Miranda in Retrograde

12. Libra Season

LIbrA SEASON

The New Moon is in Scorpio, dear Gemini, making this an ideal time to learn a new skill, perhaps one you’ve been putting off out of fear of a new direction. Proceed with caution, though; test your new knowledge with low-risk endeavors to hone your skills for when it really matters…

I’m sitting at the kitchen table poring over my astrology books when I hear my front door open. I don’t even have to look up to know it’s Archer, who’s made a habit of stopping by whenever he feels like it. Which is often.

“Randy,” he says by way of greeting as he goes to the fridge.

I tug the band out of my hair and rub at my scalp, which has been in a tight pony all day. “Did you do this with Lillian?” I ask.

“Do what?” He pulls a Tupperware with leftovers out of my fridge.

“Let yourself in. Pilfer her food?”

“Do I at least get points for not drinking directly out of the carton?” he asks, pouring juice into a glass he’s grabbed from the cupboard.

“I can barely contain my applause. And you didn’t answer the question.”

He takes the lid off the container, sniffs, and then pops the leftover chicken Parm into the microwave. “I’m not great about remembering to grocery shop when I’m deep in the zone on a piece. But”—Archer drains the orange juice in three gulps before continuing—“since from what I can tell, your aunt subsisted on cigs, sherry, and smoked oysters, no. I did not pilfer her food.”

“I asked her about you,” I say, standing to get myself a wineglass from the cabinet.

He grabs the pinot grigio out of the fridge and wordlessly fills my glass, and I’m a little startled to realize how natural this routine feels. That it is a routine at all.

“Lillian declared you a ‘charming mystery,’?” I say, even though he doesn’t ask. “I readily agreed with the mystery part.”

“Hmm.” He grabs a wineglass for himself, which is not part of the routine. Usually it’s a beer, or rye whiskey, if we’re up on the roof.

“She said that years ago, she met your fiancée a few times,” I say casually, giving my wineglass a little twist, watching the liquid swirl.

Lillian also told me that she liked Archer’s almost-wife quite a bit and was disappointed they hadn’t worked out. What she hadn’t known was why they hadn’t worked.

And from the stubborn look on Archer’s face right now, I don’t think I’m going to find out, either.

He pulls the Tupperware out of the microwave. “You want?”

“No, thanks. Actually. Yeah,” I say, realizing that dinnertime has come and gone, and I’m hungry. But he isn’t distracting me from the fact that he’s plating up my food. “Why not order takeout? Or delivery?” I ask as he divvies the leftovers onto two plates. “It’s way better than what I can cook.”

He shrugs. “I’m not picky about food when I’m working. It’s just sustenance.”

I lift my eyebrows. “And yet you grow fresh herbs. Thanks to my greenhouse.”

“ Our greenhouse.” He hands me a plate.

“Fine, then why do we grow herbs if you don’t care about food?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “My mom’s big into her vegetable garden. The herbs were always her pride and joy.”

“You have a basil plant to feel close to your mom?” I pause. “I think that is just about the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He jabs his fork in my direction. “Tell anyone, and…” He draws the fork across his throat in a menacing way.

I mime locking my lips and tossing the key.

“What’s all this?” Archer asks, this time using his fork to gesture to the books spread out in front of me. “Still on planetary transits?”

“Wow.” I take a bite of chicken. “You managed to say that without even a trace of mocking.”

He shrugs. “Other people are free to believe whatever fanciful crap they want. As long as it doesn’t touch my life, I’ve got no problem with it.”

Archer’s attention is on his chicken, so I study him a moment over my wineglass. As blasé as his tone is, there’s a sharpness there. A defensiveness that goes beyond just the usual derision.

“I think I finally got a grip on transits,” I say, treading lightly. “An astrological grip, I mean. As an astronomer, I’ve known about planetary transits forever.”

“Am I going to regret asking what an astrological grip entails?” he asks warily, taking a sip of wine.

“You know, I know you don’t care about this stuff. But you always ask. Why is that? Guilt? You feel you have to make polite conversation while eating all my food?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Just seems like you process things by explaining them to people. It’s like… your thing.”

I stare at him a moment, a little unnerved by how spot-on that feels. “I’d never thought about it. But you’re absolutely right.”

“I know. So. Transits?”

“Right. At its most basic—the NASA definition—it just means that a planet passes between a star and its observer. So, if we see Mercury pass in front of the sun, that’s a transit.”

“And in your world?”

Years of conditioning nearly have me clarifying that NASA is my world, but the instinct isn’t quite as sharp as it was even a few weeks ago.

“In astrology, it’s still about the movement of planets, but there’s meaning to the movement. Determined by the relationship of the current position of the planets and the location they were in at your birth.” I pause. “You know. The natal chart. Which I need practice reading.”

He gives me a knowing look. “Nope.”

“Come on. All you need to do is give me your birth certificate. Or just give me the facts I need.”

For a couple of weeks now I’ve been begging Archer to let me study his natal chart. I’ve done Daphne’s, Lillian’s, and my sister-in-law’s. Emily is a sweetheart and had not only volunteered hers, but also promised not to tell the rest of my family.

But while the practice has been great, I want to read the chart of someone I haven’t known for years. Someone about whom I don’t have as many preconceived notions so I can do a clearer, more objective read.

Someone to practice on before I read the chart I really want to see:

Christian Hughes.

Ever since my conversation with Kylee yesterday, I haven’t been able to get the concept of astrological compatibility out of my mind.

Archer drags his last bite of chicken through his sauce and pops it into his mouth. Then looks at my plate. “You going to eat that?”

“Yes.”

He grunts and puts his plate in the dishwasher before going over to the table and picking up my latest read. “Synastry?”

“Relationship astrology,” I explain. “It’s essentially laying two people’s natal charts atop each other to create a synastry chart, and seeing how those two individuals impact and fit together.”

His jaw tenses and he tosses the book back down. “So, bullshit.”

I’m about to take a bite but I freeze at the vehemence in his tone. “Raw nerve?”

“I just don’t think two people’s future together should be determined by anything other than their own free will. If two people like each other, if they make each other happy, that’s enough. Or at least it should be.”

“Okay. Now I really want to read your chart, because I think you’re a secret romantic. But also, stubborn. A Taurus, perhaps.”

“Why don’t you just keep your attention focused on Dreamy McDaddy?”

I wince. “ Please stop calling him that. It’s super creepy.”

“What’s his name again? Chris?”

“Christian.”

“Are you and Christian a match?”

I decide I’m full and I slide my plate toward him after all. He picks up my fork and begins eating the rest of my dinner like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I have no idea. I can’t exactly ask him for his birthday, much less his birth time.”

“Why not? You harass me for mine.”

“You’re different.” I wave with my wine.

“How’s that?”

“Well. You didn’t save my life,” I say sweetly, batting my eyelashes.

“Why don’t you just ask the guy out already? He’s clearly into your whole quirky vibe. He took an inordinately long time picking up Kylee the other day.”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Because while you and he were gabbing on your front porch, Kylee wandered over to my yard while I was getting the mail.”

“Oh! I didn’t realize.”

Archer snorts. “Point proven.”

I bite my thumbnail and study him for a long moment. “My horoscope says I’m supposed to pursue a low-risk endeavor today. To practice for a higher-risk one.”

“Okay?”

I drop my hand. “I think reading your chart is my low-risk endeavor. Christian’s is the high risk.”

He groans.

“What if I promise to not mention a word about it to you? You said that other people’s beliefs didn’t bother you so long as it didn’t impact your life.”

Archer lets out a tired sigh. “I did say that. But the thing is, Randy, you read my chart, and even if you don’t talk to me about it, you’re still going to have thoughts. Those thoughts will annoy me.”

“How can my thoughts annoy you?”

“Everything about you manages to,” he grumbles, draining his wineglass.

He puts that into the dishwasher as well, then starts to move to the front door. I reach out and grab his wrist. “Archer. Please? ”

Archer’s blue eyes hold mine for a moment, then roll in a dramatic, impatient fashion.

Wordlessly he slips his wrist out of my grasp, but instead of ignoring my request, he grabs a pen and a notebook off the table. He scribbles something, then drops both pen and notebook in front of me.

I look down. In addition to the year of his birth, he’s written April 10, 4:11 p.m., Denver.

“You know your exact birth time?” I say, surprised. He doesn’t seem the type. “Off the top of your head?”

Archer shrugs. “One of my mom’s favorite stories was how she wished she’d pushed just a little harder so that I’d have been born at four ten on four ten.”

“Ah. Well, thank you. Seriously.”

He shrugs and heads toward the door. “No big deal.”

“Any chance I can get your mysterious lady friend’s chart, too?” Or your ex-fiancée’s, while I’m at it…

“Don’t push it, Randy,” he calls back.

I smile.

Later, watering can in hand and layered up against the cool autumn evening, I climb onto the roof, surprised but pleased to find Archer in his usual spot despite the cloudy weather and crescent moon.

“Okay, I know I said I wouldn’t talk about it, but I lied,” I say as I give the Buzzes their nightly watering. “Brace yourself for this, but I analyzed our synastry charts, and we are not a match made in heaven. Total disaster on nearly every aspect, in fact.”

He makes a hmm noise that is either distraction or complete disinterest. Probably a bit of both.

I look over. “Is that devastation I hear in your voice?”

His teeth flash quickly in the darkness, a smile that I’m guessing was unintentional. “Just bummed I’ll have to return the ring I’ve been carrying around in my pocket since the day we met.”

I let out a dramatic sigh. “And I had to burn all the notebooks covered in Dr. Miranda Reed Archer doodles.”

“Covered in hearts, I hope.”

“Obviously.” I smile.

I set the watering can down and pull off my top sweater, because apparently I’ve added one too many layers, and it’s not winter yet. The thought makes me realize that in a month, maybe sooner, it might very well be too cold for these rooftop chats. I try not to think about that.

“In all honesty,” I say, readjusting my glasses, which were knocked askew. “The reading of our charts was a point in favor of synastry.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious that we’re not meant to be romantically entangled, and the stars confirm this. Point, astrology.”

“How is that pretty obvious?” he asks, looking over and sounding genuinely curious.

“Well, for starters, you have a girlfriend. Sorry,” I say quickly, because he gives me the same glare he always does whenever I slip and use that word. “You have a person you see when you’re in the same city, which is not very often. Am I getting close?”

“You can stop fishing for details, Randy. It’ll be a futile endeavor.” He straightens and stretches, looking at his easel critically before turning to face me. He tucks the charcoal behind his ear. “So, you ready for the high-stakes move now?”

“Hmm?”

“You said my chart was low-risk practice for when it counts. You going to ask Christian for his info now?”

“Well, actually…” I look down at my feet, feeling strangely hesitant about next steps.

“I’ll probably regret this, but… spit it out, Randy.” He says this with more patience than usual, as though understanding my discomfort.

“Kylee just texted me a little bit ago. With her dad’s birth information.”

“You asked his daughter ?” He sounds horrified.

“No! No,” I clarify. “She’s doing this all on her own. She wants to find her dad a girlfriend.”

“Ah. She’s playing matchmaker.”

“Well, she didn’t say she wanted me to be the girlfriend.”

“How am I so much smarter than you about this?” he says, coming toward me, dipping his head slightly and rubbing his forehead. “Of course she wants you to be the girlfriend.”

When he glances back up, I smile, because he has a little smudge of charcoal on his forehead.

“What’s the problem here? Isn’t everything marching along perfectly according to your plan? To your horoscope?”

“It’s just…” I cross my arms, feeling vulnerable. “I feel like there could be something there. With Christian. But it’s also important to me to see through this journey I’ve started. Trusting that the stars and the universe have a plan for me. Letting something besides my brain guide me.”

“Are those two things incompatible?”

I swallow and meet his eyes. “They could be. Right now, it’s an unknown. Schr?dinger’s cat. So, it’s a paradox, where—”

“Yes, Randy. I know Schr?dinger’s cat. Until observed, a cat in a box can be both alive and dead.”

“So until I read Christian’s chart, he can be a match and not a match. But if I look, then I’ll know .”

Archer lets out a small sigh and steps up on the ledge of his roof toward mine, his toes just tipping over the side. I’m standing on the edge of mine as well, so we’re face-to-face, his scent as unidentifiable and compelling as ever.

“Look,” he says a bit reluctantly. “I’m the last person who should be giving romantic advice. I don’t do the whole loyal, doting, one-partner thing.”

“Not anymore, you mean. You were engaged.”

“The fact that you’re speaking in past tense pretty much says it all. But my point is, I don’t think your hesitation about reading Christian’s chart has anything to do with astrology.”

“It has everything to do with astrology—”

“And I don’t think you’re afraid that he won’t be a match,” Archer says, speaking over my objection. “I think you’re afraid that he will be. Because it means based on the rules you’ve set for yourself for this year, you’ll have to put yourself out there. That’s the part you’re scared of.”

I swallow loudly because his words feel uncomfortably… true.

“Well,” I say after a long pause. “I guess there is some good news to all this.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“It’s just… No matter what his chart says, there’s no way he and I can be more incompatible than you and me. That’s something, right?”

I don’t realize I’ve reached out to touch him until my thumb absently rubs the smudge on his forehead. Startled by the contact, even though I initiated it, my gaze drops from his forehead to his eyes, finding him watching me intently.

“Yes, Randy,” he says a little gruffly as I let my hand drop. “That’s definitely something.”

An hour later, I look down at my and Christian’s natal charts.

To say that the universe has given its blessing would be an understatement. If my various references on synastry are even close to accurate? He and I are almost a perfect match in nearly every way.

In fact, astrologically speaking, Christian Hughes is basically made for me. Among other things, his Jupiter is in Libra in the fifth house, which apparently rounds my love language. And he’s a Sagittarius rising and sun, which is my seventh-house ruler.

I press my lips together, wondering why the giddy feeling I’m expecting feels a lot like apprehension.

Then I scowl. It’s Archer’s fault. Archer, who basically called me a chicken.

To prove him wrong, I pick up my phone.

And ask Christian Hughes on a date.