Cackle(4)

“Oh,” I say. I wipe my hand on my jeans. It grew sweaty during its time in her too-firm grasp. “That’s okay. It’s fine.”

I wait for her to wish me well or offer me an aura cleanse or specifics about a short life line, something. But she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. She remains in her chair with a look that’s equal parts sour and distressed. I can’t tell if she feels sorry for me, or if she’s about to chase me out of here with a vial of holy water and a crucifix.

I nod at her, muttering a quick thanks as I hurry away, out through the velvet curtain. On the other side, Nadia stands in front of one of the bookshelves with her hands on her hips.

She’s surprised to see me.

“That was fast,” she says. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I’m shrouded in darkness.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. Can we go?”

Nadia is fun, sweet and bubbly as Coca-Cola, but she’s not so happy-go-lucky she can’t tell when something’s wrong. She says, “Yeah, let’s go.”

As we turn to leave, I catch Atlas poking her head through the curtains. Her face is drained of color. It floats before the dark velvet like an ominous moon.

I look at Nadia, wide eyes asking, Are you seeing this?

She clutches my wrist as confirmation.

We bolt for the door. When we’re outside, we don’t slow down. We speed up. We don’t stop. We run for two blocks, until we’re out of breath.

“I mean,” she says, “really?”

“She looked at my hand like this,” I say, doing my best impression, “and then was like, ‘Happy birthday.’?”

“So weird,” Nadia says.

“Yeah, happy birthday to me and my dark energy.”

“She told me I’m going to marry the love of my life at twenty-eight. That’s next year! I’m not even dating anyone I’m that into right now. She said his name won’t be his name—whatever that means. I’m going to have one son and move somewhere warm, like Florida or California.”

“Sounds nice. Except the Florida part.”

“What’s wrong with Florida?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was supposed to be fun.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “Let’s just forget it ever happened.”

As we walk, I listen to the sound of her heels click-clacking on the gum-spotted city sidewalk. I listen to drunk strangers in loud conversation. I listen to the distant scream of sirens, the throbbing bass escaping from bars whenever the bouncers open the doors for shrill young girls in skintight dresses flashing their IDs.

The emotional scaffolding that I put up earlier today in preparation for this night out is beginning to come down. I feel old and sad and hopeless. The psychic didn’t help, but it’s not her fault. My future is dark.

Leaving the city after twelve years, leaving my apartment, the one I shared with Sam, my now ex-boyfriend but still best friend. I can’t afford to stay. I can barely afford to leave.

I had no choice but to take the teaching position upstate. I’m going to be living alone in a small town where I don’t know anyone. I had never even heard of Rowan before. When that psychic looked into my future, she probably saw a lot of streaming services and microwavable dinners and crying, and I don’t know . . . probably cats.

I guess I like cats all right.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Nadia says.

“It’s not that.”

“What is it?”

“I’m thirty. Thirty years old. Single . . .”

Nadia clutches her chest. “The scandal.”

“There’s a stigma. The spinster. I didn’t picture . . . I don’t know. Never mind.”

“It’s not like that anymore. Everyone talks about how your thirties are so great. Like, you spend your twenties figuring out who you are, and then you can enjoy your thirties.”

“I know,” I tell her. “That’s what makes it worse. I don’t have anything figured out.”

“Don’t assume everything is going to be bad, Annie. Have some faith.”

She spins around and puts her arms up.

She’s found it. The pizzeria. We’re here.

She leads me inside and we each get greasy slices of pepperoni. We eat them off of flaccid paper plates while sitting on the curb, sipping from the same can of Diet Coke.

When we’re done, Nadia calls a car for me. She tells me, “Everything is gonna be great, Annie. You’re gonna be great. If life gives you any trouble, punch it in the face. You got this.”

She blows me kisses and closes the door.

I cry because I miss her already, because of the friendship we could have had.

The driver turns the music up to drown me out.



* * *



—



When I get home, the futon is pulled out for me, made up with sheets and blankets and two pillows, one with a silk case. Sam is asleep in the bed we used to share. We’ve been alternating bed and futon, futon and bed. It was hard at first, but I’m used to it now.

That’s a lie. It’s still hard. I hate it.