision. She's positioned herself on a paisley patchwork pillow chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankle. Her shoulders angle in Julia's direction, not toward the center of the room, where Suni stands ready to start.

Julia literally looks anywhere else but at Piper.

Well, Piper or me . She's looking from Suni, to the contents of her silver cup, to Millie, and back around. Stiff and serious. The determined to look anywhere else bit helps with my incognito investigation of her.

Julia holds her body in a state of tension at all times. Her posture is rigid, strong, with core control like I've only seen in dancers, but I know she isn't one. The pinch of her jawline and sharpening of her cheekbones, the swift twist of the ends of her hair as she untucks it from behind her ears. The slight lift to her shoulders, and the way she breathes efficient, shallow breaths, or speaks with a shortness that seeks maximum efficacy.

Tense, precise, focused. And so different from the girl I knew when we were young.

She dresses with style, designer brands, clean lines, classic colors, but the flair of rebel that once caused her to shave off a section of her hair, or wear midriff-bearing tank tops in winter without a bra, is gone. Julia was edgy and cool in high school. Somehow she always found a way to subvert the snooty dress code at our private school, adding a strip of leather around her wrist or a stud in her nose; wearing her polo collar up and cutting the hems of her khakis, then rolling them to a cuff so the teachers technically couldn't fault her.

She was apathetic about other people's opinions of her.

Except mine.

Whatever happened in the last ten years has replaced devil may care with dot every i, cross every t .

She's beautiful with all her sharp, straight lines running into the curves of her full hips, the pinch of her tiny waist, and the sneaky dip in her collarbone where her tiny heart necklace rests, but the nose ring is missing; her hair is all silky waves and gentle balayage highlights; gone is the emo punk girl with the secret soft side.

At least, on the surface.

This isn't high school. She knew what she'd said as soon as the words tripped off her tongue. High school is a trigger. Bang bang, here's a whole lotta pain. I don't have a right to be upset when I was the one who walked away, but I ache with the memory.

Maybe because I was the one to walk away when I should have stayed.

Me and Harry, both fucking tools.

But not just because of what happened that summer after senior year. The pain slips in just as easily when I think about every bright moment, transparent whisper, shared truth that lived and breathed between us, and how I've never been as close to another person, longed for anyone's attention, desired another's approval, like I did hers.

The warm, sunny sound of Suni's flute calls everyone to attention. She plays a few bars of something that sounds an awful lot like the chorus to John Lennon's "Imagine" before she sets the flute aside in favor of the metal cup containing her cacao. She holds her cup close to her heart, and after a few seconds everyone in the yurt follows her lead. Including all the sound bath virgins.

"The ceremonial cacao in these cups is ethically sourced from a small collective of female growers in Southern California. In Aztec culture, cacao beans were more sacred than gold, as we believed they were given to us by the gods. Ancient Mayans believed cacao could open the heart chakra, helping us to release past traumas and heartbreaks that still live in our hearts."

My eyes drift back to Julia, but hers are already fixed on the spot where I hold this cup close to my chest. The jolt of heat that shoots through my core drags an exhale through my lips. Caught, she yanks her attention away, focusing those unearthly aquamarine blues back up on Suni.

"Science backs up the notion because cacao contains theobromine—a cardiac stimulant that both relaxes the blood vessels and stimulates the heart muscle." Julia looks inside the cup with suspicion. "Each cup was prepared with the loving intention that whatever you came here burdened by will fall away, and the space left behind will come alive with possibility." Suni takes a pause as her eyes search across the faces of the bachelorette party, touching on Julia, drifting over me. "Everyone close your eyes," she says.

It should be easy to let mine drift closed—taking part in spiritual practice isn't new to me. Trusting a guide with Suni's experience level should feel natural, simple. But as soon as my eyelids drop, it's not meditative, focused darkness that I see.

It's Julia.

"Drink as slow or as fast as you like and let the heart chakra open as you listen." Suni's raspy voice falls away, replaced by the lilting, dancing song of her flute.

Let go of the burden. I take a long drink from my cup.

Julia, then. Hair shoulder-length and messy, holding a buzzer to her head as she shaves a section of her dark locks away.

I sip.

Julia, now. White buttons up the front of her blouse, face tight with focus.

Sip.

Julia, then. Her face close to mine, the sun beating down as we swing back and forth together in a hammock.

Gulp the rest down.

Julia, now. Face washed in moonlight, hair wild, fingers pinching the thick strands that brush back and forth over the small rise of her breasts beneath her pin-striped shirt.

My eyes fly open; she's right there, looking straight at me, remnants of cacao rimming the curves of her mouth.

Faintly, I hear Suni instruct everyone to feel free to move about, let the natural rhythm of their bodies act according to the sounds. She takes a seat, readying herself at the bowls, but only faintly do I even realize she's started.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out the singing of her bowls.

My skin is too small and tight around my bones.

My mind races, running from Julia, chasing after every single memory of her face.

I stand up from my cushion, and I'm not moving with the rhythm of my soul, I'm trying to get the hell away.

I burst through the door to the yurt and into the chilly dark of the desert night. The low light of the lanterns and the soft silver of the moon should be soothing, but still my heart sprints laps around my chest. I close my eyes, try to get a grip, picture the curve of the lakeshore, the sway of those giant fir trees, but my closed eyes aren't safe.

Behind them I see nothing but Julia's face.

"Fuck fuck fuck," I say to the sky. "The timing of this is the fucking worst that could ever fucking exist." I start to pace like a man in the '50s in a hospital waiting room anticipating the birth of his baby, except I'm not wearing a three-piece suit or smoking a cigar, so I just look manic. And not the cute kind John Green wrote all those books about.

Not the kind Kit Larson is so good at playing in her own life.

I was doing just fine in my little bubble of self-denial until Mom popped it by bringing her secret truth out into the sharp light of the midday sun. I was doing fine dating guys, falling in lust that almost felt like love—it was good enough, sometimes great. It was eventually, for sure, going to lead me to Mr. Goddamn Right.

I was fine with fine. I have been busy, anyway, building my channel, branding myself, living a goddamn lie that wasn't hurting anybody.

Sure, lying is exhausting, and the truth about my attraction to women felt so natural—like knowing which side of the bed I like to sleep on, like deciding how to part my hair. But the lie was safe, it was proven, there was no reason at all to change that now.

"You're kicking up a sand cloud," Julia says from behind me. I whirl, defenses raised, eyes eating up the sight. She's standing beneath a lantern, arms crossed over her bomber jacket, eyes sharp with focus.

"Call me Pigpen," I say.

"You're definitely more of a Lucy van Pelt," she counters.

"And who are you? Peppermint Patty?" It's too harsh. I regret it immediately. I want to backtrack.

Julia's mouth twists.

"If we're going there, I prefer Amity Blight from The Owl House ," she replies. "At least she gets to dance under the moonlight with the girl she loves."

"I figured you'd go with Harley Quinn."

Her brow quirks. "Harley was way too into the Joker for my tastes." She smirks. "You know I—"

"—barely even like dudes." We finish the phrase in unison.

Her eyes spark, the irises bright, the pupils wide and dark. She tucks a hand in the pocket of her bomber jacket, pulling the zippered opening closed with the other. I track up the line of the zipper to the sharp V where her blouse buttons are fastened.

"Enjoying the view?" There's way too much satisfaction in her voice. My eyes lock with hers.

"We can't," I say.

"Can't what?"

"Talk about us." I can hardly get the words out.

"There is no us."

"You know what I mean."

"Refresh my memory."

"I'd rather forget."

Julia nods, takes a step closer. I should bolt. I can figure out how to level up my career without this opportunity. Nina would still let me crash on her couch, I'm sure of it. Millie would be pissed, probably bad-mouth me around town—that would be a problem, but I'd bounce back.

Eventually.

"You're still playing the girl next door looking for her perfect boy," she says, not a question, not waiting for an answer. "Or was it unattainable vixen?" She takes a step closer. "Mysterious, wounded flower?" Closer. "Manic pixie dream girl." I can almost feel her breath on my cheek.

"What happened to your nose ring?" I hold eye contact. Desperate not to flinch.

Her eyes trek over my face. Everywhere they touch is singed like the flame burning a matchstick down.

"What happened to you that morning?" She whispers the question. My cheeks heat with the warmth from her breath, the smell of it all minty and chocolate goodness. We're almost nose to nose, but I'm taller. This close, the dark cerulean, silver haze, sea green flecks of her eyes are like jewels refracting the stars.

The Universe doesn't owe me better karma but I wish it would try a little understanding. I was young and scared and I wish with everything I could take it back.

"Yours is easier," I say, swallowing my nerves. I didn't come here expecting to clean up this mess from our long-ago past, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try.

"It got infected." I can't get my smile under control fast enough. She smirks. "I had a cold and the doctor said I should take it out. The snot caked over the back and I had to use saline spray to loosen it, but it was all inflamed and red, warm to the touch."

I cringe, she snorts, and we're still standing so close that every move threatens contact.

"Did you take it out then?"

"No, it's still in my nose," she quips. "Entombed." She twists so I can see the dark dot of her scar. "Hurt like a motherfucker to put it back in so I never got the nerve."

"When?"

"Freshman year of college."

Where did you go? What did you study? How many girls have you kissed since me? The questions flood my brain with curiosity. A dangerous temptation. I take a step away from the heat of her breath warming the curve of my cheek. Immediately, the chill of the night air sobers my thoughts.

"Kit." My name on her tongue; gods, let me crumble.

"I wasn't ready," I say, somehow with no waver in my voice. She lets out a sharp breath, the deepening cold turning it to smoke.

"So you just ghosted your best friend?" Her jaw clenches, moisture making her eyes shiny. "You just said wish you well , like I meant nothing to you."

I was falling apart , I want to say to her. But the way her features have sharpened makes me think there's no excuse she'll take. She's got daggers for eyes and razor-sharp teeth. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"Fail." Her voice is a searing hot sword.

The door to the yurt opens. Freya Dan pokes her head out, looking around the immediate area. Julia follows my attention, seeing the moment Freya's eyes lock on me and she waves, the floaty fabric of her sleeve resembling a flag.

Cease-fire, surrender, thank you, Universe.

"My cue," I say.

"Convenient."

I'm careful not to brush against her as I pass, and she doesn't move into my way to stop me, but I feel her eyes follow me all the way up to the yurt even though her body lingers behind.

She's with me, tugging at the chains around my heart, begging me to let it out of the cage.