Miranda in Retrograde

13. Libra Season

LIbrA SEASON

Big change is on the horizon, and the anticipation of it will have you feeling adrift in your own thoughts. Your judgment and intuition are a bit hazy today, dear Gemini. Trust a friend to get you through it. They’ll be able to see the situation with a clarity you currently can’t.

I think I’m going to vomit,” I say, setting a hand to my stomach. “Maybe I should cancel.”

“You’re not going to cancel,” Daphne says firmly as she continues rifling through my closet. “And that barfy feeling is just butterflies. Before a first date, butterflies are a good thing, trust me.”

Since I’ve been out of the dating game a good while longer than my best friend, I probably should trust her. But knowing butterflies are a good omen doesn’t make them any more comfortable. For a fleeting second, I wish I could spend the night eating leftovers with Archer before bickering on the roof. No butterflies there, just comfy irritation.

Daphne looks over her shoulder. “This your entire wardrobe? Never mind, stupid question.” She blows out a breath and turns back to the closet. “Okay. Brown it is.”

“I have colors other than brown!” I say.

She steps aside and gestures toward the closet. Prove it.

I stand and pull out one of my favorite plaid blazers. “See. This has red.”

“Babe, that’s like two percent red. The other ninety-eight is shades of… what would you call that?”

“Brown is a very flattering color on me,” I insist.

She shakes her head in exasperation, but I’m quite confident that I am correct on this point. And I like what I’m wearing now. My dark brown turtleneck and khaki pants complement my medium-brown hair, dark brown eyes, and freckles in a pleasing, monochromic kind of way.

I’m apparently alone in thinking this, because while Daphne may seem the easygoing one, I recognize the stubborn set of that orange-red mouth as she continues to rifle through my limited clothing options.

Trust a friend… They’ll be able to see the situation with a clarity you currently can’t.

I go to the dresser and pull out a light blue cashmere sweater. “Better?”

“Perfect,” Daphne declares, pulling a pair of navy slacks out of the closet and handing them over. “Now, let’s talk shoes. No Birks.”

“I wasn’t going to wear Birks ,” I say, affronted. “I do own heels, you know.”

“Yes, that you wear for public appearances and are very… professory.”

She pulls out a shopping bag I’d barely registered until now.

She reaches in and pulls out a shoe box, which I accept in surprise. “You bought me shoes? Exactly how bad is my wardrobe that you feel you have to supplement it?”

“They were on sale, they’re in style, and they’re you ,” she insists.

Skeptical, I pry the blue lid off the box, only to make a surprised approving noise.

“Right?” my best friend says, justifiably smug.

“These are… I love these,” I say, immediately sliding on the loafers. I always love a good loafer, but these are cuter than my other ones. A rich mink brown with an almost velvety texture, and a thicker sole that makes them seem a little more stylish. I stand. “Ooh. I’m tall.”

“They’ve got a little platform, so like a heel, but not,” she says, giving a happy little clap. “Okay. Get dressed. Do your makeup—natural is perfect ,” she adds, catching my look. “Then meet me downstairs. We’ll drink wine and talk about how Christian is going to fall madly in love with you.”

Just like that, my queasiness increases tenfold.

A part of me truly is looking forward to the night ahead.

But the majority of what I feel is discomfort.

My last first date was ages ago, and it was with a visiting professor from MIT. We’d talked shop the whole time. Mentally, it had been downright titillating. But emotionally? Physically? The closest thing to chemistry that we’d shared was a mutual interest in spectroscopy. Somehow, I doubt Christian Hughes is going to have a vested interest in the study of the absorption and emission of light and radiation by matter.

I put on the outfit Daphne’s picked and rummage around my limited jewelry collection until I find a pair of sparkly gold hoop earrings that I’d bought for a Nova University holiday party years ago and haven’t worn since. I’m a bit more deliberate with my makeup, too. Black eyeliner instead of the usual brown, an extra coat of mascara. Even a bit of new coral lip gloss I bought on a whim a few days ago, per my horoscope’s urging.

I take a step back and survey the result in the mirror.

“Not bad, Dr. Reed,” I murmur to my reflection. I still look like myself, just not the boring, everyday version.

I reach up and tug the ever-present band out of my hair, releasing my usual low ponytail, and fluff my medium-length hair around my shoulders a bit. Better . I doubt Christian will faint at the sight of me, but it is nice to feel a bit extra .

I make my way downstairs, pausing when I hear the sound of a male voice. For a second, I think perhaps Christian’s arrived early to pick me up, but as I get closer, I recognize the low voice as Archer’s.

It’s been stormy the past couple of nights, so I haven’t seen him since our strange encounter on the roof when I’d rubbed a smudge off his face like…

Well, someone who’s way closer to him than I actually am.

“Miranda Frances Reed,” Daphne scolds the second I enter the kitchen. “How the hell have you not told me that you know Archer?”

I blink in surprise at the good-natured accusation. “You know each other?”

“Um, I know of him ,” Daphne says in a scandalized tone, handing me a glass of wine. “He’s kinda sorta a big deal.”

Oh. Right. The art world.

It genuinely hasn’t occurred to me that Daphne might have known who Archer was, though I suppose I should have. Daph’s a graphic designer by trade, but her obsession with art is practically a side hustle. She has annual passes to all the major Manhattan art museums, and even volunteers as a docent at MoMA on weekends.

I glance over at Archer, who’s wearing a gray sweater, jeans, boots, and his usual sardonic expression. He takes a sip of his own glass of wine—Daphne must have poured him one, or maybe he just helped himself—with a raised brow.

“Why are you glaring at me? Did I commit some sort of greenhouse offense again?” I say.

“Nah. Hungry. But your fridge is practically empty.”

“Because I knew I’d be going out tonight.”

“Yes.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I heard.”

Our eyes meet and seem to hold for a second longer than comfortable, and I look quickly away. “There’s eggs. Help yourself.”

“I always do.”

Daphne’s head is ping-ponging between the two of us.

Archer gives me a not-terribly-flattering once-over. “You look different.”

I roll my eyes. “Wonderful. Different is just what I was going for.”

“You look fantastic,” Daphne interjects. “So you two… you’re… friends?”

“Neighbors,” Archer and I reply at the same time.

“We have to share the roof space,” I say, pointing upward. “And he helped me build my greenhouse, but only because the horoscope said I had to ask him.”

Daphne’s eyebrow lifts at Archer. “You said yes?”

He shrugs.

“Huh,” Daphne says. “Okay, Archer, so as a huge fan, I have to ask: What are you working on now? Because that London series you did just…” She mimes a swoon. “If I’d had a few extra gazillion dollars to spend, that Bond Street piece would be on my wall right now.” Daphne turns to me. “You’ve seen his work, right?”

“On a computer screen. Not in person. But I know that he paints… big… bright… paintings?”

And charcoal drawings at night. Just for him.

The art lover in Daphne appears horrified, and she looks quickly back to Archer. “Forgive her. She knows not what she says.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Archer says, refilling his now-empty wineglass and looking very much at home as he studies me. “So, you finally get the balls to ask out the guy?”

“I did.”

Archer’s eyes glint in amusement, though not in an unkind way. “Good for you, Randy.”

“ Randy ,” Daphne repeats. “Yikes.”

“You’ll get used to it. Miraculously, I have,” I say, checking my watch. “I’ve got less than five minutes till Christian picks me up. Any and all advice is welcome.”

“Be yourself,” Daphne says automatically. “But except maybe, you know, ease him into the science talk.” She makes a gentle wave motion with her hand. “Remember, some people think the big bang theory is just a TV show.”

“Not anyone who’s my potential soul mate,” I say. “But point taken.”

I look at Archer. “What about you? What do you have? Tips? Pointers? Advice?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Well, for starters, don’t go throwing around the words soul mate on a first date.”

“See, now I disagree,” Daphne says, pointing her finger at Archer. “Didn’t you hear about their charts?”

She makes a dramatic chef’s kiss motion.

He rolls his eyes, but when he looks back at me, it’s searching, though what he’s looking for, I can’t say.

The doorbell—which is extra loud, thanks to Lillian’s failing hearing—interrupts her, and Daphne excitedly claps her hands. “Ooooh, he’s here. Okay, I have to come meet him, because that’s a best friend’s prerogative. But you , stay,” she says in firm command to an amused Archer. “No man wants to pick up a woman for a first date and discover a sexy, brooding artist making himself at home in her kitchen.”

“Sexy and brooding?” I question, wrinkling my nose in confusion. “ Archer? ”

He gives me a cocky wink as Daphne pries the glass of wine from my hand and ushers me firmly toward the front door. “Trust me, darling,” she whispers. “I’m right on that one. But let’s just deal with one man at a time…”