Chapter Twelve

Julia

Every instinct says to reach out.

Every instinct is clearly wrong.

I look up, blinking back tears. This is stupid, unprofessional—everything about my behavior tonight, from getting on that bus to following her outside. I'm not thinking straight— ba-dum-bum —the irony of the turn of phrase almost makes me let out a desperate laugh.

Kit isn't my problem. She isn't someone for me to show concern, care, or tenderness to.

She is just a woman I once knew. Clearly, she's still perfectly fine with playing pretend. This weekend isn't about us reconnecting. I shouldn't be entertaining the idea even in the vaguest sense.

I'm not entertaining the idea.

I'm just trying to make sure the two women I used to know don't inadvertently ignite a fire in this high-profile wedding I'm trying to execute with perfection.

That's professional. That's the Julia Kelley way.

I'm still holding the cacao cup in my hand, the bottom coated with remnants of the creamy chocolate liquid. I don't know what "heart opening" is supposed to feel like, and yes, I'm dubious that there is more to this whole thing than the physiological response created by the theobromine, but my skin feels slick, pulse all quick, and even more frightening, I can't shake the urge to push, brush, taunt the edges of Kit's buttons until I find the one that unwinds an apology from her lips.

She wasn't ready. But I would have waited.

If that's my heart opening, then please shutter the windows, lock all the doors, and close for the season. The only solution is to ignore all of my desires, impulses, and instincts, go back inside and play pro. I am still in control here; that hasn't changed despite what my questionable behavior suggests.

I shake the last bit of cacao into my mouth like this is some kind of dare.

Kit isn't wrong in calling attention to the changes in my style, but I can tell the observation is more than just an aesthetic curiosity. She's prying at the lid on my life, trying to tug the edges up to see if I'm still as messy on the inside as my outside once appeared.

I can call her bluff like the cool cucumber I've become in the years since we fell apart.

I whirl on my heels, eating up the distance back to the yurt and tugging open the ornately painted wood door.

Inside, the sound bath has officially come to an end, leaving the women who embarked on this soul journey in a state of apparent bliss. Millie seems to be the most blissful of all. It's rare that a bride ever truly reaches serene in the days surrounding her wedding. No matter how well planned, or how much she trusts the Love, Always team to make her dream day a reality, most brides experience this time—the happiest of their lives —through a haze of mixed-up emotions. Millie's cheeks beam bright even in the candle-glowing, moonlit wash of the yurt. Anything but mixed-up. The joy on her face makes me almost want to release the death grip strangling out all semblance of enjoyment I might have from this experience.

Kit's taken her place at the center of the yurt where they have set up a small round table with a chair on either side, covering it with a deep purple crushed velvet cloth. She unpacks the contents of her beaded bag. The tarot cards, she sets face down in a stack on top of the table, uncapping a small brown bottle and lifting it to spritz the air a few times. She takes a deep inhale through her nose, closing her eyes and slowly exhaling. Her lips part and she wets them with the tip of her tongue before drawing the flesh in with her teeth, nibbling.

She's nervous. The realization hits me like a zap of static electricity.

The room has gone quiet as the attention of every reveler has turned to the center, watching, waiting, interested, and eager—like this is real entertainment and Kit is a real star. Her shoulders pitch back as she elongates her neck, and my eyes can't resist the temptation to trail the full length of exposed skin. A simple gold chain with a raw crystal dangling just above the curve of her cleavage twinkles. She inhales deeply and her breasts strain against the neckline of her dress. She brushes the tips of her fingers together, and I notice a tiny cluster of stars tattooed on her pinky finger before she flattens her hand to the table, palms down.

When her eyes open, the pupils contract and expand, adjusting to the light.

She was always a star. That hasn't changed.

She holds eye contact with me, unblinking. One more breath, then a smile, before her focus moves over the faces of her captive audience. It's showtime and it's clear any nervousness she felt when she first sat at that table has melted away.

"This group of women has gathered here to celebrate the one and only Millie Morgan. Not just because she's marrying the love of her life, but because she's an actual badass bitch that every single one of us here has reason to admire." Kit winks at Millie. Coco yanks her in for a smooch on the cheek. The other women clap and hoot, calling out pet names for the bride. "Choosing to explore your inner world in this safe space of friends before embarking on the next great adventure of your life is more than just entertainment"—Kit pauses, smirking—"it's also one hell of a show."

The glee level rises in the yurt until even I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

"Now! Who here has never had their tarot cards read?"

Piper, Heather, and the sulky Jenni raise their hands.

I can sit this poll out.

Kit's eyes slide to me as if she's checking for signs that I remember the history I have with the cards. I reply with a raised brow. Of course.

You don't forget a thing like that, even if it was a waste of time. We didn't get any answers—none that we wanted, at least. We didn't get insight into a future we'd actually get to live out in Technicolor.

What we got was a haunting instead.

"Cartomancy—the more accurate name for divining fortune through tarot—isn't a science. The messages that come through aren't chiseled into stone, set it and forget vibes. Tarot is more like a conversation between friends. The cards present possibilities, but still the choices we make determine the outcome."

Kit isn't a mind reader, no matter how skilled she is at reading people or that deck of cards. Still, this tarot explanation is pointed. Like she read my thoughts and wanted to drop a response to the whole room.

"Tarot can be used to dig deeper into what your own intuition already knows. Asking questions that will color in the lines of the life you are actively living is always a good place to start." She motions to Millie, closing her hands around the deck.

I take a seat on a cushion close enough to see the cards, but out of Kit's immediate eyeline. Unfortunately, this puts me in the direct line of sight of Piper, who has taken her same seat from the sound bath, probably hoping I would do as well.

I redirect my attention to the table, examining the deck. This one is different from the one she used earlier to calm Healer Arynne's crystal arrangement freak-out. This one is a matte black background, with watercolor flowers painted around the edges and a metallic gold border. In the center of each flower is a crescent moon, pressed in that same metallic gold leaf.

She begins to shuffle as Millie settles into the seat across from her.

"I usually do a simple, but supereffective, five-card spread for these kinds of readings." Kits cuts the deck, setting each stack down on the table to shuffle them like they're playing cards.

"You're the expert," Millie replies. "I trust you."

"Close your eyes," Kit says as she works the cards back together. Millie follows her instruction. "Get clear on what you want revealed. Questions or concerns. Desires, guidance."

"Hopefully, they won't tell me to run," Millie says, smiling, her eyes still closed. Kit's brows twitch as if she's surprised by the statement.

"They'll only tell you that if you intuitively know it's what you want."

Millie's whole energy shifts at that statement. She's taking this seriously. Her spine straightens, her expression pensive. Oh God—or whatever deity it is that handles tarot readings—please do not tell the bride to bail. Generally, if the bride runs, the wedding is considered a flop. Jesus Christ, I do not need that on my record when I'm trying to break out on my own.

Kit does one more loose shuffle before lifting the cards toward Millie.

"Open your eyes and cut the deck twice."

Millie cuts them unevenly, before flicking her gaze back up to Kit for next steps.

"You can pick which stack you feel most drawn to," Kit says, "or I can."

Millie considers her for a moment. Trust herself or trust the YouTube psychic. Mystic Maven is the only one we didn't get a dossier written up about before we left for Celestial Sands. Her late arrival to the roster made that impossible. I'm sure Zoe could shoot me a fact sheet on her that hits the high points, but it's not going to explain who this person has become in the years since she bailed on me outside her parents' pool house, or what it is about her that makes people want to trust her with answers about their future.

"That's like, your thing," Millie says. "You pick the cards and they never lie."

Kit holds her eye contact. I can tell she's weighing out an answer.

"This is your reading. It's not about me or my thing ."

After another beat of strong eye contact deliberation, Millie points to the middle stack of cards. "This is it."

Kit reincorporates the cards into one stack, putting the middle one on top.

"The first card is your purpose in the near future," Kit explains, her hand hovering about the deck as she speaks. "It can represent you, or be an indicator of the area of emphasis that the rest of the cards will give detail to."

Millie exhales. "God, the vibes are intense." She shakes out her body. "Do you feel that or just me?"

"It's okay to be nervous." Kit's voice deepens, smooth and calming.

"My whole life is about to change," Millie says, and her aching vulnerability cuts through me. "Is it stupid to hope I get a road map?"

Kit smiles. "Even road maps can't always show us the way."

Damn. She's good.

She flips the card. Upright, the Empress. A watercolor-style rendition of a woman, crowned in flowers, seated on a velvet chair. She is dressed in a sleek robe with pomegranates painted in sharp, colorful detail. She's surrounded by pale yellow wheat. She appears pregnant, her face softly serene.

Natalie slides forward, snapping a photo. "Mills, are you with child?"

"You really shouldn't have consumed all that champagne before, then." This is from Coco.

I notice Piper bristle. When we were dating, like heavily in the throes of dreaming of future bliss, planning for a home and family—before everything went sour—the one thing we never could agree on was bringing kids into the world. Piper likes her independence. She likes booking last-minute tickets to Ibiza, sleeping till noon on the weekend. She refused to put the baby question on the table despite the fact that she knew I wanted one.

I know I don't seem maternal. But there are a lot of mom types, and I have always wanted my own family unit, even if that meant unpredictable, uncontrolled; the unconditional would be worth it.

I don't know if it's even possible.

"Fuck off, you guys, I've been on birth control since I was sixteen." Millie shoves Natalie into Coco, who gladly receives her onto her lap. "That's not what this card means. Right, Kit?"

Kit observes the growing chaos with a knowing smirk. "It can, but in this case, I'm guessing it's more about your nature and direction—the launch of this new phase, which will undoubtedly require steady, creative nurturing."

Millie gives her a full-toothed grin.

"Do you want to see what's next?"

Yes. The word surges through me.

She's a magnet, my eyes are metal, and when she glances my way, for a split second, neither of us can resist the pull.