That went even worse than our first meeting.
“Hey, keep it down. I’m watching here,” she says, shoving me without a glance, eyes glued to aSupernaturalrerun.
I flash back to Moyo’s shocked face when I talked about her vague questionnaire responses.
Did I speak too bluntly?I worked on tone with Vee during the coaching crash course. I thought we were getting somewhere at the beginning. It was wonderful hearing more about her work and being a soundboard. Different from anything I’ve done, but comfortable. Practically natural.
But how am I supposed to keep faking that I’m a good Saturn if my major chance to fix my algorithm hates me? In every one-on-one encounter with Moyo, our personalities clash, leaving my heart racing like an Olympic show horse. Between arguing loud enough for her neighbors to hear, feeling genuinely happy afterward, pulling that little stunt with the French at the mixer—a language I haven’t spoken in years but somehow managed to roll off my tongue because it was addressed to her—feeling sonatural listening to her, and then freezing up when her fingers touched my palm, I am very confused. What a shit show.
I’ve been attracted to people before but nothing like this.
Over the past couple of days, I’ve struggled to forget the way her eyes twinkled when we spoke at the mixer. All her attempts to challenge me, plus her expectant look as she waited for me to return the challenge, lit a spark I don’t know how to put out. This rapport makes me happy in a way I’ve never experienced in previous relationships. And honestly, in ways I didn’t think I could feel as a Saturnian.
I inhale a deep breath. And then another.
“Either you share and I help, or you go freak out in your room and let me get back to my show,” Vee says, muting the TV.
Her searching eyes wear me down. May as well tell her the truth. “I have a question. Hypothetical, of course.”
Vee sits up. “Hit me.”
I take another deep breath. How do I phrase this without sounding ridiculous or revealing that I think there’s something else wrong with my powers, aside from not having The Sight?
“Let’s say someone like us meets someone…normal. Is it common, as common as it can be, to develop attraction faster than we did before becoming pseudo-celestials?”
My cousin cocks her head, and her eyes squint as she assesses me. After a beat, her eyes widen before returning to normal. I know that reaction—Vee is a bloodhound for love. Not that what I’m feeling is love. But she can sense any strong emotional connections. I brace myself for her typical prying, but she subverts expectations.
“A lot is haywire at first,” Vee says, and relief washes over me. “But after about a week or so, the emotions settle and it’s business as usual.”
Great.
“Another question. When you say a week, do you mean a week after meeting the person or a week after the transfer ceremony?”
“After the transfer ceremony,” she answers, and my relief dries up.
I’m fucked then. Aside from not having The Sight, what little power Ido have has gone haywire. Which explains a lot. At the mixer, I interrupted that guy trying to chat Moyo up, not only because I felt he was unsuitable for her but because I thought I’d do a better job. I, a Saturn, a sign notorious for weak relationships, thought I’d do better than a nice, probably decent guy actively searching for a partner. The jokes write themselves.
Vee continues. “Also, hypothetically, if you—” I cough and shake my head. She corrects herself. “Ifsomeonehas such strong feelings that could be described as a crush, I’d tell them it’s only a crush and not to worry. It doesn’t have anything to do with The Sight or our godhood.”
That’s probably true for Vee, Merc, and anyone else who gained The Sight not long after the transfer ceremony. But I’m a late bloomer—coincidentally, another Saturn thing—so my path is different. It has to be. No regular crush is this consuming. I’ve only met Moyo a couple of times, and I already understand her in ways that both trouble and fascinate me. I pick up on her barely noticeable discomfort and make her laugh, and we share moments that stop all space and time. Every time I get caught in her eyes it feels like I’m in a cyclone, and I’m not sure I want to be rescued.
“I can feel you thinking,” Vee says. “I don’t want to pry but…”
I sigh. Better to get this over with. “Promise not to scream. Or to tell Merc. Or scream.”
“You said scream twice.”
“Exactly.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I think I might have a crush on her. My coaching client. It’s not love,” I add quickly, “but being around her does something I can’t explain.” Heightened emotions or not, the words are out in the world.
“You’re just realizing this?” she deadpans and then bursts out laughing. “You’ve already gushed to me about her. And I haven’t heard you gush about anyone since”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“ever.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out. I do not gush, and in the rare moments I did gush, it was long before I met Moyo. Before Mom died and when Dad was still present. When I thought love was apossibility because of their relationship. Before I realized how much time Saturn stole from its vessels. But that illusion faded with time as Mom’s health slowly declined, and Dad’s devotion to Saturn over his family meant he wasn’t present enough to intervene.
After Mom, all hope for true love died a slow death. Or so I thought. Maybe it didn’t completely die off. If this isn’t some wayward godly power thing, I suppose my heart could be stoking the embers. Regardless, I doubt what I’m feeling for Moyo is love. Having the powers I have and knowing what I know about the analytical way we assign matches, can I even say love exists?
“You can, and should, open your heart. If you were thinking about it,” Vee says.
