Miranda in Retrograde

24. Aquarius Season

AQUARIUS SEASON

The Waning Moon in Pisces is an ideal time to indulge in some self-care. Treat yourself to the facial or pedicure, but don’t neglect to pamper your emotional self as well. Changes lie ahead that will require your head and heart to be in full alignment.

Lillian insisted I come visit her in Florida. She claims it’s over concern for my vitamin D levels and a desperate need for conversation that doesn’t involve hemorrhoid cream or yarn, but from the moment I’ve arrived, her real motive is clear:

Assessing the damage following my breakup with Christian.

From the moment I arrived four days ago, it’s been nothing but Breakup Martinis (an unfortunate combination of raspberry cordial, coconut rum, and gin), chocolate for dinner, and movie marathons starring anything with Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn.

In any other situation, I’d have preferred wine, potato chips, and Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan. But I’m solely in Lillian’s orbit, and her special brand of pampering is apparently exactly what I need, because even though I was feeling far from brokenhearted after ending things with Christian, I’m feeling the most carefree I have in years during this visit.

Though—and perhaps it’s simply because of my horoscope—as relaxed and happy as I am, I can’t help but feel like I’m also on the precipice of something. A calm before a storm in which everything changes.

And of course, everything is about to change.

It may only be late January, but the end of my sabbatical is approaching—at least the unofficial date I’ve set for myself at the end of April. It’s not quite the end of the official academic calendar, but it’s close enough, and gives me a bit more time to shift gears toward my reentry into the academic world.

I’m not sure what it means that April feels awfully close.

Too close.

I’m lying beside Lillian’s pool, trying not to think about it, and obeying her command to “catch some rays,” though I’m pretty sure the rays don’t stand a chance of penetrating the thick layer of SPF I’ve slathered on.

Lillian steps out onto the patio and lets out a long whistle, reminiscent of a construction worker catcalling the heroine of an old movie. “I’ve been worried about your broken heart, but seeing you now in a bikini, I think it’s the boy I should be worrying about.”

I smile but roll my eyes good-naturedly behind my sunglasses. “Yes, I’m sure he’s mourning my complete lack of curves.”

“Voluptuous is only one version of sexy,” she says, settling in an Adirondack chair beside me. “And you know, there is something extra going on with you since I saw you last. Not in your physical body, but your aura. What is it?” she asks.

“Could be the fact that I can actually sleep through the night on Friday nights now that I’m not living on a college campus?” I say, rising to my elbows and looking over at her. “Or perhaps the fact that I’ve been eating something other than turkey sandwiches from the school cafeteria for the first time in a decade? Or—”

“Fluidity,” she says, snapping her fingers. “That’s what I’m seeing.”

I pull down my sunglasses to give her a bemused look. “What?”

“Ever since you started your academic march toward tenure, you’ve been so rigid. Always heading in one single direction, never looking side to side. Now you’re more… Relaxed isn’t the right word; that’s too temporary of a state. But there’s a lovely calm about you now. I wonder where that’s stemming from.” Her fingers drum the chair’s arm as she considers this, rings tapping.

“I told you, sleep. Good food. No deadlines.”

“Maybe,” she says, mostly to herself. “Maybe. How are the Buzzes?”

“They’re good,” I say, startled by the sudden change in subject. “Great, actually. I moved them down to the greenhouse for a couple weeks there, but I took them back up to the roof. They seem happier there.”

Her smile is smug.

“I know, I know.” I flick my sunglasses back onto my nose. “You told me they liked the roof. I should have listened.”

Her smugness only seems to increase, and I have the distinct impression that I’m missing something, but that’s pretty much par for the course with my aunt.

She leans forward and pats my foot fondly, then stands. “We need some nice iced tea. Then I’m going to give Judith a call about the bridge meeting tonight. I’ll tell her to add an extra chair for you.”

“Oh, please don’t,” I beg. “I have no idea how to play bridge.”

“That big brain of yours? You’ll pick it up.”

I shake my head, resigned, because since I’ve been here, Lillian has declared that my “big brain” would make it easy for me to dominate at golf, pickleball, bunco, and bingo.

Needless to say, my “genius” status does very little to help me in physical activity or games built primarily on luck.

“Not Belinda ,” I hear Lillian say loudly from inside her kitchen. “ Miranda . Like the lawyer from Sex and the City with the orange hair. Orange! Hair! Miranda’s coming to bridge… bridge! Where’s your hearing aid?”

I smile to myself as I reach over to pick up my buzzing phone. I expect it to be Daphne checking in, but I sit upright when I see the caller ID.

Stanford University.

I’ve been expecting this call—hoping for it? Dreading it? But now that it’s here, I feel more confounded than ever.

Heart pounding, I take a deep breath, then answer. “Dr. Miranda Reed.”

This used to be a title I used several times a day with pride. It’s been months since I’ve been anything other than Miranda, and I feel a little pang of regret that soon I’ll have to wear the full doctorate mantle again.

“Miranda, I’m so glad I caught you. This is Dr. Samuel Belmont. I’m the head of the Physics Department here at Stanford.”

Here we go.

“What an honor to hear from you,” I say in a crisp, modulated tone. It’s harder than I expected to slip back into professor mode, and even though that was my persona for years, it feels a little foreign. Uncomfortable.

Probably just rusty , I reassure myself.

“I hope it’s not too gushing to say how much I enjoyed your paper on topological quantum computing last year,” I continue.

“Gush away; that one nearly killed me to get right,” he says with a laugh that’s not quite fake, but practiced. As though he’s used that exact line a thousand times in the past.

“So, Dr. Reed,” he says, his voice turning a bit more serious, but still kind. “I’d love to have a conversation about you joining us here at Stanford.”

“I—wow.” I struggle for the correct response. Knowing from Jamie that this opening was coming and actually hearing it are two very different things.

“I’m honored,” I say truthfully. “But before the conversation goes any further, I need to make sure you understand—”

“I heard about the tenure board’s decision at your current school. But I can also say it doesn’t make the least bit of sense to me,” he says. “I’ve read your work. I’ve seen your work. Your student assessments tell me you’re the most universally adored professor I’ve seen in STEM in a long time. You’re exactly the sort of associate professor I want in my department, and though I obviously can’t guarantee the future, I think you’ll find the tenure board here has different… values from your current university.”

It’s not a promise of tenure. I know that. But it’s as close to one as I’m ever going to get, and to hear it coming from someone as respected as Dr. Belmont, from a school as revered as Stanford…

It should be a dream come true.

It is a dream come true, especially given the unexpected rejection from Nova. It’s the sort of second chance that feels too good to be true.

So why am I not giddy ?

“We have an unexpected opening within the theoretical astrophysics and cosmology arena, specifically on the graduate side,” Dr. Samuel says. “I know you’re on a much-earned sabbatical now, but since we’re looking for someone to teach a summer session as well, I’d love to put our conversation on the fast track. Would you have time for a couple of phone interviews over the next month? And assuming it feels like a good fit all around, an in-person meeting in April to discuss details?”

“Absolutely,” I hear myself say without really meaning to say it.

I have the strangest sense that it’s a different Miranda who’s replied from the Miranda who just a few moments ago was talking with Lillian about the Buzzes. A Miranda who doesn’t have time for a houseplant, much less a pet. Or a relationship. A Miranda who doesn’t drink whiskey on the roof with a sardonic artist until the wee hours of the morning, or have cake for breakfast at her horoscope’s behest…

“I’m thrilled to hear it,” Dr. Belmont says. “I’ve got to get to a meeting, but I’ll put my assistant in touch to start coordinating times.”

“That’s wonderful. Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to even be having this conversation,” Professor Miranda says.

“We’re excited here, too. It’ll be a new experience for us to have a celebrity in our midst.”

A silent whisper remarks that if Nova University didn’t want me because of my celebrity status, Stanford only wants me because of it. That nobody wants me for me.

I mentally shut it down and say goodbye to Dr. Belmont just as Lillian steps back out onto the patio with a tray. Apparently by iced tea she meant martinis, but at least from the look of them they’re the regular kind of martinis, and not some disgusting coconut-gin concoction.

“Everything good?” Lillian asks, setting the tray down. She presses a finger between my eyebrows. “You’ve got a line. Frownie.”

“No, no frown. That was Stanford.”

Her graying eyebrows wing upward. “Stanford! Fancy. What do they want?”

“To hire me. Tenure track,” I say, feeling a little guilty that I haven’t mentioned it to my aunt before now, though the slightly pinched look on her face reminds me why I didn’t.

My aunt says nothing for a moment as she stirs the martinis. “You must be thrilled. You said yes?”

“Of course. Well, to the interview process. It sounds like it’s more of a formality than anything, but… wow.” I set a hand to my fluttering stomach. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

“And what about your sabbatical? Following your horoscope?”

“I’ll see it through,” I say, meaning it. “I have until April. Who knows, maybe my horoscope will provide me the exact guidance I need to navigate all of this.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do!”

She shakes her head and drops two olives into each glass. “You don’t. Ten minutes ago, you might have. Ten minutes ago, you actually let yourself believe in the power of the universe and destiny and human instincts.”

“And now?” I say defensively.

“And now”—she hands me a glass—“you’re ready to return to your old ways. Where this reigns supreme.” She taps my head. “And this is told to shut up.” She presses her finger to my heart.

“That isn’t…” I swallow, frustrated, and a little hurt by the lack of support. Lillian is my biggest cheerleader, and right now she seems almost disappointed in me. “Why are you so against this?”

My voice sounds desperate, and I realize it’s not that I’m worried that my aunt is against it. It’s that she’s right . I’m trying to block out my heart’s instincts because they’re saying something my brain doesn’t want to hear.

“Oh, honey.” She sighs and sits down in the chair. “I’m not against anything that you want.”

“Then be happy for me,” I plead. “This is what I’ve always wanted. An academic setting to thrive in and grow…” My voice trails off, because I can’t quite seem to think of all the reasons this is so important.

“Taking the same job you had before, on the same path, with the same goal, but in California—that’s thriving? And growing?”

“Don’t say it like that.” My voice is a touch sharper than I mean it to be. “This is my dream.”

She fishes an olive out of the glass, pops it into her mouth, and chews. “So you keep saying.”

“Because it’s true,” I say, trying to ignore the fact that even to my own ears it sounds desperate, as though I’m clinging to the idea. “My career is all I have. It’s who I am .”

Lillian looks directly into my eyes. “Listen to me closely, because I’m older, and believe it or not, much smarter about some things. You’re not a scientist, a person with two doctorates, or even a Gemini rising. You’re not your parents’ daughter or brothers’ sister, Daphne’s best friend, or even my favorite niece. Those are crucial parts of you, but they aren’t who you are .”

“So who am I?” I whisper in a soft voice I don’t recognize.

She squeezes my hand. “The end of your Horoscope Project is coming soon. You’ll find her. You’ll find you .”