“It’s in case—”
“Of nothing. The only people calling are to cancel or schedule and they can do that during business hours or leave a message. That’s how this works. Being at the beck and call of the shop is not going to make Mark sell it to you any sooner. Why would he? You do everything already and he takes the largest cut.” I hadn’t meant to bring up work frustrations on his birthday but it’s hard watching him bust his hump so much—and for what?
“Hey, Mark gave me my first chance. Mark’s the one who taught a young boy to dream and look at where I am now.” He tucks his key into his pocket while holding out his palm, assuming I’ll give the phone back.
“Ok, I’m sorry about trashing Mark. But it’s your birthday and I want you to forget about the everyday stuff and just enjoy today, this moment.” I play with a button on his shirt, ignoring his extended hand. “Let me keep the phone. I promise you won’t miss anything.”
“OK,” he says without hesitation.
“Wow.” I search his face, not moving an inch.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go.” He nudges me to move.
“I’m waiting for some sign that you’re really having a stroke or something. A tic maybe. You gave up that phone awfully easy.”
Briefly, he looks over my head, lost in his thoughts, and following a light snort looks back at me and says, “I’m trying here.”
I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him toward me as I lift up. With my lips a breath from his I say, “That’s good enough for me.” I press a quick kiss to his soft mouth. “Let’s do this.” I let go of his shirt to grab his hand then pull him behind me to the car. Our first stop is breakfast then I drive him south toward Cassadaga.
“Seriously?” He motions to the sign that welcomes us to community of psychics, tarot card readers, and spiritual healers and guides.
“Cool, right?” My hair blows around me and he reaches out to snag a strand. I drive through the small downtown and pull into a spot outside a large farmhouse with a neon light flashing from the front window
“I don’t know about cool.” He tugs. “I hope we aren’t stopping here.”
I kill the ignition and tuck my keys in my purse before I face him. “I know you don’t want to be here. I know this is something you would never do. Ever. But that’s the point. Today is all about trying new things and stepping out of our comfort zone. A day of firsts. Besides, it’s not like pilots don’t have their own superstitions, so just think of this as a little more to the right of that.” I lean forward and gently kiss him, hoping he’ll grasp the moment and live in it.
There’s surprise in his eyes as we cross into new territory—a place where we hang out, kiss, and spent this much time in each other’s company without it leading to sex.
“Come on. Don’t be so unexciting. It’s not like I’m asking you to get a tattoo or do karaoke or sky dive into a volcano. It’s harmless fun. I’ve never done this either and thought, if anything, it would provide for a good laugh.” I elbow him.
He catches my elbow, cupping it in his hand. “You’ve never been to a psychic? Really?” His thumb strokes me.
I pull my arm back, shoving my hands into my hair, forcing them to untangle my curls. I’ll not fall for his diversion tactic no matter how acute my need to touch him is.
“Nope. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure myself out by looking inward. The last thing I was open to was someone else telling me what they saw.”
The hesitation from him is too long, and an ember of anger pops up inside me. It’s good we’re keeping things casual, because I could see us trying to be more and his disinclination always being an issue between us, sparking fights. I shove his shoulder in hopes of pushing him out of zone.
“Okay,” he says with a curt shake of his head. “What the hell am I thinking?”
“Yay.” I clap my hands with both delight and sarcasm. “I promise this is going to be fun.”
“I doubt you can promise that.” He follows it with a heavy sigh.
“I promise you’ll have fun. Even if it only lasts a small, teensy tiny moment.” After a quick squeeze to his knee, I exit the car and let free the laughter bubbling within me. I wait for him on the sidewalk. His slow shuffle toward me is deliberate but I won’t be baited. When he’s within range, I grab his arm and tug him toward the big farmhouse.
“I hear this woman is the best.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s the reliable source? The internet?”
“Jayne.” I reach for the front door, but he beats me to it and opens it, gesturing for me to precede him.
The house has not been renovated to become an office but instead still holds the original layout. The door opens into a large foyer with stairs and a large desk that sits across the hallway, blocking anyone from trespassing into the back space. Two rooms sit parallel from each other, one is open with seating, and the other is closed off by sliding wood doors.
A hipster-looking guy sits at the front desk. He puts the paperback he’s reading aside and beams at me through his thick-lensed, black-rimmed glasses. Well, at my chest.
“Can I help you?” he asks my breasts.
“Yes, we both want a reading. Can you schedule that?”
“Yes,” he says without looking away. “Madame Monica will be available in a few moments. Let me get some information from you. Like your name and phone number.” He pulls a pen from the desk drawer, his smile never wavering.
“I’m Josie and this is Brinn—”
“And why do you need our number?” Brinn steps up behind me and places a territorial hand around my waist.
“Oh...ah...I...well, in case you wanted to step out and get a coffee, I’d then be able to call you when Madame Monica is free.” His eyes go large behind his lenses as he looks between us.
“We’ll wait here. You said it would only be a few minutes anyway, right?” Suddenly, Brinn’s in charge.
He nods.
“Might as well not take the chance by leaving and maybe missing our opportunity with Madame Monica.” He steers me from the front desk with an arm still around my waist and pulls me down onto the love seat, forgoing the large couch and individual chairs.
I bump him with my shoulder and arch a brow. “Something bother you, McRae?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says while continuing to stare down the hipster.
Across the hall, the double sliding doors come open with a bang and a woman with crazy curly hair stands in the opening. I assume she’s Madame Monica. She’s not dressed as I imagined a psychic would be; I suppose I expected flowy clothes and several bracelets clanging together with her every movement. Instead, she wears jeans so tight they accentuate her front butt, a leopard print tank top, and sneakers. She’s older and overly tanned.
One might think she’d have known to avoid the sun, as a psychic, but then maybe she knows something the rest of us don’t. The skin around her lips wrinkles in a perpetual pucker, already anticipating the next draw from a cigarette. As if reading my mind, she lifts an electronic cigarette, inhales long and slow before she blows out a puff of vapor smoke that smells like peach Schnapps.