Miranda in Retrograde

22. Capricorn Season

CAPRICORN SEASON

Today, Gemini, an appealing opportunity comes knocking at your door. On the surface, it seems like a perfect fit. However, as Neptune squares Mars, you may find yourself grappling with a foggy sense of direction and conflicting impulses. This transit can bring confusion and misdirection. Keep all doors open, but don’t walk through any quite yet.

Thanks for having me over. Especially after the debacle that was Christmas,” my brother Jamie says as he nods in thanks for the glass of wine I hand him.

I wince and settle onto the couch, pulling my feet beneath me. “It wasn’t a debacle .” I sip my own wine. “Was it?”

“Emily’s been calling it a scene , if you prefer that descriptor,” Jamie says with a grin. “And if it makes you feel better, she thinks the show was fantastic. She’s still talking about it. We all are.”

“Oh wow, yeah. I feel much better now,” I mutter.

My brother is in town for a conference and asked if we could have drinks before his dinner with his colleagues. He’d even offered to come to me on the Jersey side with a very nice bottle of wine, which we’re now enjoying in the Cottage.

Jamie isn’t bothering to hide his fascination with the colorful assault on the senses that is Lillian’s living room, which still has our aunt’s unique stamp and style all over it in spite of the fact that I’ve finally come to think of it first and foremost as my place, and less “Lillian’s place.” I’ve streamlined the kitchen, put unnecessary side tables in storage, and given just about every closet and bookshelf a thorough purge of stuff, all with Lillian’s blessing.

But Lillian’s unique presence is the strongest in this particular room, and it hadn’t felt right to intrude upon it. It feels important, somehow, that I leave it alone. Mostly, it’s just out of respect.

Though if I’m being really honest? That’s only a partial truth.

Yes, with its loud, old-fashioned wallpaper, brightly colored, mismatched area rugs, and framed photos of, well, women’s butts—though, to Lillian’s point, artsy butts—the room is indeed as unique and nuanced as a fingerprint. Lillian’s fingerprint.

So while my aunt had permitted me to put her stuff in storage— encouraged it, even—the truth is that I’ve left Lillian’s living room exactly as is because I need the reminder.

A reminder that this isn’t my home.

That this isn’t my life .

I’m not really the person who picked up Ethiopian takeout for dinner last night because my horoscope suggested I try a new cuisine. I am not the person who is currently wearing a dark red lipstick because yesterday’s horoscope advised Gemini to change up her look.

I like pretending to be that person. But in the New Year, it’s time to start preparing for reentry to real life. Because in just a few short months, I go back to being me. The real me. And I can’t get too comfortable in someone else’s home living someone else’s life.

“I’d forgotten how weird Aunt Lillian is,” Jamie says with a fond smile, picking up the small deck of cards on an end table. “These playing cards are creepy as hell.”

“That’s because they’re not playing cards. They’re tarot cards. And they’re a collector’s item, so put them back.”

“Yes, Mom .” Jamie obeys and lifts his hands in apologetic surrender before picking up his wineglass from the table and settling into a neon-green chair across from me.

He takes a sip and gives me a studying look. “So. How you doing?”

“Nope,” I say immediately, shaking my head. “We’re not doing that.”

He looks confused. “Doing what? Caring about how my sister is doing?”

“I know that you care,” I say, softening my tone. “I love that you care. But I’m so over the narrative of ‘Poor Miranda is having a complete breakdown in the aftermath of getting denied tenure.’ I’m fine. I’m more than fine.”

He leans forward, his expression earnest. “Okay, but can I just plant this seed? A couple years ago, you were on that talk show. I’m forgetting which one. And the host specifically asked you about astrology. Do you remember that?”

I tense slightly because I know where this is going. “Of course I remember it, J. I was there.”

“So you remember what you said?”

“I gently explained that there was no scientific evidence that cosmic events directly impact earthly events.”

“Do you still stand by that assessment?” Jamie asks.

I lean forward and grab a couple of almonds off the charcuterie board I’d quickly put together. “I do.”

My brother looks relieved, but my next words erase all of that.

“But I’m no longer sure that everything about the human experience can be explained by science. Or should be defined by science.”

He exhales and sits back in his chair. “Damn. Aunt Lillian really has rubbed off on you.”

“Have you ever read your horoscope?” I ask. “Read your natal chart? Studied Emily’s chart in conjunction with yours? Wondered if the fact that your moon is in Cancer is the very reason you’re here right now? Because nurturing family is important to you?”

My brother stares at me. “Of course not.”

“Of course not,” I repeat. “And yet you can sit there and tell me astrology isn’t real. That what I’ve been doing these past few months is nonsense. You feel good about that, as a scientist? To form a conclusion without a single bit of data?”

Jamie closes his eyes for a moment, frustrated. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Why did you come here?” I ask, though I try to keep my voice gentle. “Did the parents send you to see if I’m still mad about Christmas dinner?”

He smiles a little. “I think they’re still recovering from your accusation that they pushed you into science.”

“I didn’t mean it to be an accusation,” I say, feeling guilty. “I just… wondered. Lillian implied there was a time when I wasn’t quite so… logical. And lately I’ve been pondering if maybe she’s right.”

Jamie’s smile widens. “Well, I do seem to remember one particular Christmas morning when Mom and Dad kept nudging you toward your new kiddie chemistry set, but you were way more into some stuffed pink pony with wings that Grandma Anne gave you. You ‘flew’ that thing everywhere.”

I blink a little in surprise. “I don’t remember that at all.”

He shrugs. “You were like five. You grew out of it.”

Did I?

A little part of me wonders if the girl who believed pink ponies could fly is still in there somewhere. If she didn’t make an appearance that night at summer camp when she wished on a star. And if she’s not showing herself now—in a woman who’s letting herself believe, at least for a little while, that the universe has a plan for her, that the planets’ transits can guide her days, and that the stars can lead her to love.

“Okay, confession time,” Jamie says, setting his glass on a sparkly coaster. “I didn’t just come here to catch up over wine. Or to check on you,” he adds quickly. “I have an… opportunity to discuss.”

“An opportunity for…”

“So, you remember Dr. Lisa Kelling?” he asks.

I scrunch my nose, trying to remember. “Is that the same Lisa you dated the year before you met Em? Few years older than you? Dry sense of humor?”

He nods.

“She was great. Why’d you break up again?”

“The long distance was wearing on us. She’s at Stanford.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Stanford’s Physics Department,” Jamie clarifies.

Ah.

“That’s great for her,” I say, then point at his glass to distract him. “More wine?”

I stand before he can reply, but Jamie refuses to let me back out of the conversation. He stands as well. “She called the other day. Managed about fifteen seconds of small talk before she got down to the real reason she was calling. You.”

I don’t want to be intrigued, but still…

Stanford.

“What about me?” I ask warily.

“She was feeling me out on your next steps.”

I grunt. “So word about my tenure fail’s officially out, huh?”

He gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry. You know how small the academic world can be.”

“Small-minded,” I mutter.

He shrugs. “Anyway. The head of her department wants to talk to you.”

“Oh. Well. I’m flattered, but I have a job waiting for me at Nova.”

“A school where you’ll have to settle for lecturer ,” Jamie says.

“I’ll have to settle for lecturer pretty much everywhere now,” I say. “I’m damaged goods.”

He shakes his head. “Not at Stanford. They’re talking tenure track , Miranda.”

I go still, not quite believing what I’m hearing. It’s not completely unheard-of—though unlikely—that someone can get back on tenure track elsewhere after being denied, but never have I heard about someone getting a second chance at a place as prestigious as Stanford.

“You’re kidding.”

He shrugs. “Apparently some universities see your high profile as a boon. That, and you’re brilliant,” he adds quickly.

“Good save,” is about all I can manage as my head swarms with possibilities and confusion.

Before I can even begin to sort through the conflicting thoughts, I hear the front door open.

“Randy? You home?”

Archer starts to pass through the open doorway, then pauses when he sees me in the living room.

His gaze finds mine over Jamie’s shoulder, and this time, our gazes get tangled up, a million unidentifiable undercurrents passing between us.

It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since New Year’s Eve.

I’ve been telling myself that the winter weather is why I’ve dragged the Buzzes off the roof and into the greenhouse to protect the flowers from elements. I’ve been telling myself that Archer’s deep into his Paris series, which is why he hasn’t been over for leftovers.

But as his eyes meet mine now, I realize that those are all half-truths and excuses.

I’ve been avoiding him.

And I can see by the slight wariness in his eyes that he’s been avoiding me, too.

He glances at my brother, who is already walking toward him to shake his hand.

“Hi, I’m Jamie. Miranda’s brother. You must be Christian.”

I let out a snort, and Archer’s eyes narrow and land very briefly on me before he looks back to my brother. “Nope. Just the neighbor. Not the boyfriend.”

Gosh, thanks for clarifying that, Archer. I wasn’t sure where you stood on that front.

Technically , Christian is still my boyfriend. I’m still planning to break up with him as soon as possible, but he’d gotten a call on New Year’s Day that he’d need to fill in for his boss at some big convention in Dallas, so he’s been gone for a week. He’s too good a guy to break up with over the phone or by text, so I’m waiting for him to get back to have the conversation in person.

“Oh, well. Good to meet you,” Jamie says to Archer, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. If he thinks it’s odd that my neighbor enters the house uninvited, he doesn’t show it.

My brother glances at his watch and winces. “I’ve gotta run to this boring dinner at some boring steak house in midtown.” He turns toward me. “You’ll think about it.”

I nod.

“ Really think about it,” he says, approaching me for a quick farewell hug. “And in return, I won’t tell the parents about the offer. Yet.”

I hug him back. “I promise.”

He steps back and takes my shoulders for a second. “You deserve it, Miranda. It’s the best thing.”

Best thing for whom?

“I promise I’ll give it serious consideration,” I tell my brother. “Now go . It’s rush hour; you’re going to be late if you don’t leave now.”

He gives me a little salute, and with a nod of farewell to Archer, he steps out. A moment later, I hear the front door open and close as my brother leaves.

I do my best to ignore Archer, but I feel his gaze on me as I move around the living room, gathering the wineglasses and barely touched food.

“What are you doing here?” I ask finally as I head from the living room toward the kitchen.

“Hungry,” he says, terse, even for him.

I shove the charcuterie board at him as I pass. “Here. Go crazy.”

He follows me into the kitchen, already picking at some of the meats and cheeses on the board as he does so.

The wine my brother brought is excellent, so I pour myself a bit more. I very pointedly do not offer any to my neighbor, even as I regret a little that the easiness between us is gone. Even as I admit, only to myself, that I’ve missed him.

He sets the board on the counter, steadily making his way through its contents as he watches me, seeming to see way too much. I stand perfectly still at the opposite end of the kitchen island until he polishes off the last of the almonds.

“So. What are you supposed to be thinking about?” he asks finally.

“Hmm?” I say, taking a sip of wine.

“Your brother. He wanted you to think something over.”

“Yup.”

Archer looks frustrated by my atypical snippiness, but that’s just too damn bad. He’s made the rules. I’m just following them.

I fully expect him to give up and retreat back to his place, but he surprises me by trying again. “Job offer?”

I point at the empty board. “That enough to fill you up? I can make you a sandwich to go if not.”

“I’m good.” His eyes narrow slightly at the pointed inclusion of to go.

“Great.” I pick up my wine and start toward the kitchen table, where some of my astrology books are laid out. I’ve been digging into the origins of Western astrology, and have been particularly engrossed with the Enlightenment era, when its legitimacy took its hardest hit.

Archer snags my elbow as I pass, drawing me around to face him. Startled by the contact, I look up into his eyes, finding a frustrated entreaty I’ve never seen from him before.

“Hey. Randy,” he says, his voice brusque. “I know New Year’s Eve was a mistake. My mistake. But… we can still be… friends. At least as long as you’re living here?”

I only stare at him and slowly he releases his grip on my arm, though the warmth from his fingertips seems to linger even through the thick sleeve of my sweater.

“Right?” he says after a moment, and the brief flash of pleading in his eyes does something dangerous to my heart.

And I realize for the first time that Archer truly is a friend. Not just a neighbor I’m friendly with, but a friend. Someone I care about. Someone I don’t care to hurt just because I’m hurt.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” I say, softening my tone. “Of course we’re friends.”

His eyes search mine for a second, and though he nods, he doesn’t look convinced. “Okay. Good. I’ll let you get back to…” He waves toward my books.

“Archer,” I say quickly before he can exit.

He turns back, and I hesitate only a second before sighing. I go to the fridge and pull out one of his favorite beers, which I somehow have found myself stocking over the past couple of months.

“My brother knows someone at Stanford,” I say. “They want to interview me about a potential job.”

He accepts the beer and takes a long drink before replying, seeming to think it over. “How do you feel about that?”

“I… have no idea,” I admit, realizing that it hasn’t even begun to really sink in. “Shocked, I guess. I never imagined that after getting denied tenure at Nova that another school of that caliber would even look at me again.”

Archer remains silent, as though sensing I need to sort out my thoughts and giving me the room to do so.

“And I’m excited,” I say after a moment, because it feels like what I’m supposed to be feeling. “I mean, it’s tenure track. At Stanford.”

“So you’ve decided that you miss it after all?” he asks. “The whole collegiate, academic scene.”

“No,” I say so quickly I surprise myself. Then I hold up a finger. “Let me rephrase. I still don’t miss the politics of academia, or, if I’m being honest, the general dryness of the scholarly landscape. But I miss the other stuff.”

“Other stuff,” he repeats. “Teaching?”

“Yeah, I miss sharing knowledge with eager minds, but I also miss…”

I tug at my earring, too embarrassed to continue.

Archer leans over, elbows braced on the counter as he gives me a small smile. “Friends, remember?”

“Right. Okay.” I take a breath and hold it for a second. “I miss the other stuff. The, um… The famous stuff. I miss being on TV. I miss guest hosting game shows. And the podcasts and the interviews and the documentaries. And it’s not even about the fame, it’s about sharing science. The scholarly community is tight knit, but sometimes it feels like there’s an ‘us and them’ division between academics and nonacademics, which seems to sort of defeat the whole point. That knowledge is meant to be shared .”

“Could you do all that stuff without also being a professor?”

I shake my head. “They go hand in hand. All the TV spots dried up the second word got out that I was denied tenure. I guess I’m persona non grata unless I have Nova behind me.”

I haven’t realized until now how much that’s bothered me. I’ve been making excuses for months as to why Good Morning America stopped calling. And all the other shows and interviews as well. I’ve been telling myself there haven’t been any meteor showers to discuss, no cool eclipses, and then there was the holidays…

But it’s time to face facts. Nobody’s calling me because I am nobody now.

“You think if you go to Stanford those offers will start coming in again?”

I shrug. “I’d like to think so.”

“Stanford’s in California.” His eyes lock on mine as he points out this obvious but crucial point, and I nod, feeling a little hollow inside at the thought, and yet…

“I have to at least take the interview, right?” I say. “This is the path to what I’ve always wanted.”

Archer straightens and scratches his jaw. “I’m surprised you’re not consulting your horoscope. Doesn’t that rule your life these days?”

I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand. “Hey. Don’t get pissed. I’m just pointing out that you took a year to do this astrology thing. Shouldn’t that be playing a role in your next career decision? If it does in other areas of your life?”

“Wait, I thought you hated astrology,” I say, narrowing my eyes, remembering his furious reaction at my horoscope playing a part in our kiss. As though my horoscope was to blame for the mistake .

He hedges. “I don’t hate it; I just think it’s bullshit.”

I roll my eyes. “Such a useful distinction.”

Then I frown. “It feels weird to use astrology to make a decision that has to do with science.”

He finishes his beer and drops it into the recycling bin with a shrug. “Your life, Randy. But from the outside? Seems like this whole year has been an exercise in learning how to trust yourself. Your real self.”

For some reason, that simple sentence feels even harder to wrap my head around than a potential job offer from Stanford.

And a hell of a lot more unsettling.

“Wait, what? You just drop a deep nugget like that and leave?” I ask, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice as he heads toward the front door.

He turns around with a slight smile. “For now. Working on a few pieces that are demanding just about everything I have.”

“Oh, that’s great! You’re finally consumed ,” I say, echoing his own word over the way he wants to feel about his work.

“Yeah. Yeah, apparently, I am,” he says a little quietly. He starts back down the hall again, then turns back once more. “Hey. Randy.”

“Hmm?”

“What’s Stanford going to mean for you and Christian? You going to try the long-distance thing?”

I’d just opened the fridge to make myself a salad, but I close it abruptly. Apparently I’m not entirely ready to move past New Year’s Eve, because the question grates on the emotions that still feel raw from that night.

“Asking as a friend ?” I ask, a slight edge creeping into my voice.

His blink lasts a split second too long, as though he didn’t anticipate the question, or my tone. “Sure. Of course. What else?”

What else? The question says plenty and scrapes a little at my heart.

“I don’t know what my future holds,” I say simply.

It’s a half-truth, because it doesn’t feel fair to tell him I’m breaking up with Christian before Christian himself hears it.

And it’s a half-truth because I do know one thing about my future:

Simon Archer doesn’t seem to want a starring role in it.