Miranda in Retrograde

8. Virgo Season

VIRGO SEASON

New Moon in Pisces today, dear Gemini. You’ll find yourself dabbling in a handful of firsts. Indulge in experimental spontaneity as long as you don’t use these moments as a distraction from your most essential purpose today: there’s a conversation or phone call you’ve been putting off. Today is the day.

You’re putting that in the wrong place,” Archer says as I start hammering a nail into a board.

I huff in frustration. “This is where you told me to!”

“No.” He comes toward me, lifts my hand holding the nail, and moves it the tiniest bit to the left. “ That’s where I told you to.”

I make a disgruntled sound and tug my hand away. He lets his hand drop, but doesn’t move, looking down at me. “You don’t like people telling you what to do.”

“Does anyone?” I shoulder him aside, out of my personal space.

Archer steps back but crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side, which, over the past couple of days, I’ve noticed is his habit when he’s assessing something. Or someone. Usually me.

I recognize it well. Growing up surrounded by scientists, I recognize someone intently studying a subject. I’d never thought about the fact that artists might intensely study something in the same way until now.

“You miss it?” he asks after a moment.

“What?” I give him a wary look out of the corner of my eye as I line up my hammer with the nail. We’ve been at this project for a couple of days now, and though I’ve gained quite a bit more confidence than when we started, hurling a hammer in the general vicinity of my fingers still makes me nervous.

“Teaching. Telling other people what to do.”

I slowly lower my hammer and turn to face him, eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I was a teacher?”

“Google. And don’t get prissy; I know you googled me, too.”

I scoff. “How do you know that?”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“Okay. Fine. Not that it told me anything,” I mutter. “You’re as famous for being reclusive as you are for being an artist.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a—” I huff. “Never mind.”

I lift the hammer and nail again, but just as I’m about to swing the hammer, he moves toward me, moving my hand a bit to the left once again.

“Just mark it for me already,” I say, exasperated.

He raises his hand to his head, pulls out a piece of charcoal that he seems to keep tucked behind his ear more often than not, and adds a tiny X to the right spot.

“I’m gonna get a beer. You want one?”

“Yes, because that goes so well with woodwork.”

“So take a break. It’s about to rain again.”

I glance up, and sure enough, the skies are darkening. It’s been a stormy past couple of days, mostly at night, which is why Archer and I haven’t had a chance to resume our battle for the roof. The rain takes care of watering the Buzzes and prevents him from taking his easel out.

“You’re right, but—hey!” I protest when I see he’s heading into my front door instead of going back to his house. “If you want beer, you won’t find it in there. Also, you’re way too comfortable inviting yourself in!”

He’s already gone, and I roll my eyes and follow him.

For the past couple of days, we’ve been building the greenhouse in my front patio area, and though Archer didn’t seem to be overstating his expertise, I’d vastly overestimated my own. It pains me to admit it, but book smart most definitely doesn’t translate to building stuff with my hands.

And to be fair…

I wouldn’t say Archer has been patient , exactly, but he hasn’t been as much of a jerk as he could have been.

Perhaps because he’s taken our joint project as an invitation to make himself perfectly at home in my home, helping himself to fridge contents, the bathroom, and my TV when his alma mater’s football game had been on.

“Hey. I mean it,” I say, following him inside. “You’re welcome to the wine, but I don’t have any—”

I skid to a halt, finding him leaning against my kitchen counter sipping a beer. “Where’d that come from?”

He nods toward the fridge. “Brought them over this morning. Lillian gave me a key a couple years ago.”

“I… what? Where was I?!”

He shrugs. “In the shower, I think.”

I stare at him. “We are so not close enough for that kind of neighborly relationship.”

Instead of replying he picks up a book off the counter: The Complete Astrology Guide for Beginners.

“But close enough that I’m ready to hear about this now,” he says, giving the book a little waggle before tossing it back down. The book is massively thick, as are all my astrology books, and makes a distinct thump.

I wrinkle my nose in hesitation, and Archer reaches back, opening the fridge and pulling out another beer. He pops the cap and slides it across the corner to me.

I glance at it, then at the clock. I don’t love beer. It’s only 1 p.m., and yet…

I shrug and take a sip. An experimental first indeed, but not an unpleasant one.

“So?” Archer thumps the astrology book. “What’s the story here? If I’m famous for being reclusive, you’re famous for being smart. And logical. In fact, I even found a clip of you denouncing this stuff.”

I take another sip of beer. “Your googling was awfully thorough.”

He shrugs and looks away.

“Mine was as well,” I say, leaning my elbows on the counter. “You may be a loner, but that’s only fueled the curiosity. And the rumors.”

He grunts and takes a sip of beer, not looking at me.

“For example,” I say, beginning to count on my fingers. “I know that you got your start rather modestly in charcoal, but recently have exploded onto the scene with a Tokyo series done in acrylics. Much fanfare, blah-blah-blah. But before you did the art thing, you went to law school. That’s an interesting bit. Oh, but not as interesting as your high-profile engagement to Willow Dunn, which was called off just days before the wedding.”

“For someone who’s supposed to be smart, you’re sure into celebrity gossip.”

“Aha!” I point at him. “So you admit you’re a celebrity.”

“ Willow was the celebrity,” he says tersely. “I like to be left alone.”

“Then why did you want to marry an actress? Not exactly low profile.”

“I met her at fundraiser at the Getty when I was in LA. She was hot,” he adds after a moment.

“You proposed because she’s pretty? And why did you guys call it off?” I can’t help from asking. “Nobody seems to know why.”

“Not all details are meant for public consumption, Dr. Reed. You should know that better than anyone.”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you figure?”

“Well. Someone’s put together a pretty thorough Wikipedia page on you, but it doesn’t say shit about…” He uses his thumb to gesture at the stack of astrology books on my counter.

“Yes, well,” I murmur, running a finger along the spine of Beyond the Zodiac . “I’m not sure my reputation can take another hit.”

“Another hit? What was the first?”

“Nova denied my tenure bid. Probably only a matter of time until that little tidbit makes it onto Wikipedia.”

Archer looks skeptical. “Is that interesting enough for Wikipedia?”

A surprised laugh slips out. “Most people offer condolences about my career going down the drain.”

He looks at me for a long minute, then glances again at the astrology stack. “So, what’s your horoscope have to do with all this?”

“I’m on sabbatical for a year. Not my idea. My best friend suggested I do a sort of Eat, Pray, Love thing. Basically quit my life and do something a little crazy. That’s a book about—”

“I’m familiar.”

I blink. “Really? Well. I needed a… reset, I guess. A break. Change. Whatever.”

His thumb scratches at the corner of the label on the beer bottle as he watches me, then he straightens and nods. “I get that.”

“Really?”

“Well, not astrology, no. I think that’s all… well, doesn’t matter what I think. But you’ve gotta trust your instincts sometimes. Do things your own way.”

Pleasantly surprised by his openness, I smile. “So does that mean you’ll let me read your natal chart?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” I plead. “I want the practice. All I need is your birthday, time, and location.”

“Oh, well. Let me just dash next door and dig up my birth certificate. Can I get you my ID while I’m at it? Passport? Social Security card?”

“I get it.” I hold up my hand. “You don’t want to be nice and neighborly.”

“I’m helping the world’s most uncoordinated woman build a greenhouse. My neighborly patience has its limits.” He flips through another of my astrology books, the one on planetary transits.

I watch him for a moment. “Are you still hung up on Willow? Is that why talking about her makes you so grumpy?”

He doesn’t even look up.

“Probably not,” I muse. “I read on one of those websites that has more ads than content that you’ve been dating some… I forget. Publicist? Agent? Some Hollywood person.”

“Your horoscope have anything about you driving me nuts today?” he asks. “Because it just might be on to something.”

“No,” I say, unoffended, because apparently I’m getting used to him. “But supposedly I’m going to use a moment of experimental spontaneity—a first , if you will—to try to put off a phone call I’m supposed to make.”

His blue gaze flicks over to me. “Let me guess. You’ve managed to come up with a moment and a potential phone call that could fit the horoscope?”

“Yes. This is a first, actually,” I say, lifting the beer bottle and pointing at it. “I don’t make a habit of drinking on Wednesday afternoons, and definitely not beer.”

“And the phone call?”

I take a sip of the beer, eyes lifting to the ceiling as I sip so I don’t have to look at him.

He chuckles. “Ah. A dude.”

I stay stubbornly silent, and he shakes his head. “Come on, Randy. You’ve already creeped on my love life. Make us even.”

I bite my lip, realizing that maybe getting a male perspective wouldn’t be the worst thing ever, even if it’s from the worst source ever.

“I met a guy a couple weeks ago. Christian. He sort of saved my life.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Archer mutters in exasperation.

“No, seriously! He pulled me out of the street just as a car ran a red light and was about to hit me.”

“That must have been a challenge for him. From atop his white horse in all that armor.”

“Mock all you want, but there was a moment. A click. A mutual one,” I say before he can dismiss this. “He gave me his card and said I should call him.” I go to the drawer where I’ve stashed the card and pull it out so I can prove it.

“Well, that’s more promising than expected. I thought you were just waiting for the wind to blow him back your way.”

I glare at him.

Archer flicks a thumb over the corner of the card. “So why haven’t you called him? Is it because talking about him has made your voice all fluttery and annoying? God only knows what happens when you talk to him.”

“Thank you. This is all very encouraging.”

“I’m not really known for my pat-on-the-ass pep talks.”

“I’m shocked.”

He picks up the card. Studies it. Then hands it back. “Just do it already.”

“I can’t… I can’t just do it. These things take planning.”

“Nope. They shouldn’t.”

“But— hey !”

Archer swipes my cell off the counter, holds it up to my face to unlock it, and dangles it out of my grasping reach as he dials the phone number on Christian’s card.

He tucks it against my ear, and I have a split second to register that enticing, mysterious scent of his before the phone begins ringing.

“Damn it, Archer, I don’t want—Christian!” I say a little too loudly when he picks up on the second ring. “Hello. Hi. Hello. This is Dr. Miranda Reed?”

“ Smooth ,” Archer mouths.

I give him a glare.

“Dr. Reed!” Christian says. “When you didn’t call, I started worrying I came on too strong…”

“Not at all. I was just…”

Waiting for my horoscope to give me the go-ahead.

“I was just…” I flounder. “Thinking.”

Archer shakes his head with a sigh, then grabbing his beer off the counter with one hand, he gives me a pat on the butt with the other.

“What was that?” I hiss, covering the phone with my hand.

“Pat-on-the-ass pep talk,” he mutters. “Believe me, you need it.”