“Sexy? Hot?”
“Is it very unromantic to say it’s completely comfortable?”
Charlie laughs. “It’s very un-Mara.”
She reaches over the table and squeezes both my hands. “I love you,” she says. “But why were you in Vienna? I’m a bit confused.”
“It was a whole impulsive decision thing when I thought my flatmate was in love with his ex-girlfriend. There’s actually a lot to catch you up on,” I say, looking down at my phone, “and I’ve really got to go soon. We’ve worked so hard, and I need to get to the church and join everyone.”
“Can I see of a photo of him?”
“Of Ash?”
“No, the Austrian guy. The reason, I presume, that this makeover happened and the reason you look so damned sophisticated suddenly.”
“Sure.” I flip my phone over and pull up Instagram and then click on his profile, a new image there catching my eye right away.
It’s a photo of Joe, in London. He’s looking out toward Tower Bridge. And it’s captioned:A Date with My Destiny.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing,” I say, gawping at my phone.
“Show me!” she says, grabbing at it.
“It nothing, it’s just—he’s in London. I knew he would be, but look at the caption.”
“Oh my God, he is fucking gorgeous. No wonder you fake told him his fortune. I would have done the same.”
“I know,” I say, frowning. “Read the caption.”
“A date with my destiny?” she says, before she looks over at me. “Mara. What are you going to do?”
36
I am sort offloating as I wave Charlie off at the train station, trying not to think about Joe.
That caption has upended me. I stop on the sidewalk, and for the first time in a couple of weeks, I pull up my daily horoscope. The first one, inNew Yorkmagazine, says the following:
Stop and take a breath, Sagittarius. Trust yourself and move forward on that project you’ve been working on.
I frown. Which fucking project? Project Mara? Project save the lido? I flick across to Astrology.com and try another:
You are at a crossroads, Sagittarius, and it’s time to make a choice.
“Urghhh,” I groan as I slide my phone away and shout to the heavens. “Just once, just fuckingone time, it would be nice for someone to clearly just tell me what to do! I can’t do this on my own.”
“Well, lady, you could start by moving so I can get past,” says a voice, and I spin around to see an old man on a mobility scooter. I stand there staring at him until he reaches up to his horn and honks a high squeak, like something between a duck quack and a bicycle bell.
“Sorry,” I say, as I step aside, and he trundles slowly past.
“Trust your gut,” he says, nodding toward me as he rounds the corner toward the beach.
“I don’t know what my gut is saying!” I shout after him, waving my fist. “My gut is confused. My gut is a damn liar. My gut is full of shit!”
“Everyone’s gut is technically full of shit,” says another voice, making me jump.
It’s Lynn.
