Miranda in Retrograde

7. Virgo Season

VIRGO SEASON

Today is all about forgiveness and amendments, dear Gemini. You’ll be itching to restore harmony, so take the first step by mending fences with someone you’ve had a recent conflict with, perhaps by undertaking a shared goal. Their role in your life is not what it first seemed…

Listen, universe. I get you’re supposed to be all knowing, but I think you’ve gotten it wrong this time,” I say, tossing my phone aside in disgust after reading my horoscope.

There’s only one person I’ve had a recent conflict with, and the stars have one thing very wrong. I’m not itching to do anything with him, least of all apologize.

I’ll deal with that little bit of advice later. For now, I’m surprisingly eager to get back to yesterday’s home project advice.

Refilling my coffee, I grab my tape measure and head out to the front patio to take a few extra measurements for the greenhouse. My conversation with the mysterious Archer last night aside, I have no intention of abandoning the greenhouse project for a rooftop fence.

The fact that yet another plant has been nibbled on, its flowers all but decimated, renews my commitment.

Lillian’s yard— my yard for the next several months—is spacious by townhouse standards. There’s both a paved patio and small grassy area. Even still, there’s not exactly a ton of room to work with. Most of the space extends outward in a walkway leading toward the cute little gate marking the entrance to her property. And what little space is available off to the side she’s set up as an outdoor dining area.

I’ve considered putting the patio furniture in storage, and since we’re nearing the end of “dining alfresco” season, using that space for the greenhouse instead. But then I had another idea, one I like better…

A vertical greenhouse.

I read an article not long ago about the growing popularity of vertical farming , so I figure it can’t be that hard to implement that same approach on a smaller scale.

Currently Lillian’s plants are in a bunch of mismatched pots lined up against a wall of ivy on the right side of the property. I’ve never given much thought to what’s on the other side of the ivy. But now I know what, and who, lives there. And even as I take all of my measurements to determine the optimal footprint for my vertical greenhouse, my gaze keeps cutting to that ivy wall.

Finally, curiosity gets the best of me and I let the tape measure release with a snap. I walk over to the ivy wall and gently wiggle a finger beneath the leaves, only to find it’s not a wall at all. Instead of hitting a firm layer—brick, perhaps—my finger pokes through to the other side—

Someone flicks my finger, and not particularly gently.

“Ow!”

“Morning, Randy.” Archer’s voice sounds just as impassive in the morning as it does in the evening, as though he can just muster the bare amount of energy for a social interaction. “Sleep well?”

“Not particularly,” I say to the wall of ivy. “My usually peaceful nighttime routine was knocked askew by a surly interloper.”

“Hmm.” He makes a bored humming noise. “I can relate. I have a noisy new neighbor.”

“Noisy!” I exclaim. “I have never been accused of being noisy in my life!”

“You’re yelling, Randy.”

I narrow my eyes, inhaling for patience as my thumb flicks repeatedly at the metal tab at the end of the tape measure.

Unfortunately, Gemini Miranda has very clear marching orders for the day, and they do not involve strangling annoying artists with said tool.

… Take the first step by mending fences with someone you’ve had a recent conflict with… Their role in your life is not what it first seemed…

“Ugh. Fine,” I mutter.

I head toward the front gate at the front of the yard. The wooden gate was probably once white, but most of the paint has chipped off, and the latch dangles uselessly, one strong breeze away from falling off completely.

Perhaps that should have been my home project; it’s a good deal easier than my vertical greenhouse ambitions.

I walk the few feet to Archer’s gate. In all the times I’ve visited Lillian over the years, I’ve never given much thought to the neighbors. I’ve gotten the sense she’s on good terms with them, but she’s never mentioned names. Certainly not his name.

His gate is in slightly better condition than Lillian’s, but not much. I let myself in without invitation. His front yard is a mirror of Lillian’s in terms of layout, though more bare bones—I doubt any red fairies live here. There are no friendly flowers or whimsical gnomes, just a few uninspired green plants, and…

Him.

I stop when I get my first non-blurry glimpse of Archer in the daylight, because he is nothing like he is supposed to look.

Something about his low, unhurried way of speaking made me think he’d be older, but he’s only in his thirties. I can’t tell exactly where in his thirties, though, probably because the bottom half of his face is covered in dark scruff that is more “couldn’t be bothered to shave” than it is “look at my beard.” His dark hair is wavy, a little too messy, maybe a little too long, curling down over his ears. It gives the same message as his facial hair:

Couldn’t be bothered.

He’s wearing faded jeans, a no-frills white tee, his feet bare. Add the chipped mug in his hand and the man should look slovenly—but somehow, on him, it translates to a very bedroomy vibe.

I suppose it could be… sexy. If you were into that sort of thing. Which I am not.

“Should I turn around?” he asks, idly lifting the mug to his mouth and taking a sip. His fingers are long and tan, making me wonder if his recent trip was to somewhere sunny.

“Turn around?” I repeat.

“You know. Give you a nice long look at the back side as well?”

I give an intentionally dismissive little sniff. “I suppose it’s understandable you’d want to flatter yourself. If not you, then who?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly in a not-quite smile, and he takes another sip from his mug. His eyes are a dark blue, and completely unreadable as he gives me an unsubtle once-over.

I’m half braced for some sort of insult, given that I’m not yet showered. I’m wearing the same oversized sweater as last night, my hair’s in a limp ponytail, and I’ve misplaced the cute glasses I wear each morning before putting in my contacts, so I’m wearing an old pair, which are a little too big for my face, and with an outdated prescription to boot.

Not so outdated, however, that I can’t see he’s not exactly dazzled by my appearance, and that my bedroomy vibe is not quite as alluring as his.

“You always spend your mornings like this?” I ask. “Lurking about, hoping a finger will poke through the ivy wall so you can startle your neighbor?”

“ I’m not the one doing the poking,” he says. “And yes, I do enjoy starting my mornings in the outdoors. Or, I did. Lillian’s not nearly as loud as you.”

I frown. “Again, I am not noisy or loud.”

“You talk to yourself.”

“I do not.”

He sips his coffee and says nothing as he continues to study me.

Refocusing on my cause, I take a deep breath. “So. Archer. Apparently, we’re meant to mend fences.”

His eyebrows go up. “We’re meant to? According to whom?”

Damn. I do appreciate a man who drops a grammatically appropriate whom .

“My horoscope,” I say, lifting my chin and daring him to mock.

He accepts the dare because his eyes roll. “Oh no. You’re one of those.”

“One of those ?” I ask, sounding awfully affronted for someone who just a few months ago might have thought the same thing, if not have been rude enough to say it aloud.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding not regretful in the least. “By all means, mend fences. I’m happy to hear your apology.”

“ My apology? For what?!” I exclaim, forgetting all about my horoscope’s gentle lecture.

“You tell me.” Archer shrugs. “You’re the one who thought there was a fence to mend. I didn’t realize we had beef.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Beef. Do people still say that?”

He sips his coffee again. “Do I look like I’m stressing over whether or not my vocabulary is current?”

“You look like someone who isn’t stressing whether his haircut is current.”

Archer cocks his head to the side, lifting a finger to his ear. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That was our fragile fence. Splintering further.”

“Only because you keep hammering it with ill manners.”

“Says the woman who charged over to my front yard at 7 a.m. uninvited.”

He has a solid point there, but I will not be admitting it.

“Let’s start over,” I say, forcing a smile. “Let’s pretend we’re meeting now for the first time, and last night never happened.”

I walk toward him, noting that for a man who seems not to care about his appearance, he certainly smells good. Clean, but a little enigmatic as well. The sort of scent you can’t quite put your finger on.

I extend my right hand. “Hi. I’m Miranda.”

“Don’t you mean, Dr. Miranda Reed, PhD?”

I narrow my eyes and he rolls his again before shifting his mug to his left hand and extending his right. “You have a rather intense gaze, Randy. Are you always so serious?”

The handshake is meant to be perfunctory, more about the symbolism than contact itself, so I don’t appreciate in the slightest the little of crackle of awareness when his much larger palm closes around mine.

Startled, I lift my gaze to his, and his blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. “What else did your horoscope have to say? You don’t seem the type, by the way.”

“What type?”

“The woo-woo type. Aren’t doctors supposed to be logical? Not think the moon determines our mood, or whatever?”

I tug my hand away, which takes a second longer than it should, because his fingers take a bit too long to relinquish mine. Probably to annoy me.

“It’s a new thing.” I give my hand a little shake as I try to sort my thoughts, ignoring the way he notices and gives another of those half smirks at the gesture.

“What’s new?”

“Reading my horoscope. Following my horoscope,” I say, then order myself to stop talking before I tell this annoying stranger my entire story. Especially the recent, painful bits.

“Ah. Any chance you can leave me out of it?”

“Is this your vibe, or just your morning and late-night vibe?” I ask, waving my hand over him.

“What?”

“This indifferent ‘life bores me’ routine.”

“Ah,” he says again. “Just my sparkling personality, I’m afraid.”

“How pleasant for everyone around you.” I frown at him. “My horoscope says we’re supposed to have a shared goal. Perhaps that goal should be avoiding each other.”

“Love it. Stay off my roof, and we’ll have a deal.”

“ My roof,” I retort, crossing my arms. “I was wrong. You’re apparently not the one my horoscope was talking about, because I’m not itching to make harmony at all.”

“We could make something else,” he says, dropping his voice and giving me a once-over that’s a little more lingering than before.

“Gross,” I mutter.

He grins, looking the least bored I’ve seen him so far.

“By the way, I’m starting a project over there.” I point toward my yard. “And I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, so if you hear anything that sounds like I’ve cut my arm off while trying to build a greenhouse, I’d appreciate it if you could overlook our differences and call 911.”

I’m walking toward his front gate as I say this, but when he doesn’t reply at all, not even sarcastically, I glance back. “What? No snarky comment?”

Archer tips back his mug, finishing his coffee, then gives me a resigned look. “My grandfather owned a landscaping business.”

I blink. “Okay?”

He sighs. “His specialty? Building greenhouses. I used to help him every summer. I also can’t keep the damn rabbits away from my basil.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward some sad-looking plants.

“And?”

Archer makes a pained expression. “I think we’ve just found our ‘shared goal.’?”