Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“Yes,” I confirm. “I believe that’s how it works.”
Mostly I try not to think about it.
“Well, whatever works for him,” Christian says amiably. “Just as long as he doesn’t have eyes for my girlfriend.”
I’m still wiping some grated Parmesan off the table, but at that I pause. “Your girlfriend. Me?”
Christian laughs. “I was aiming for subtlety, but perhaps I was too subtle if you have to ask who I meant.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Like I said, I’m—”
“New at this, I know.” He wipes his hands on his pants and closes the distance between us, pulling me to my feet once more. “I’d love to be the one to help you be a little less new at relationships. If you’re interested.”
I think it over, then give a slow nod. “I’m interested.”
“Good,” he says in a satisfied voice, pulling me in for a kiss. And even as I try to lose myself in the pleasant sensation, I can’t help thinking about that Sun/Neptune opposition today.
The one that’s making it difficult for me to discern fact from fiction.
SAGITTARIUS SEASON
The threat of change seems to be knocking on every door today, darling Gemini. You’ll feel as though you’re looking at everything with fresh eyes, from old routines to relationships that are perhaps not quite what you’ve always believed. Try to embrace the discomfort: it’s attempting to tell you something.
I’ve never been a big Thanksgiving person. I’m not anti, or anything; the holiday’s always just felt like too much.
Too much pressure. Too much family drama. Too much food.
Growing up, we’d always spent it somewhere else. Grandparents’, aunts and uncles’ (and not the cool aunts and uncles like Lillian, but the uptight ones who wouldn’t let you have pumpkin pie until you’d eaten the Brussels sprouts).
When the extended family had eventually scattered in my teens, my not-terribly-kitchen-inclined parents had taken to ordering a premade meal from the local grocery store. It must have been more for us kids’ sake than their own, because there hadn’t been even a whisper of a guilt trip when I’d stopped going home every year. Providing, of course, that I made it back for Christmas, which I always do.
But that means, more years than not, Thanksgiving is spent… alone. Daphne always goes to Michigan to spend it with her mom and stepdad, and Lillian has a long-standing tradition of a Caribbean cruise with her friends. I’m not close enough with any colleagues other than Elijah, and even his and my friendship isn’t remotely at the level of warranting a holiday invitation.
In years past, I’ve spent the long, luxurious weekend all to myself to… work.
And I don’t say that in a please-pity-me way. I’ve always loved it. I catch up on academic journals; I lesson-plan. I assess career goals. I grade papers, tweak exams. All while eating too much pie, because while I may not participate in most of the usual holiday traditions, I can certainly get behind the magic that is pecan pie. Until now, I have never been able to imagine a better way to enjoy a few days off.
But here’s the thing about making work your whole life:
When your work disappears?
You realize just how empty your life really is.
And how alone you really are.
Halfheartedly I sit at the kitchen table and open Predictive Astrology. I’ve felt pleased with myself these past couple of weeks for having graduated beyond the beginner astrology books, perhaps even surpassing Daphne’s knowledge of the field, at least in terms of facts.
But tonight, I can’t get into it. Any of it.
For the first time since I can remember, I don’t want to read. I don’t want to learn.
I don’t want to be alone.
And strangely, the absence I’m most aware of is… Archer. I haven’t really registered just how often he’s around until he’s not.
I hadn’t even realized he was planning to go out of town until I got a text message yesterday reminding me not to overwater his precious basil while he’s gone.
I do that now, pleased to see that the plant is thriving, as are the rosemary, thyme, and sage. I pluck a sage leaf now and lift it to my nose, the scent reminiscent of the Thanksgiving food I won’t be enjoying. Cooking for one had just felt sad, but all of the premade meals at the store yesterday had served a minimum of four.
Instead, I’d settled for picking up a pecan pie, which has always been a favorite.
In fact, maybe I’ll just make that my dinner. At least it’ll be Thanksgiving dinner adjacent.
I give the sage one last wistful sniff and go back inside. I’ve missed a FaceTime call from Christian.
I mean to call him back, and then… don’t.
I’m debating whether red or white wine is the least-gross pairing for pecan pie when Lillian’s too-loud doorbell has me nearly jumping out of my skin.