Yesterday I would have told you I didn’t believe in astrology. Science is my life, not celestial mythology. And yet this morning I am aching for this stranger to tell me which feelings are real and which ones I should act on. For this reason, I spill my secret. The one more confusing than Beckett’s behavior. The one I wouldn’t dare hint at outside this room.
“There’s a woman,” I start. “But I’m married. And she’s married.”
“Which one is the bigger obstacle?” Rini asks without a hint of judgment. I’m sure these four walls have seen it all. I consider the factors.
“I value loyalty. My husband works in politics. He values appearances. Together we make a good team, but there’s no love anymore. It wouldn’t be easy, but our marriage has been unraveling for a long time. Meanwhile, she and her husband have always been toxic. She could do so much better, but she has no idea.”
Even if I didn’t name her, I cannot believe I admitted I have feelings for Aimee. Out loud. I shift my gaze up to the space between me and Rini, half imagining I can see the words floating above us. There’s a woman. I’m married. She’s married. Circling like smoke rings. Smoke rings that don’t even feel real.
“I see a lot of hidden emotion here. Not in your birth chart, but in your current transits. A lot of shame. Does that ring true?” Rini asks.
I nod, unable to speak. As far as a generalization goes, that one cuts deep to the bone.
“The eighth house symbolizes things you need to let go of. Shame is all over that. In your current situation at home and your blossoming love for her.”
It’s not a leap to question whether I’m feeling shame, but the kindness in her tone forms a lump in my throat.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Follow the shame,” Rini says.
I love an assignment, but this instruction goes against my every instinct to remain composed and in control. I don’t wallow in shame, ever.
“You don’t have to drown yourself in it, but use it as a guide to reflect on the deeper-seated feelings,” she adds.
Rini announces our time is up and slides her papers into a folder. My mind freezes in panic. That’s not enough information. What kind of shame signs am I looking for? And what if I don’t have answers by the end of the weekend when the transit ends?
Rini stands and walks to the door. Her hand on the doorknob represents the last grains of sand slipping down an hourglass. Rini opens the door a crack, but I bolt over to slam it shut before she ushers me out.
“Wait, what will happen if I don’t act before this transit period ends? Won’t everything continue on as normal?”
Rini takes a large step back toward the bookshelves behind the desk, startled by my quick movements. Frightened even. After all, I’m a complete stranger to her. Despite my designer Veronica Beard slides, I might look unhinged. My entire body is blocking the door.
“I didn’t mean to bombard you,” I say.
“I don’t scare easily, Farah,” Rini says, her hands clasped behind her back.
“This part of the reading has been a surprise,” I explain. “There has to be more you can tell me. What will happen if I miss the signs? Will everything still be normal?”
“Perhaps on the surface. But there will be many opportunities lost. What happens then?”
A rhetorical question. Indeed, what happens to lost opportunities? Do they come back around or are they gone forever?
“Your whole life is going to change this weekend, that much is certain. The changes have been set in motion and you cannot control them. You can fight it, try to salvage something of your old life, or you can let it happen, let the waves take you out to sea. There’s knowledge out there.”
This makes no sense. I don’t let waves take me out to sea. Do I look like some kind of surfer? I don’t know what she means when she says my whole life is going to change this weekend, but I do know she’s wrong about something: there’s nothing I can’t control in the end.
ADAM
This is the best vacation ever.
Last night the weekend took a sharp detour from drown-my-sorrows-in-alcohol into dream-come-true-paradise.
“Writing early this morning?” Aimee asks when she returns from her morning run. She’s slick with sweat, her face red.
“Huge breakthrough last night,” I say. “Huge.”
I keep my focus on the laptop screen, even though I’ve lost my train of thought. I wish I wasn’t working in the bed. It sends the wrong message. I need to convey I’m in the “do not disturb” phase of writing. Which, unlike yesterday, is actually true. I’m inspired.
“No golf for you, then?” she asks.
I shake my head, reinforcing the point. But Aimee is relentless when she wants something. She used to be relentless when she wanted me.
She leans over me on the bed and kisses my ear. She slides her hand over my pants. My body responds automatically, the blood rushing away from my brain.
I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, forcing her off. I move my laptop to the desk. I was weak when she tempted me yesterday, but I’m not falling for it again. Definitely not after what happened last night.
“Well, I can’t wait to read this draft when you’re ready. I am already guessing the ways that Scarlett’s arc might flourish,” Aimee says.
This is a development. Aimee’s finally read the last book and she’s not-so-subtly letting me know. Too little, too late.
“I have to write,” I say, pushing her away.
Thankfully, Aimee has an iron ego when she wants to brush off an insult. She playfully retreats to the bathroom, stripping her clothes off on the way.
I wait until I hear the shower water and I take advantage of what she started. I unzip my pants, close my eyes, and think about Eden.
Eden, my girl in the scarlet-red dress.
