Miranda in Retrograde

19. Capricorn Season

CAPRICORN SEASON

Today’s energy will feel distinctly conflicted for you, darling Gemini. A nagging awareness lies beneath the surface. Resist the urge to dig too deep too fast. The universe’s timetable is not to be trifled with.

Oh my god. Please no,” I say, urgently pivoting away from the mirror and craning my neck over my shoulder so I can see my back in the reflection. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

I have less than an hour until Christian picks me up for his company’s holiday party, and in the process of trying on my two dress options, I’ve managed to get the zipper of one stuck.

In my underwear.

It’s one of those horrible women-living-alone moments that I always knew I was overdue for, but the timing could not be worse. If I were still in Manhattan, I was friendly enough with the female professor next door to me in campus housing to ask for the awkward favor, but here…

I try to tug at it but have no luck. The underwear I don’t mind ripping, but the dress had been blisteringly expensive, and I’ve been really looking forward to wearing it tonight.

I exhale and contemplate my options given how little time I have.

I come up with three.

Wait for Christian to get here, and embarrassingly ask him to free me.

Cancel.

It feels almost too unthinkable to name, and yet…

I pull on yoga pants under my skirt, fuzzy knee socks over the yoga pants, and then hurry downstairs to pull on my boots and parka. Opening the door, I shuffle down the pathway to my front gate, over to Archer’s, and then toward his front door.

It’s slow going, because New Jersey got its first sort-of snowfall last night. I say sort of because it was just a wet inch or two that has now turned mostly to slippery gray slush, but regardless, I really don’t want to add a wet ass or broken wrist to the night’s embarrassment.

“Please, please be home,” I mutter as I impatiently push Archer’s doorbell.

He opens it after a long while, his irritation turning to surprise when he sees me. “Randy. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, please. You come over to my house uninvited all the time,” I say, pushing him aside so I can step into his foyer.

“You got this dolled up to come snoop on my studio?” he asks, shutting the door.

“For the hundredth time, I don’t give a fig about your studio,” I say. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that nobody’s allowed in there.”

“So you’re here because…”

“I need a favor.” I cross my arms. “And you have to promise not to laugh.”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

I sigh. “Fine. But I’m not going to ask this favor standing in your freezing cold entryway.”

He nods toward the kitchen, and I follow him.

I’ve only been to Archer’s house a handful of times, mostly to borrow a screwdriver because I still can’t figure out where Lillian put hers, and once because I ran out of laundry detergent.

It’s homier than one would expect from someone as gruff as Archer, but masculine, too. The layout is the same as mine, but instead of Lillian’s floral wallpaper, Archer’s walls are painted a dark gray, almost black. All of the color comes from the varied artwork on the walls.

“None of these are your pieces,” I say, gesturing. I know next to nothing about art, but even though I’ve yet to see Archer’s work in person, I know enough to recognize that these aren’t his.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because my art is my work. I keep my work in the studio, the same way other people leave their filing cabinet in their office.”

I step into his kitchen, which is pleasingly modern. Lillian’s appliances haven’t been updated in years, and every surface is covered by a cookie jar or a collection of tea tins or a rooster made out of aqua blown glass. Archer’s kitchen—again, despite having the same layout—looks nothing like this. The oven-and-stove combo is sleek with copper finish, and the only thing on the counters is a single whiskey bottle, which I now recognize as his beloved rye.

“What made you buy this place? Or rent?” I ask, looking over.

“Bought.”

I’m dying to ask how , since he’s barely older than me, and I know from Lillian that the row of cottages is both in demand and extremely expensive real estate. But the question is just a little too rude, even for Archer’s particular blunt style of conversation.

“But you’re an artist, and Manhattan is like… well, Daphne says it’s an art-lovers mecca,” I press.

“Art lovers, yes. Artists? I’m sure for some people the city serves as an inspiration. For me it feels more… like a distraction. I like being close enough that I can get to a gallery when I need to, but mostly I like the quiet and solitude. Or what used to be quiet and solitude,” he adds, giving me a pointed look.

Feeling a little stung that he still feels that way, I look quickly away. I, too, felt like he’d intruded on my rooftop quiet and solitude the first day we’d met, but I haven’t felt that way in… a while. I didn’t realize he still did.

“Hey.” Archer comes around the counter so he’s on the same side as me. He leans back against it, crossing his arms and bending at the waist so his face is more at my level. “Randy.”

“What.”

He reaches out then, gently nudging my chin upward with the knuckle of is forefinger, though he drops it the second our eyes meet. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t. I mean…” He exhales, sounding frustrated. “You did crash my solitude. But I don’t… mind it. As much as I thought I’d mind it. Or at all, really.”

“Oh. I—”

“What’s your favor?” he interrupts.

“My favor… ohhhh. Oh yes,” I say, remembering my dress. I point at his whiskey. “I’m going to need some of that.”

He grabs the bottle and two mason jars—apparently, he doesn’t own regular glasses—and pours us each a splash.

I toss mine back in a single swallow and his eyebrows go up. “How dire is this favor?”

“Dire,” I say darkly. Before I lose my courage, I unzip my parka.

Archer’s gaze follows the motion of the zipper, taking in the little black dress, which, from the front, is very conservative. From the back, too. When it’s not gaping open.

“Please tell me you’re not here for fashion advice. It looks fine.”

“Thanks for the lavish praise, but no. I don’t want your advice. I seem to be a little… stuck.”

I turn around and, squinting my eyes shut as though I can block out the embarrassment, shrug my coat off.

There’s a long moment of silence, and I brave a look over my shoulder to see Archer gazing at my exposed back, a hand covering the bottom half of his face.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” I accuse.

“No, I distinctly remember that I did not promise that,” he says, dropping his hand and exposing his smile, which, while not an outright grin, is about as effusively amused as I’ve ever seen him.

“Just. Fix it. But please don’t break the zipper. I’m rather attached to this dress.”

He tosses back his drink, then steps toward me. His eyes meet mine for a split second before I whip my head back around.

“What are you all dressed up for anyway?” he asks.

I jump a little at the brush of his fingers on my lower back.

“Sorry.” His voice is gruff. “My hands cold?”

Not even a little bit.

“No, it’s fine.” I clear my throat. “Um, Christian’s company holiday party is tonight. He’s picking me up in a bit, and I didn’t want him to arrive finding me… like this.”

“For what it’s worth, I doubt he’d have minded,” Archer says. “Typically men enjoy finding the women they’re seeing in underwear. Particularly the black variety.”

My cheeks heat in a flush, and I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or proximity.

“How’d you even manage this anyway?” he mutters.

“My underwear is lace,” I say defensively. “The fabric is prone to snagging.”

“Yes, I see that,” he says a bit under his breath.

A long minute later, he makes a gratified grunt, and the zipper glides upward.

“Thank you,” I say with relief as he pulls the tab all the way to the top. “Would you mind… there’s a little hook thing.”

“Got it.”

He fastens it and then steps back as I turn around.

“Well?” I spread my arms to the side, glancing down. The dress was rather demure on the hanger. Perhaps demure now, too, but I rather like the way it’s formfitting enough to look feminine but not so tight as to remove all mystery.

“Nice socks,” he said, jerking his chin toward the fuzzy purple socks I’d pulled on for warmth.

I drop my arms, a little deflated, though I don’t know what I was expecting since he’s already declared the dress an underwhelming fine .

“Thanks for your help,” I say, meaning it. “I promise I won’t make a habit of it.”

“I mean, anytime you want to trot over here in black lace panties…” His smile is quick, just a flash of teeth.

“Yes, right. Because you seem very overcome by my feminine wiles,” I say just a bit waspishly as I march back toward his front door, pulling my jacket back on as I move.

Archer follows me out to the foyer, though when I open the front door, he places his palm on it to close it again.

I glance up in question, and his blue eyes are guarded as he briefly clenches his jaw. “Hey. Randy. You look… nice. Okay? You look good.”

The guarded gaze drops for a split second, revealing what I could have sworn is a flash of heat before it disappears.

“Better,” I say, trying for levity but sounding breathy.

As far as compliments go, Archer’s words aren’t exactly poetry. So I can’t explain why my body feels distinctly overheated on the walk back to my house despite the subfreezing temps.

Or why, hours later, even as I’m in Christian’s arms, I swear I can still feel the brush of Archer’s fingers on my lower back…