Chapter Nine

Kit

No matter how many times I tried to get away this afternoon, once the bridesmaids arrived I was held hostage as the circus performer in their ringside seats to spiritual enlightenment. We're three hydrating champagne bottles into the afternoon and less than half an hour away from the party bus's arrival to take us to the Glamp-Out location for tonight's festivities, but I already know more than I should about these women to give them truly intuitive, unobstructed readings.

"We're doing shots tonight—not of cacao, Millie, Jesus Christ—don't even!" Coco Mulligan, my prime target for an on-camera reading, said within three minutes of her arrival.

"We most definitely will be drinking a heart-opening cacao mixture at the sound bath," Millie replied, as she poured herself more champagne. "Tonight is about more than partying." This was received with a dramatic performance of Coco pretend-vomiting in disgust.

Coco was named after the designer, so it was fate that she became one herself. "Lingerie isn't Chanel," she said between sips of champagne, a heavy side-eye directed to the Chanel-clad Piper. "And that suits me just fine."

She and Millie met through their manager—just like how all truly iconic Hollywood relationships begin. They bonded over being rich bitches trying to make it on their own, which I assume means they don't live off trust funds or employ nepotism to get ahead.

She reminds me of a raccoon foraging trash cans and I adore her. In another world, I would be picking her brain for stories. Without even touching my cards I can tell she has oodles of secrets hidden in the strands of her blond pixie cut.

Natalie Geffin is the maid of honor and Millie's oldest friend in the world. She's vixen-level gorgeous and expensive —even her phone cover drips money.

"It's Dolce," she said, thumbs tapping away at the screen, eyes firmly on my face. "Dolce and Gabbana, you know?"

She's a lawyer and foodie, but her real passion is "the intersection of design and cuisine," which she plans to showcase in her new restaurant opening in Malibu this coming spring.

"There's a restaurant in the Arts District that serves grasshoppers, but you simply must request hot sauce to enjoy them with or you might as well be eating ants." She gripped my wrist. "I wouldn't steer you wrong." I don't know how to talk to her in a normal way, but also can't stop ogling her.

Fuck. The champagne is talking. My ears feel hot at the thought.

Piper Cunningham, the redhead from before, is the one I know the least about, and that seems intentional. She's a bit standoffish, only engaging in polite, tempered ways.

Everything about her screams that she isn't here to make more friends.

In fact, I get the distinct impression that not only is she a last-minute replacement for a much closer friend, but she may even be an unwelcome addition. There are vibes for days coursing back and forth between Coco and Natalie. Sideways glances at Piper. Incognito whispers as they refill their champagne flutes. They either hate her fundamentally, or just hate her presence in the bridal party, but either way, it's borderline tense.

I learned from Google—while I was using the bathroom earlier—that she's a journalist with bylines in all the major newspapers in the US. Her social media footprint is impeccably professional, but reporters always have second or third accounts they use to shitpost, or like, post pictures of their kids. Still, even with her air of mystery and the potential bridesmaids drama brewing, to me the most interesting curiosity about her is the nature of her history with Julia.

I can tell they know each other; I just can't discern how.

"I must get my cards, ladies." And a quick shot of espresso. "Or the tarot portion of this evening will not happen." I stand to leave.

Millie checks her watch. "Meet us at the entrance in twenty minutes—the rest of the bachelorette crew will be here by then, too." She looks at the others. "I invited Heather, Maddie, and the twins."

Coco waggles her brows. "Ooooh, the twins." She makes a vomit motion. "Pretty sure Jenni has me on mute, but whatever."

"Pretty sure you cheated on her with your SoulCycle instructor." More casual mention of sexual fluidity and me over here prickling up beneath the honesty.

"Potato tomato." Coco downs the rest of her champagne and then pouts. Natalie snorts, rolls her eyes, but follows it up by cradling Coco with affection.

"I'm freshening up and you all should, too," Millie continues. "The photographer is arriving to begin shooting our festivities before we board the bus."

The women scramble to attention at the mention of a photog, and I use the mayhem as an opportunity to make my exit. As soon as I step outside, I shiver against the dropping desert temps. Millie's bridal suite looks out over a tiled courtyard that features a bubbling fountain, some funky outdoor beanbags in varying bright patterns, and a perfect view of Homebase.

The curtain is pulled back, the window hanging slightly ajar. Framed inside like a portrait stands Julia, looking down over the array of tables, shuffling papers into a folder. One hand absently goes to her temple, pressing some tension away, and then runs back to where a hairband holds her thick dark locks in place. She tugs it, releasing her hair to cascade in kinky chestnut waves that brush her angular cheekbones.

My breath hitches, catching between my ribs as my heart pounds. Thump thump thump. Her hands in her hair, pulling it off her shoulder. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. My hands white with sunscreen, placed on her sizzling skin. Heat licks between my legs as I rub slick lotion into her skin. I squeeze my thighs together, clenching my hand into a fist, curling my toes in my sandals and rooting my feet to the earth.

In three seconds, I'm going to move.

I'm going to breathe in and out.

I'm going to stop the feelings erupting like firecrackers all across my skin.

One. I brushed my fingertips along the hem of her bikini top.

Two. She exhaled a sharp sound of desire.

Three. Move.

I shoot out in the opposite direction of Homebase, back toward my Airstream. Faintly, from behind me, I can hear the clack of high heels on the courtyard entrance as the other bachelorette partiers arrive.

I need a costume change, to hold the cards in my hands and breathe. Fortunately, the one thing I no longer need is a coffee. Every bubbly, wobbly sensation has sharpened and sobered into one thing.

The command order: Do not fantasize about kissing Julia Kelley.

?When I step outside the main lobby doors to meet up with the bridesmaids, I try to embody the Mystic Maven persona with absolute commitment. I changed into a white spaghetti strap dress with a sweetheart neck, added a patterned wool shawl, and secured it with a vegan leather belt. On my feet are distressed gray vegan suede booties; in my hair I have quickly threaded thin gold ribbon into a few carefully placed mini braids. I carry a small beaded bag with my cards and the cleansing spray I use to protect the spaces I work in.

Despite all the elements being perfectly in place, I can't get the vibes quite right. I yank out the tiny brown bottle of spirit cleanse aid and spritz myself from head to toe for good measure, breathing in the mist containing mugwort, lavender, and California poppy. Its earthy smell is bright, fresh, with gentle floral notes, and it's not doing its goddamn job.

It's not the work that worries me. If I can read a room full of Kardashians without breaking a sweat, a few bridesmaids should be a breeze. What worries me are all the questions I have swimming around in my head and all the feelings bubbling to the surface. Tarot readers work with energy and intuition, which means keeping mine clear is a top priority when I'm on the job.

I'm the furthest thing from clear, and can only hope the sound bath Millie has scheduled ahead of my readings will move the rest of this pent-up energy far, far away from me.

When I first stumbled into tarot reading as a self-care method during college, I didn't work with herbs or crystals, had never had a Reiki session or been to a sound bath. Now that world is my second home, somewhere I reside almost as much as my day-to-day. There, the Universe has everything we need to heal, which is so different from my LA life, where Peloton is God, psycho-dermatology is all the rage, and everyone is either in therapy or talking about it over mimosas at brunch.

I live in both, but I don't fully fit in either.

Story of my life.

I shove the currently useless mist back in my bag and suck air through my nostrils. Cleansing breaths, focused thoughts. This is all manageable. This is all fine. Julia isn't coming tonight. She passed on Millie's offer, she's all work and no play—which isn't how she once was, but okay. I should take her lead and buckle down, but the other racing thought in my head is Piper Cunningham shaped.

A very distracting shape.

It shouldn't matter to me who Piper is to Julia. It's none of my business, really. I'm not trying to wash the last ten years—all the pain of those few smoldering weeks that one August, or the turmoil that tormented me for months afterward—under the bridge. I'm not trying to feel that rush of adrenaline from brushing skin on skin, or taking in the scent of her hair as I nuzzled in close before we kissed. I'm not trying to be in love with a girl again, not when I still can't say the word for what that means out loud.

"Impeccable vibes," comes Millie's sunny voice from behind me. I take a calculated pause to get my smile painted on before turning to see the bridal party—including the new bachelorettes only arrivals—dressed in varying shades of cream, blush, and ecru, skin glowing in the golden hour light.

The twins are easy to spot. Glam, leggy, East Asian, and equally stunning. One of them—likely Jenni—is staring daggers at Coco, popping bubble gum in a fit of barely contained rage.

The other women look like influencers: camera ready, all flawless, all branded.

Even though they are dressed to match Millie's boho spiritual goddess color scheme, their true styles still shine through. One of them is clearly a full-figured vintage-Disney model, who likely goes to cons and talks about Star Wars on podcasts. She's wearing a cream corset dress with a subtle Minnie Mouse etched into the boning. The other is probably a fitness influencer, because she's wearing Alo Yoga pants and a sports bra beneath a fluffy white oversized jacket she's left unzipped to show off her rock-hard abs.

Beside them hovers a woman holding a Fujifilm camera, newer than the model I use to shoot YouTube content, and carrying a bulky gray bag that's likely full of camera equipment.

We close the gap, and Millie does some soft finger claps for my ensemble as if we're at a poetry jam and I just read out some especially poignant iambic pentameter.

"We should get some shots in front of the entrance," Millie says, going into influencer mode.

"Lighting's good here," Coco—who is doing a fantastic job ignoring Jenni—says.

She's wearing a cream romper and white (probably not vegan) leather jacket. She chases the sunlight for a selfie but comes to a standstill beneath a wash of amber light a few feet in front of the doors. I'm watching her smirk into the camera when I feel a body move up behind me, and I turn with a jolt to see Piper practically leering, covered head to toe in—you guessed it—Chanel.

"I see you didn't get the all-white memo," she says, but her eyes trip over the lines of my patterned wool shawl.

"Call me a rebel," I reply. "I'm not a bridesmaid, so I don't think the dress code exactly applies."

"She'll want you in the photos."

"She said it was an impeccable vibe." My palms are sweating.

"It's not the same thing as being the aesthetic."

Jesus, okay. Claws out. It's probably a waste of energy to argue, but I won't let that stop me. "My style is a brand staple. Millie hired Mystic Maven for my vibes."

Piper's lips dance into an almost sneer. "I only said something so you wouldn't feel embarrassed that you stick out." She winks. "Just looking out for you."

I get a twinge in my stomach and the knee-jerk desire to say thank you. What the hell is that about? I should want to trip her on her way into the party bus—which has just pulled up—but there's something about Piper that disarms normal survival instincts. She pounces, digging in her claws, and then I feel the need to apologize for getting blood in her fur.

Millie motions me over to take a photo with her crew, pointing to the inviting space between Coco and Natalie, but now I'm second-guessing if my aesthetic will actually ruin the vibe, and rather than make a decision or run back to change with my tail between my legs, I pretend to be checking a text and make my way hastily onto the bus.

The party bus is one of those sleek Mercedes sprinter vans, complete with a single pole for dancing. There are leather bench seats running the length, breaking only for the neon-lit bar in the center. It's fully stocked with booze, plus those bougie sparkling teas that Millie is a brand ambassador for. I grab one, taking a seat at the far end of the bench. I hear them moving toward the bus and I instinctively brace. I don't know why I'm on the edge of a meltdown. I've taken complicated jobs before, been on major TV shows, read cards for stars, had a fucking stalker even. Being in the proximity of a girl I once knew should not be throwing me for such a goddamn loop. But it is. It's not Piper's viper gaze or the way she's picking at my loose threads. It's not stage fright.

It's Julia.

Just knowing she's nearby makes my heart race and brain go foggy-fuzzy.

I close my eyes, picturing my hypnotherapy safe space. Thank Spirit, it comes to me quickly this time.

The sound of birds, the gentle lap of water from the lake, are almost real.

For most of my childhood and adolescence, my parents had a timeshare near Big Bear Lake. We'd go for the summer just to hang out near the water, hike the trails, and canoe. But there was a spot under heavy tree growth where the shore of the lake curved around and my parents couldn't see me from the house. I used to hide there to get a few minutes of alone time.

It was just the three of us, and that meant I was the center of every single activity, pitted against each parent in their competition of who could love me—or the other—more. It sounds shitty to complain, but love can smother just as easily as neglect can make you wither. It felt like if I had any emotion besides totally content , I would crush their souls. To satisfy their expectations, I played a role, a performance I got supergood at giving over the years. It wasn't like they ever requested it out loud, or got angry if I wasn't perfect, but they never really had a chance, either. I never disappointed.

Still, it made me want to bolt, so I would sometimes. They'd be cooking dinner, or drinking wine on the deck, and I'd peace out just long enough that they didn't get worried.

On that little curve of rocky beach, under the cover of fir trees, they couldn't see me, so I didn't have to pretend. I see it now—can almost smell the musk of those fir trees. In this safe space, my mind can go quiet, my subconscious can take over. I let out a sigh as calm settles on my skin like dew, feeling reassured, capable, slipping into a sense of—

A ruckus of voices breaks through the birds chirping, lapping of water, motherfucking calm of my safe space. And then her voice—"Where should I sit?"—crashes my lakeside retreat into a million tiny pieces.

My eyes fly open, defenses pricked, senses on overdrive.

Julia stands at the entrance to the bus, wild tendrils of hair wisping around her head like she ran here, lips tinted berry red, cheeks flushed, wearing a structured bomber jacket over the pin-striped shirt from earlier.

And staring right at me.