I try not to think of any of it until I realize I’m caressing his palm in a way that doesn’t feel very fortune-teller-ish.
“You are traveling,” I say next. It’s a bit of a gamble, but then, I’m pretty sure that accent is not Hungarian.
He nods. “Concerts in Budapest, Prague, Frankfurt, Rome. Then we have the US most of the summer and the UK in late August. It’s a lot. It’s tiring.”
He’s going to be in the UK in August. My heart picks up to a gallop as I realize the predicament I’m in here. How can I meet him properly if he thinks I’m the fortune-teller? Was the emergency labor a twist of fate? Do I need to make a choice here—to take matters into my own hands? To give fate a nudge?
“You like traveling,” I say, running my finger down the middle line. His fingers flex slightly and I struggle to stifle a moan. “But you want to feel more settled?”
“Yes,” he confirms with a solitary nod, “that is correct.”
“You want to find a reason to stay in one place?”
I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out as quietly as I can.
“Well, perhaps,” he says, and I’m sure I see a very slight hint of something. Is he lonely? Lonely like me?
“Love,” I say, slowly, carefully, studying his reaction to the word.
And there it is again. Heishere because of love. He shifts in his seat awkwardly and nods. I think he’s also quite embarrassed. “Love?” he says shyly, almost breathlessly, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from climbing over the table and onto his lap.
“You are looking for love?” I say, squeezing his hand reassuringly, cursing myself for the little rise in intonation at the end of the sentence. I have to make predictions, not ask questions.
He shrugs and glances at the naked lovers on the cards just a few inches from our hands. I have to squish my thighs together.
“A deep, perfect love. A best friend. The kind of love where the world and the stars feel like they were made for you. The kind that leaves you breathless, but never,everinsecure?”
He looks up from the cards again, and I see the sides of his mouth curled slightly up in a smile.
“That sounds...” He pauses. “I mean...”
“But love is what you’re ready for? Like now? You’re single, right?”
And now he properly laughs, pulling his hand from mine, reaching into his side pocket and sliding out a small flask. I can see a redness in his cheeks as he takes a small swig of whatever there is in there. He looks back at me, his smile wide and full.
“Isn’t everyone who comes here looking for love?”
“Not everyone. Some people want money.”
“Money so they can find a better love,” he says, sliding the flask back into his pocket.
I’m right. He’s here because he wants apartnerand he’s too shy to admit it.
I start to feel worried. I have hardly any time here. What am I supposed to do?
“You want a big change in your life,” I continue as he leans forward and offers me his enormous hand again. His smile now is shy, and he gives me permission to continue by a slight rise of the chin and a nod. The heat and damp from where our fingers touch is intoxicating, and I am no longer sure where to go with this. I probably have two minutes left.
“You are ready for a new love. A great love,” I say, and then Itake a huge, deep breath and say as confidently as I can, “an English girl.”
“An English girl?” he says, his large brows coming together. “You can see that in my palm?”
I keep my voice steady. “An English girl. In a small town called Broadgate.”
“Broadgate?”
“Yes, Broadgate,” I say, as clearly as I can. “You can get the train there; there is a direct train from London Bridge. It’s in Kent.”
“Kent?”
