Miranda in Retrograde

16. Sagittarius Season

SAGITTARIUS SEASON

The threat of change seems to be knocking on every door today, darling Gemini. You’ll feel as though you’re looking at everything with fresh eyes, from old routines to relationships that are perhaps not quite what you’ve always believed. Try to embrace the discomfort: it’s attempting to tell you something.

I’ve never been a big Thanksgiving person. I’m not anti , or anything; the holiday’s always just felt like too much.

Too much pressure. Too much family drama. Too much food.

Growing up, we’d always spent it somewhere else. Grandparents’, aunts and uncles’ (and not the cool aunts and uncles like Lillian, but the uptight ones who wouldn’t let you have pumpkin pie until you’d eaten the Brussels sprouts).

When the extended family had eventually scattered in my teens, my not-terribly-kitchen-inclined parents had taken to ordering a premade meal from the local grocery store. It must have been more for us kids’ sake than their own, because there hadn’t been even a whisper of a guilt trip when I’d stopped going home every year. Providing, of course, that I made it back for Christmas, which I always do.

But that means, more years than not, Thanksgiving is spent… alone. Daphne always goes to Michigan to spend it with her mom and stepdad, and Lillian has a long-standing tradition of a Caribbean cruise with her friends. I’m not close enough with any colleagues other than Elijah, and even his and my friendship isn’t remotely at the level of warranting a holiday invitation.

In years past, I’ve spent the long, luxurious weekend all to myself to… work.

And I don’t say that in a please-pity-me way. I’ve always loved it. I catch up on academic journals; I lesson-plan. I assess career goals. I grade papers, tweak exams. All while eating too much pie, because while I may not participate in most of the usual holiday traditions, I can certainly get behind the magic that is pecan pie. Until now, I have never been able to imagine a better way to enjoy a few days off.

But here’s the thing about making work your whole life:

When your work disappears?

You realize just how empty your life really is.

And how alone you really are.

Halfheartedly I sit at the kitchen table and open Predictive Astrology . I’ve felt pleased with myself these past couple of weeks for having graduated beyond the beginner astrology books, perhaps even surpassing Daphne’s knowledge of the field, at least in terms of facts.

But tonight, I can’t get into it. Any of it.

For the first time since I can remember, I don’t want to read. I don’t want to learn.

I don’t want to be alone.

And strangely, the absence I’m most aware of is… Archer. I haven’t really registered just how often he’s around until he’s not.

I hadn’t even realized he was planning to go out of town until I got a text message yesterday reminding me not to overwater his precious basil while he’s gone.

I do that now, pleased to see that the plant is thriving, as are the rosemary, thyme, and sage. I pluck a sage leaf now and lift it to my nose, the scent reminiscent of the Thanksgiving food I won’t be enjoying. Cooking for one had just felt sad, but all of the premade meals at the store yesterday had served a minimum of four.

Instead, I’d settled for picking up a pecan pie, which has always been a favorite.

In fact, maybe I’ll just make that my dinner. At least it’ll be Thanksgiving dinner adjacent.

I give the sage one last wistful sniff and go back inside. I’ve missed a FaceTime call from Christian.

I mean to call him back, and then… don’t.

I’m debating whether red or white wine is the least-gross pairing for pecan pie when Lillian’s too-loud doorbell has me nearly jumping out of my skin.

I check the peephole, and then open the door in surprise. “ Archer? ”

“Since when have you started locking your front door?” he demands, as though I’ve committed some crazy offense.

“Um, since a strange man started letting himself into my house?” I say as he nudges me out of his way and steps inside. “And I really only left it unlocked during the summer because it was easier to come in and out as we were working on the greenhouse.”

He grunts in minimal acknowledgment.

“Happy Thanksgiving, by the way.” I nod at the shopping bag on his arm. “What’s that? You finally come to replace some of the food you’ve been stealing?”

He reaches out toward Lillian’s octopus-shaped coat rack and pulls off my navy puffer coat, shoving it at me before heading toward the back of the house.

“Bring a hat with you,” he calls back. “But not that ugly one with the stupid flaps.”

“Those stupid flaps keep my ears warm,” I mumble, grabbing the ugly hat in question, as well as a pair of mittens, since we’re obviously going up to the roof like a couple of lunatics in the middle of a major cold snap.

I hear the door to the roof open and close, and then open again. “Two wineglasses, Randy. The nonfussy ones with no stems. Oh, and that pie.”

I make a mocking salute even though he can’t see me and, grabbing the glasses and pie, hurry up the steps before he can bark any more orders.

Archer is already seated at the little outdoor table, though in a rare show of politeness he pushes out my chair with a booted foot.

“Kylee told me that she and your guy were headed out of town for the holiday,” he says, pulling a hat of his own out of his winter coat and putting it on. It’s blue, and it makes his eyes look bluer.

“When did you speak with Kylee?”

“The other night. On the roof. She talks a lot.”

“Oh, that’s right. I see she’s graduated from ‘the kid’?”

Archer shrugs. “She informed me that addressing her as ‘kid’ was supercilious . I had to look it up.”

“She’s right. It’s a little condescending.”

He rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “Be useful. Unpack that.”

I do as he says, pulling out two sandwiches. The logo sticker holding the parchment closed is from the fancy sandwich shop up the street.

“Lona’s was open today?” I ask, surprised.

“She opens for exactly two hours every Thanksgiving night. Best damn turkey sandwich you’ve ever had,” he says, standing and taking a long stride onto his roof. He comes back with an enormous basket.

“What is—oh!” I say, pleased when he pulls out a warm, thick blanket and hands it to me.

“Don’t get too excited yet. We’re sharing that,” he says before pulling out a bottle of red wine. “Sharing this, too. And your pie.”

I set out the sandwiches and some bottled sparkling waters from the bag, while he takes a foldable corkscrew out of the back pocket of his jeans and wrestles out the wine bottle’s stubborn cork.

“I thought you were traveling,” I say, nodding in thanks when he hands me a glass of wine.

“I was. But there’s a blizzard warning in Denver. My flight was rescheduled three different times, then canceled altogether.”

“That sucks. Your parents live there, right?” I say, remembering from reading his natal chart that he was born there.

He nods. “I’m hoping I can fly out tomorrow or Saturday. The leftovers are the best part of Thanksgiving anyway.”

Archer sits down again, then I let out a little yelp as he grabs the seat of my chair and hauls me closer. Unceremoniously, he readjusts the blanket so both our laps are covered, then clinks his glass to mine. “Cheers. Happy Thanksgiving, Randy.”

We both take a sip, then Archer gives me a thoughtful look. “Where are Kylee and Christian again? Washington?”

“Oregon. Christian’s parents and sister live there. He’s from there.”

Archer unwraps his sandwich and takes a large bite. “So you guys, like, a thing, or what?”

“Hmm?” I say, distracted as I watch him wipe a bit of what looks like cranberry sauce from the side of his mouth with his thumb.

“You and Christian. Must be getting serious if you’re cooking for the guy.”

I nearly point out that I also cook for Archer when he shows up unannounced and hungry, though that’s really just a grilled cheese or whatever I’m already planning to have myself.

“We’re increasingly involved,” I say, beginning to unwrap my own sandwich.

He snorts. “You sure know how to romanticize things, Randy.”

“You’re one to talk. You won’t even talk about your girlfriend.”

“Because I don’t have one.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. What do you call the woman you’ve been seeing?”

There’s a long pause. “The woman the gossip sites were talking about is Alyssa.”

“Why do you never talk about her?” I ask.

He says nothing.

“Okay, so you don’t cook for each other,” I prod. “What do you do?”

He gives me a look.

“I mean, for food ,” I say a bit primly.

He flashes a quick grin, enjoying my discomfort. “So. Christian. You like him.”

“Yes. I do,” I confirm as I inspect the sandwich. “What’s on this?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Roasted turkey breast. Cranberry sauce. Brie. Magic.”

I smile.

“So?” Archer says as I take a bite.

I look over, surprised to see that he’s watching me. “So what?”

“Can I come to the wedding?”

I choke a little on the sandwich and have to wash it down with wine. “Why so nosy about Christian?”

“Just being polite, Randy.”

“Actually, being nosy is the opposite of polite.”

He shrugs.

For a while we sit in silence, enjoying our sandwiches—which, to his point, does taste a bit like magic. The turkey is moist and flavorful, and the tartness of the cranberries keeps the Brie from becoming too rich and overwhelming. The bread is freshly baked, and heavenly.

“What made you do this?” I finally ask.

I hand him the last quarter of my sandwich that I’m too full to finish, and he accepts it without hesitation. “Do what?”

“This… picnic,” I say, gesturing at the spread.

Archers swallows a bite of sandwich, takes a sip of wine. “I was alone. Figured you were, too. Not the way one should spend a holiday if they don’t have to.”

“That’s surprisingly… thoughtful.”

“Just had my software updated,” he says, tapping his temple, then balls up the sandwich wrapper with a large fist and drops it into the empty bag.

“You know, you’re not what I expected a professional artist to be like,” I tell him.

“Oh god. Buy the girl a sandwich, and she wants to get deep.” He glances over. “What’d you expect? That we all cut off our own ears, Van Gogh style?”

“No. I just mean that I’ve always thought there was a stark divide between art and science. Subjective versus objective. Emotions and intuition versus data and facts.”

“I don’t know that you’re wrong on that,” he says after a moment.

“And yet .” I wave my finger at him. “You’re the only artist I know and you’re also very computational in the way you interact with people. Or at least with me.”

Archer reaches for his wineglass and leans back in his chair, legs extended so his boots pop out from beneath the blanket. He sets the wine on his flat stomach as he seems to consider what I’ve said.

“I have them,” he says slowly after a long moment.

“Have what?”

He sips his wine. “Emotions.”

My head snaps up, and even though we’re sharing a blanket, I’m still a little surprised to find him so close somehow, especially since the sun’s just set. It’s not as dark as it typically is when we’re up here.

“I didn’t mean that you don’t have emotions,” I say softly.

“I’m just saying that one can have emotions without spewing them all over the place,” he grumbles. “You know that better than anyone.”

I tilt my head to the side. “What’s your moon sign again?”

“You tell me. You’re the astrologist. Why? What does it matter?”

“Your moon sign determines your emotional makeup.”

“Huh.”

“I remember your sun sign,” I say, snapping my fingers. “You’re an Aries.”

“Fascinating.”

“Don’t you want to know what that means?”

“I do not.”

“But—”

“Randy.” Lazily, he rolls his head in my direction, and since I’m still facing him, it brings our faces close together, though somehow it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should. “What do you say you take a break from the Horoscope Project tonight? Just for tonight, be Miranda. Not an astrologist, not an astronomer. Just a woman who believes she makes her own destiny. Who doesn’t believe the stars determine our personality or love match.”

For a moment I only look at him, then I hear myself whisper, “Okay.”

I feel a little shaken, though I don’t fully know why. His blue eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest of moments before he looks away.

I, too, look away, turning my gaze up to the sky, burrowing further beneath the blanket even though I feel suddenly warm.

And as the night stretches on into hours of gentle bickering alternating with companionable silence, I let myself imagine that for the foreseeable future I’m not committed to living my astrological recommendations. That I also wasn’t returning to my old life, the one where academic ambitions and relationships aren’t compatible.

I let myself imagine who might be in that hypothetical, limitless, dream-world future.

The fact that Christian isn’t the first person to pop to mind alarms me. Enough so that I make sure to call him and Kylee the moment I get back downstairs.

They’re three hours behind, so I catch them just as they’ve finished up their pie.

“I miss you,” Christian says after Kylee’s wandered off to watch Planes, Trains and Automobiles with her grandparents.

“Me, too,” I say. And I do mean it. I genuinely like Christian; I genuinely enjoy his company.

But as I drift off to sleep later that night, I can’t help but wonder: Isn’t there supposed to be… more ?