Chapter Five

Kit

A sunburst right overhead is the perfect Universe-delivered final touch to this selfie photoshoot at Cabazon Dinosaurs, a kitschy roadside attraction on the way to Joshua Tree. The giant green and white T-Rex with the red heart inscribed with "Be Mine" on his chest looms just off-center in the shot. I do a quick "natural" edit and post it on Instagram with the caption, Just a little me time in the desert. #loveyourself #breakingupishardtodo

That will keep fans and foes alike busy for hours. Most of my followers are supportive, light-centered, love-driven humans on a genuine quest for spiritual growth. Some of them are dudes who can't get past Instagram's safety features to send me dick pics but do leave comments on my photos. And a small percentage are people who can't wait to shit on anything I do, no matter how magical or mundane. They like to fight it out in comments or share my posts in stories with derisive asides, but my blue check means I basically never see anything unless it's from people I follow.

Unfortunately, my verified status doesn't protect me from Mom seeing my post, immediately liking it, and sending me a DM to ask why I'm heading into the desert.

Are you trying to get away from me, Kitten? Is this because I'm bisexual?

Yeah, she spells out the whole word. Bisexual. And then she sends three hearts, the colors of the bi flag, and I wish I could bury my phone in the sand right beneath the giant pink brontosaurus on the other side of my white Jeep Wrangler.

My phone then starts buzzing with an incoming call. Dad. A FaceTime.

I message him that I'm driving and I'll text him later.

He hates texting because he's a stickler for grammar and punctuation, can't get past it to send a quick message.

We still haven't talked about brunch. I know you're upset, and you have every right to be. This is not ideal, is it, cupcake?

I yank my car door open and throw my phone in the passenger seat.

Ideal.

If I had a nickel for every time my dad has used that word to describe me, Mom, our roles in the rom-com movie of the life he's writing, I'd have a vacation home to escape to and wouldn't have to work this wedding. The word burrowed beneath my skin and tattooed itself on my bones, fusing with my own identity. Dad's definition of the ideal rom-com ingenue is more Meg or Drew than Sandra or Kate. She's dreamy, funny, quirky, cute; she has a creative job and carefree attitude, and girls and guys both adore her.

I snort at the last one.

Closer to home than he thought.

I release a deep breath and wring out the tightness in my upper body, twisting around to the backseat to grab my tarot deck from the inside of my purse. I hold the cards in my hand, closing my eyes and inhaling a few quick breaths. My eyes open and land on the top of the cards. This deck is personal, not one I use with clients or in my "Choose Your Own Tarot Adventure" readings. It was the first deck I ever got, a birthday gift to myself when I was nineteen. Some people believe you should be gifted your first deck, but when tarot came into my life, I needed help understanding my emotional world more than I needed to listen to superstition.

I chose this deck because of its botanical design. A Cali girl through and through, I'm aesthetically inspired by nature in all her wild forms. Even in LA we love a run through a canyon, or a mountainscape at sunset.

The back of the cards is black matte with a winding white vine running over it.

Each card is uniquely designed, though it follows the Rider–Waite structure of traditional decks. I shuffle, swish swish swish , and place the deck on my bare thighs. The cards feel warm and heavy, alive with energy. I cut the deck with my left hand and hold my palm over the two top cards. The one that radiates extra warmth is it, always, even when my soul doesn't understand why. I reincorporate the deck with that one on top. Breathe. Turn it over.

The Two of Cups, upright.

A beautiful card featuring two serpents entwining their tails. In the center is an orange poppy. This card doesn't have to mean romance, but it almost always comes to you when there is or will be attraction, partnership, unity.

Romance vibes are so not what I'm sending out, Universe. Please take my hint and act accordingly.

I shake myself out one more time, listening to the chimes of my bracelets rattling together over my wrists, and shuffle the deck again. A single card sticks out askew from the others. I flip it out, turning it over in my right hand.

The Wheel of Fortune, upright.

My heart does a nosedive into my stomach. Spikes of heat shoot over my chest, down the length of my arms, to my fingertips.

I've seen this card combination one other time in my life.

Just one time.

The Haunt O' Ween festival in Old Pasadena is a suburban kid's playground in the week leading up to Halloween. My friends and I had been attending it since we were tiny tots, and the year I pulled those cards, my new, cool best friend had joined us. Julia Kelley had transferred into Forrest Chapel Private Academy the fall of seventh grade. A scholarship kid, a wild card even if she was mostly just sarcastic. Everyone had immediately been fascinated by her.

Fresh meat in middle school always draws a crowd. But while the other girls had mostly lost interest after Julia refused to play any of their mind games, I'd gotten attached.

She was more than fresh. All her dark, sharp edges made my bright, pretty curves feel safe. So when Karen MacMillan, the resident queen bee, dared Julia to visit Madame Moira—psychic reader and neighborhood legend—I couldn't let Julia go it alone.

Madame Moira's tent was set up beside the South Pasadena Historical Museum, a wood-frame building that looked like it was dragged from a ghost town out West. Purple velvet curtains draped over the entrance to her den. Julia and I clutched hands, whispering promises not to abandon each other no matter what Madame Moira's reading revealed.

Madame Moira was not a crone, not even close. She was a pretty woman with raven-black hair, long fingers, nails painted midnight black, and a face that appeared ageless. And not LA ageless. Legit untouched by the hands of time ageless. Julia handed over her five dollars, which got her a three-card spread, and Madame Moira got started without much preamble.

Her shuffle was fast. The cards almost looked like they were flying; Julia noted that they seemed to float in the air for a second, and it totally spooked her out.

But I was mesmerized. By the cards and the woman who didn't fit in any sort of box. Unmarried, unconventional, and absolutely un-fuck-with-able. She had both of us cut the deck with our left hands, which surprised me since the reading was supposed to be for Julia alone. Julia had been dared; she was the one who paid.

The cards drifted out of the deck, balanced perfectly in Madame Moira's long, trim fingers.

First, the Fool. The spark of a new beginning. She looked back and forth between us.

You two, each, both. This. She motioned at our hands, still clasped, dangling unseen at our sides.

Then, the Two of Cups. The art in her deck featured two girls holding their cups up toward each other, smiling, laughing. Full of love. I knew, even without Madame Moira saying it. I knew they were Julia and me.

This bond is special. Unique. The flame of her candle flickered and her eyes sparked with interest. She flipped over the last card.

The Wheel of Fortune.

Twin Flames, two halves of the same soul. Her candle flame sparked and expanded. She smiled, then frowned. No matter what you do, you will break apart one day. Lose each other, believe it's forever, brokenhearted. But Twin Flames are rare and they can't be extinguished.

They always find their way back to each other.

I flip the Wheel of Fortune card over now, blinking away the memory.

How long has it been since I thought about that night? Easily, the day comes back to me. I was eighteen. August heat enveloped me as I packed up the back of my car—a Bronco my dad had gotten cheap for me when I got my license. I was leaving for Berkeley, putting space between myself and everything that had happened between Julia and me that summer. I had kissed my parents goodbye, gotten the directions ready to go; the only lingering, unfinished thing was her.

Julia.

She had texted me and called a couple times since that fateful night together. I had avoided her in person, kept the conversation light, noncommittal. She got the drift, and she was angry. Seething. That much I knew. Her anger was easier for me to deal with than telling her I wasn't ready would have been. That I couldn't do it. That I had never felt more lost or confused in my life, that I didn't feel like myself anymore and couldn't start college like that.

I just had to put it aside. Push it down.

I had plans; so did she. She'd forget about me eventually.

Twin Flames always find their way back to each other. I heard Madame Moira's words in my head and I ignored them.

What did she know about us?

I reshuffle the cards, my heart doing a dance in my chest. My breathing uncomfortable, unsteady.

Fuck off , I think, directed at the Universe herself.

And I yank my car into gear.

?I walk inside the Celestial Sands lobby sweaty, my jean shorts riding up my crotch, my silk camisole drenched at my cleavage.

"Hi there," the manager, a sexy Black man with an Afro and a winning smile says as I approach.

"Hey," I say, and I sound grouchy even if I don't mean to. His bright grin falters. I try again. "This place is gorgeous." I adjust. No need to be a bitch to him; he didn't give me that horribly nostalgic reading. That was all me, myself, and I. "Kit Larson, checking in for the Morgan-Hayden wedding."

His smile is back. "Wedding party or Love, Always staff?"

"Neither. I'm the tarot reader."

"Ah! Then you're staff. Report to Bungalow Ten. It's the Homebase "—he places air quotes around the word—"of the operation. They have your room assignment."

He directs me on how to get there by exiting the main house and taking the path toward the bungalows. I snap some shots of the interiors to post in my stories when I leave the hotel next week. As a rule, I never share my location until after I'm well on my way home. One stalker at the Mercer in Soho was enough to teach me that lesson.

I push through the back doors into the breezy garden space, following the winding path toward the bungalow. November in Joshua Tree is my idea of the perfect weather. Warm during the day, chilly at night. You can still sunbathe, and then don a sweater and sit by the fire roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories, blanketed by starlight.

Bungalow Ten is a small cube with a hammock slung right outside. The door is open, and out of it comes a twentysomething woman with gorgeous black hair and a harried expression on her face.

She nearly bowls me over, barely sideswiping me before stopping short.

"Mystic Maven," she says, her voice a little misty with awe. "Oh my God."

"Oh, yeah, I'm Kit," I reply, and my cheeks feel warm.

"Sorry, that was unprofessional. I'm Zoe. Assistant to the wedding planner—let me know if you need anything." She steps aside. "Room key, et cetera, is inside." She motions back to Bungalow Ten before hurrying along to whatever mission awaits her.

I step up to the entrance and give the open door a courtesy knock. When no one responds, I walk inside. The room is brightly lit by every lamp and overhead light in the place. They've shoved couches and other comfy furniture to the walls and pulled together the tables to form a maze of solid surfaces throughout the room.

A woman—I'm assuming the wedding planner—stands with her back to the door. She looks like she's on the phone, but her voice is low, not audible. Her dark brown hair is swept up in a half-up-half-down do, wavy and thick. She's short, with shapely hips and a tiny waist. She stands like she's got a rod running the length of her body, perfect posture and pretty golden skin.

Jesus Christ. Stop cataloging her body features with such engrossed interest.

She ends her call and spins around.

For the second time today my heart makes a beeline for my stomach. My breath catches in my throat like a jagged pill. My brain short-circuits.

"Julia."

Her name in my mouth is the most decadent forbidden fruit.