Chapter Six

Julia

I gave up on believing the wisdom of psychics years ago.

Then I gave up on the hope that Kit Larson would ever sashay back into my life.

For a second I almost convince myself that she's nothing more than a mirage. Her platinum hair is kissed dusty rose at the tips like it's fading out from hot pink. Edgier than the muted beach sand color it was the last time I saw her. She's all curvy lines. Ample hips, perky breasts, soft pink full lips. Her skin is creamy sun-kissed tan, her eyes are cool fresh-mown-grass green.

"Julia." She says only my name again.

Oh, she's real. And just as beautiful as she was in high school.

Objectively attractive beyond the face, the body, the effortless style. Not a cool girl , per se, but definitely in the same sphere. More dreamy, all curves and secret sweetness; Kit Larson was the girl even straight girls crushed on.

I swallow, dry mouthed. Dry throat. All moisture rushing elsewhere.

I feel a tug toward her. A raw instinct—the kind I've trained myself to interrogate for flaws. The kind of primitive, illogical draw that would start a war or incite a duel if I were a man.

Then I get a handle on it, because I'm not a man, and Kit Larson is not to be trusted.

Kit Larson was off-limits and then all mine. We were playing with fire and then we were consumed by the flames. Kissing wasn't enough, and before that weekend was over, we went all the way.

Kit Larson was everything.

And then she broke my heart.

"One of us has to say something," she says, as if that contribution gets her off the hook for more. "Hello." Her eyes trip to mine, crinkling up with her tentative smile.

My backbone stiffens and I look down at my paperwork. It's the flower order, a list of every single arrangement, flower type with all the prices itemized. It swims in my vision like an eye exam I've convinced myself I'll fail, and so I do. I squeeze my lids closed, raking my eyeballs around behind them, then I press the tips of my fingers to the rims of my lashes and hold them in place.

When I open my eyes, she'll be gone.

She'll realize she's in the wrong place, realize whatever she's here for isn't worth it and turn tail and run. That probably won't happen. Despite this horrible coincidence, she drove all the way out to the desert for a reason, one she is unlikely to abandon just because I'm here.

I can't expect her to leave, but I can control my own behavior in her presence. When I open my eyes, I will be a cool-as-a-cucumber, pro wedding planner capable of handling any adversity that comes my way. I will be Julia Kelley, entrepreneur in the making. Not Julia Kelley, girl whose bones turn to putty at the sight of her high school crush.

"I'm still here," she says. "Just, FYI."

My eyes shoot open. "Of course you are."

"You were hoping I'd run." She cocks her hip out in a challenge. The motion ruffles her camisole so that it reveals a sliver of golden-kissed skin above her waistband. I ignore the magnetic tug to look closer.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

She grits her teeth, probably to hold in her own venomous response.

"Why are you here, Katherine?" Her face twitches at the name, and that gloriously curved hip uncocks in retreat. The sliver of skin mercifully vanishes.

Katherine is an old queen name , I can still hear her say, nose scrunched like an accordion, while we ate gelato outside the library that late-summer day before we turned fourteen. If I were a queen, I'd only ever want to be a young one.

"There's a wedding," Kit replies.

"I'm the wedding planner." There is no way she's a guest—none of the general attendees are arriving until Sunday. She can't be a bridesmaid, because I have dossiers on all of them, including headshots and social media profiles. She's not family. She's not Love, Always staff. That leaves only one thing.

"You've got to be kidding—"

The rest of my exasperated guess is cut off by Zoe entering in a whirlwind of long, lean limbs, smelling faintly of patchouli and panic. She abruptly manifests a deer-in-the-headlights freeze before widening her massive brown doe eyes in SOS alarm.

"Geometric altar crisis averted, but Healer Arynne would like a word."

A curl of smoke wafts through the open door to collect around Kit like a fog machine at a rave. She lifts her fingers to her nose to delicately block out the scent.

"This energy will not land on me," comes a syrupy voice.

Zoe nudges Kit heroically out of the way, just as Healer Arynne and her entourage of burly, barely clothed men enter Homebase. They aren't carrying her on a pillow, waving fronds and feeding her grapes, but that's the aesthetic they bring. Shirtless, pecs oiled, booty shorts leaving nothing to the imagination, they flank her.

She's shaped like a ripe plum, with a fuzzy spray of multicolored, predominately silver-streaked hair, and a plethora of crystal-covered jewelry. She turns heavily lined, hooded, huge eyes on me.

"The entire vibe is off out there and I'm told you're responsible for fixing it," she says, waving her smudge stick at me like it's a dagger. She begins to circle, plucking invisible grime from my aura as she talks. "The crystals in the centerpiece arrangements are a complete disaster, your florist is a sadistic monster—three tourmalines broken, do you even comprehend how apocalyptic of an omen that is?"

I twist away, trying to get clear of her plucking, desperate to bat her hands back but conscious of my responsibility to remain professional, to defuse.

Healer Arynne is both the provider of the crystals for the ceremony—which are featured everywhere from around the altar to the head table for both rehearsal dinner and wedding reception—and the officiant of the ceremony. She's TikTok famous for her interfaith marriage ceremonies and crystal healing rituals, all of which can be purchased for a hefty price on her website.

When I don't reply right away, she snaps, "I can't possibly allow this ceremony to go on," head shaking in angst, seconds from dropping to the ground in a heap.

This can't be happening.

The bride hasn't even arrived yet and the officiant is already objecting to the nuptials.

It is too goddamn early for this huge of a red flag to be flying high.

"Healer Arynne?" Kit's voice is wispy. Nothing like the tone she was using with me before chaos arrived at my doorstep. She takes a graceful step forward, stretching out her hand toward Healer Arynne. A stack of delicate bracelets made of gold and natural stones circles her wrist. She tosses her hair over her shoulder just as her hand comes to rest lightly on the older woman's forearm, stilling her. "Millie hired me to read tarot for the weekend's events." Her smile is coy, accented with a scrunch of her perfect turned-up nose. "Maybe the cards can show us the way forward. What do you think?"

Healer Arynne's shoulders immediately drop out of high alert stance.

"I don't know why, but I instantly trust you," she breathes, the anguish leaking out of her voice. Her hand falls to rest over Kit's. Her eyes flash and she squeezes. "Why, yes, of course, we were canaries together in a past life." She releases what can only be described as a chirp.

Kit's smile broadens. "Naturally." She gives a teeny shoulder shrug and releases her own cheerful chirping reply. Healer Arynne lets her smudge stick drop to her side.

"Thank Spirit you're here." The sigh of relief is sizable .

"Just in time," Kit replies.

She can't be serious. Her eyes flick to mine. A momentary connection or an invitation to play along, I'm not sure, and I'm not engaging. She's not luring me in—that is not how this is going to play out.

Kit reaches into the pink monochromatic Louis Vuitton satchel slung over her shoulder, tugging out a rectangle of hunter green velvet. She quickly unfolds it to reveal a set of tarot cards, the iridescent pastel of their design catching the light, making the tops of the cards practically glow.

A memory flashes in my mind, lightning fast. Three cards laid out on a black lace tablecloth. Our hands clutched, her breath in my ear, are you scared? I was, more than ever before, and that rush never left me when I was beside her.

Now, Kit shuffles the cards deftly with both hands. Her fingers curling over the edges, sliding them into each other, sliding them out and back in.

"Our intention here is to bring Millie and Sean together." Kit says, her voice mellow. Zoe edges closer, transfixed, just like everyone else at Homebase.

Just like me.

I blink, cross my arms, glare at my watch, but my eyes unwillingly travel back to Kit's hands. The shuffle. The surety of her movements. The way she does it all without ever pulling her focus from her subject.

"Tourmalines breaking, that's not the vibe we want, so we just need a nudge from Spirit to uncover where we've gotten off track so we can get back on." She makes it sound so obvious, simple even, and Healer Arynne and Zoe both nod, taken in, mouths parted. It's only then that I realize my mouth hangs open, too, the inside dried out. I clamp my teeth closed, wishing for water to quench the desert on my tongue.

"Now," Kit says. The sound of the shuffle ends, and I shift my eyes back up. Hers drift to mine; her brow hooks up. "Cut the deck once." She lifts the cards toward Healer Arynne.

We all watch as she curls her hands around the cards, breathing out before breaking them into two uneven stacks. Kit raises her left hand over the two, hovering, before nodding.

"This is the one," she says, tapping the top card on the section of cards in Healer Arynne's hands. She nods for her to turn it over.

From this angle it's hard to see at first, but the noise of relief and understanding that bursts from Healer Arynne's lips immediately lets me know she's appeased.

"Temperance," Kit says, taking the card between two of her fingers and lifting it toward her face to examine it. "The card depicts an angel whose gender is not immediately obvious, expressing a balance between the masculine and feminine energies. She is firmly footed between the spiritual world and the material." Kit takes the rest of her deck back from Healer Arynne, leaving the Temperance card face up on top. "You are someone who has mastered the art of not letting little things get to you."

I have to stifle a snort. Zoe and Kit both glare at me in warning. This fire is so close to being stamped out; I do not need to be the reason it reignites. Especially since the reason it's dying down is thanks to Kit Larson.

"With balance and flow you can find a compromise to this stumbling block with the florist," Kit goes on, her voice easy, almost hypnotic. "Let go of control, accommodate all perspectives for the best possible solution."

"I know you're right, you're right," Healer Arynne says, sounding resigned. She raises both hands to Kit's shoulders, squeezing them tight. "An angel."

I can't tell if she means the reader or the card. Kit blushes, clearly certain it's the former.

Healer Arynne snaps her fingers. "Come along, we have some balancing to do."

Attention, march! And with that she and her band of merry shirtless men leave, taking the scent of sweet smoke and sharp earth with them.

"Follow them," I say to Zoe. She's staring at Kit, awestruck.

"Wow," Zoe says. She's a cartoon character with stars in her eyes, my God.

I clap. "Zoe." She jolts, her eyes flick to me, and she nods, but then looks once more back to Kit.

"Just. Wow." She offers applause and Kit curtsies.

And then, just like that, we're alone at Homebase. Just the two of us. Just the girl who broke my heart and grew up to be a goddamn masterminding magical goddess.

"A professional," I say, my voice raw.

"It's a calling." She shrugs. "It pays the bills and I love it for that."

Our eyes connect; years stretch out between us, mysterious and magnetic. I have to be the one to pull away first, to look down at the table where all the staff hotel keys are laid out, room assignment information printed. I scan the stack, and sure enough, there's her card.

"Mystic Maven," I read aloud.

"That's me," she replies.

My fingers brush the soft pads of her palm as I lay the key in her hand. She closes her fingers over it, the very tips grazing my skin. It's a real metal key with a quaint piece of plantable paper dangling from a string, containing instructions to her accommodations.

"It's an Airstream trailer," I say, glancing down at my dossier notes. "Millie wants it to be Instagrammable." I cringe.

"Wow, good job not puking."

"Thanks for that," I say, glancing over her shoulder in the direction Healer Arynne scurried off to.

We give each other another loaded look. I hate every second of it. Every twinge of feeling in the dark, deep crevices I'm desperate to keep out of the light. The messy places inside me that no one needs to ever see. This is not the Julia Kelley I am supposed to be.

My walkie-talkie scratches with an incoming signal.

"Bride and groom have landed," Zoe's voice screeches through the speaker.

Duty calls.