I don’t want to be seen as someone with a pattern of being a charity case.
“Anyway, it’s not that important,” I say. “It just resonated for a second.”
Felix accepts this without argument, looking a little relieved I’m not pursuing the topic. I know I’ve said too much already.
“It’s nice out here,” he says. “Do you want to take a walk around the deck?”
“Sure,” I say.
We wander for a few minutes in the moonlight. It’s getting late, and there aren’t many people around. We stop and look up at the stars.
He’s quiet, and I wonder if he’s still put off by my oversharing.
“Sorry for getting stressed about tarot,” I say. “Didn’t mean to bring down the tone.”
“Ha,” he says. “Not your fault. Wasn’t much to like in my cards either, was there? I blame Olenska.”
It did not occur to me his bad mood could be abouthiscards.
“Is what she said true?” I ask. “Have you been cheated on?”
“Not that I know of,” he says. “But I suppose I’ve felt badly used.”
“How so?”
He groans. “This will make me sound likesucha prat,” he says.
“Well, I already know you’re a prat. Your sisters have made it very clear.”
“Bless them.”
“Anyway, you were saying?”
He rubs his temple, like this conversation is giving him a headache. I’m about to rescind the question, but he says: “Several of my exes were quite… how to put it? Socially ambitious. I had a bit of notoriety in the tabs as a kid—bad posh boy about London and all that—and my first girlfriend, Emma, wanted to be inTatlera bit more than she actually wanted to be with me. Took me a while to figure it out. Which didn’t stop me from repeating the pattern a few more times.”
“Oof,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
It does not escape me that we are from diametrically opposite worlds. His, where just being seen with him can get you into a society magazine. Mine, where $1.50-a-slice pizza plays heavily into my diet.
Still, it’s nice that we can confide in each other. I wonder if we’d be as forthcoming if we were actually dating.
“Well, so much for tarot being a fun diversion,” I say. “I was hoping to pull the Empress card.”
“What’s the Empress card?” he asks.
“It’s basically like drawing Beyoncé. She’s this beautiful woman in robes sitting on a red throne, holding a gold wand into the sky. She’s a symbol of fertility—but not just the babies kind. Like everything. The fulfillment of passion, the power of creativity, abundance, prosperity, romantic love. The whole deal.”
“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t know that was an option. Better that than a bunch of swords plunged into you.”
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to draw her, and I strike out every time.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’re every bit Beyoncé to me,” he says.
“Thanks. Finally someone notices.”
“I do nothing but notice you.”
Emotion wells up in me. “Same,” I whisper. “Same.”
