One
The back corner of the bar known as Bonne Nuit echoed with the jovial, slightly manic titters and squeals that could only belong to a group of women who were two hours into a bachelorette party. Emmy Miura kept smiling as the feminine chaos surrounded her and she tried to tamp down the deep, heartfelt longing she felt for her comfy pants. They were at home all alone, probably missing her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d left them for so long on a Saturday night. Trying not to sulk, she shifted until the strapless cocktail dress she’d bought for the occasion—at her sister’s subtle insistence—settled a little more comfortably around her.
“Deep breaths,” her best friend of a million years, Sarah, murmured to her.
“I am a bad person for wanting to leave.”
“You are a good sister for staying.”
That was one way to look at it, and Emmy did enjoy seeing May’s happiness, which was flowing more freely than the happy hour specials. Her sister, adorned with asparkling headband coated in curlicues of metallic ribbon, was leaning over to listen to one of her friends. Whatever the friend said lit up May’s face.
“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, absolutely. I have to tell the story. I don’t even care if some of you already heard it a million times. Emmy, cover your ears.”
Emmy immediately went on alert. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to tell—shh, seriously, guys, this is good—I’m going to tell the story of how me and Victor met. Emmy hates this because she is a cynic and a nonbeliever, but I’m telling it anyway because it is my party!”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“How did they meet?” Sarah asked.
“She went to a sex psychic,” Emmy muttered under her breath.
“Sorry. Run that by me one more time?”
Emmy gestured to her sister, indicating Sarah should listen to May, and repeated, “She went to a sex psychic.”
As May launched into the story, Emmy clearly recalled her own version of events as if they had unfolded only yesterday. In reality, it had been months ago. Not enough months, Emmy thought, to justify the rock on her sister’s finger. But Emmy’s opinion didn’t matter. May was head-over-heels, or so she said, and had expressed zero doubts about her future with Victor.
“It all started with the worst date of my life,” May recited, hamming it up for her intoxicated audience. “Seriously, I matched with this guy, and he was cute, but I should’ve turned him down when his profile said one of his hobbies was ‘Observing.’ What even is that? Anyway, he was so proud of himself for choosing a casual setting for our firstdate so there would be no pressure. I know this because he told me that was why he had chosen Bunkers for our date on what happened to be half-price wing night. He claimed he wasn’t aware of this, but he ordered two baskets of wings, so the jury’s out.”
Emmy knew the details of this date as if she’d been there. She’d received an infuriated and defeated text that very night detailing the colossal failure. It had hurt Emmy’s heart because her sister had been convinced true love was right around the corner, but it kept evading her. Still, May’s relentless optimism kept her going out on first date after first date.
Then, a few days later, a different text pinged its way onto Emmy’s phone. It was one of her sister’s signature superlatives, and it promised to be an interesting one.
Just had the most amazing experience of my life!!! Meet me at Coffee Fix on ur lunch break! I’ve got pictures!!!!!
A little uncertain of what pictures May could have to show her—and curious why said pictures couldn’t be texted or emailed—Emmy had joined May at their favorite coffee shop as requested. May waved her over to a table for two by the window. She was sipping from a steaming mug and tapping away on her phone. A second mug waited for Emmy, and she gratefully took a sip of the triple shot latte after she sat down.
“One second… There! My dating profiles are gone,” May announced proudly, putting her phone down on the table.
“Profiles plural? How many did you have?”
“Three. But they’re gone now because I just had a session with a sex psychic.”
Emmy had always disparaged moments in books and movies when, after receiving a shocking bit of news, a character did a spit take. It felt unrealistic to her. But she nearly had to eat her words as coffee poured back out of her mouth and into the mug mid-sip.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t go all Emmy on me. Just hear me out. I found this little boutique in the Cities that sells romance novels and sex toys and stuff. I was feeling down after that last date, so I went inside to see if I could find something to cheer myself up. Turns out, the place was brand new which is why I’d never seen it before. Just opened a couple weeks ago. The owner—Lucy—is a sex psychic. She had her own deck of sex Tarot cards that she illustrated herself.”
May picked up her phone again, this time to open her photos, and showed Emmy a picture of a Tarot spread. Emmy felt her eyebrows climb all the way up into her hairline.
“That is… a lot of penises.”
“Vaginas, too,” May added cheerily. “And boobs.”
“Okay…”
