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 gives me a look.
“I mean, for food,” I say a bit primly.
He flashes a quick grin, enjoying my discomfort. “So. Christian. You like him.”
“Yes. I do,” I confirm as I inspect the sandwich. “What’s on this?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Roasted turkey breast. Cranberry sauce. Brie. Magic.”
I smile.
“So?” Archer says as I take a bite.
I look over, surprised to see that he’s watching me. “So what?”
“Can I come to the wedding?”
I choke a little on the sandwich and have to wash it down with wine. “Why so nosy about Christian?”
“Just being polite, Randy.”
“Actually, being nosy is the opposite of polite.”
He shrugs.
For a while we sit in silence, enjoying our sandwiches—which, to his point, does taste a bit like magic. The turkey is moist and flavorful, and the tartness of the cranberries keeps the Brie from becoming too rich and overwhelming. The bread is freshly baked, and heavenly.
“What made you do this?” I finally ask.
I hand him the last quarter of my sandwich that I’m too full to finish, and he accepts it without hesitation. “Do what?”
“This… picnic,” I say, gesturing at the spread.
Archers swallows a bite of sandwich, takes a sip of wine. “I was alone. Figured you were, too. Not the way one should spend a holiday if they don’t have to.”
“That’s surprisingly… thoughtful.”
“Just had my software updated,” he says, tapping his temple, then balls up the sandwich wrapper with a large fist and drops it into the empty bag.
“You know, you’re not what I expected a professional artist to be like,” I tell him.
“Oh god. Buy the girl a sandwich, and she wants to get deep.” He glances over. “What’d you expect? That we all cut off our own ears, Van Gogh style?”
“No. I just mean that I’ve always thought there was a stark divide between art and science. Subjective versus objective. Emotions and intuition versus data and facts.”
“I don’t know that you’re wrong on that,” he says after a moment.
“And yet.” I wave my finger at him. “You’re the only artist I know and you’re also very computational in the way you interact with people. Or at least with me.”
Archer reaches for his wineglass and leans back in his chair, legs extended so his boots pop out from beneath the blanket. He sets the wine on his flat stomach as he seems to consider what I’ve said.
“I have them,” he says slowly after a long moment.
“Have what?”
He sips his wine. “Emotions.”
My head snaps up, and even though we’re sharing a blanket, I’m still a little surprised to find him so close somehow, especially since the sun’s just set. It’s not as dark as it typically is when we’re up here.
“I didn’t mean that you don’t have emotions,” I say softly.
“I’m just saying that one can have emotions without spewing them all over the place,” he grumbles. “You know that better than anyone.”
I tilt my head to the side. “What’s your moon sign again?”
“You tell me. You’re the astrologist. Why? What does it matter?”
“Your moon sign determines your emotional makeup.”
“Huh.”
“I remember your sun sign,” I say, snapping my fingers. “You’re an Aries.”
“Fascinating.”
“Don’t you want to know what that means?”
“I do not.”
“But—”
“Randy.” Lazily, he rolls his head in my direction, and since I’m still facing him, it brings our faces close together, though somehow it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should. “What do you say you take a break from the Horoscope Project tonight? Just for tonight, be Miranda. Not an astrologist, not an astronomer. Just a woman who believes she makes her own destiny. Who doesn’t believe the stars determine our personality or love match.”
For a moment I only look at him, then I hear myself whisper, “Okay.”
I feel a little shaken, though I don’t fully know why. His blue eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest of moments before he looks away.
I, too, look away, turning my gaze up to the sky, burrowing further beneath the blanket even though I feel suddenly warm.
And as the night stretches on into hours of gentle bickering alternating with companionable silence, I let myself imagine that for the foreseeable future I’m not committed to living my astrological recommendations. That I also wasn’t returning to my old life, the one where academic ambitions and relationships aren’t compatible.
I let myself imagine who might be in that hypothetical, limitless, dream-world future.
The fact that Christian isn’t the first person to pop to mind alarms me. Enough so that I make sure to call him and Kylee the moment I get back downstairs.
They’re three hours behind, so I catch them just as they’ve finished up their pie.
“I miss you,” Christian says after Kylee’s wandered off to watch Planes, Trains and Automobiles with her grandparents.
“Me, too,” I say. And I do mean it. I genuinely like Christian; I genuinely enjoy his company.
But as I drift off to sleep later that night, I can’t help but wonder: Isn’t there supposed to be… more?