Miranda in Retrograde

26. Aquarius Season

AQUARIUS SEASON

Today will not unfold as planned, dear Gemini. Trust that what seems like a mishap is actually the universe correcting itself, putting you back on the path that you were meant to take. Your instincts are spot-on, and every step you take now is a necessary part of your journey toward what you’ve been seeking.

Except for the couple of years I was with Daniel, Valentine’s Day is my and Daphne’s day. It started out as pizza and cheap rosé on the couch while she explained the nuances of reality TV to me. But the last two years, we’ve upgraded the whole affair.

We don’t go out. The whole fixed-menu, reservations-required, stilted formality? Pass. But that doesn’t mean that we don’t go all out.

We dress up. We take turns cooking for each other, and we go fancy : scallops, caviar, filet mignon. Then there was the fancy ice cream and lobster rolls and Thor night last year.

As a result? I love Valentine’s Day.

Truthfully, I’ve never really understood the whole bitter-because-I’m-single thing. I can be single. I can even like being single. And still enjoy romantic love and all the clichés that come with it—chocolate, roses, even sappy love songs. Daphne and I do it all together.

Until tonight.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Daphne says, though it’s more of a croak-moan. “I seriously thought I was just tired this morning and the stomachache would pass, but just now as I was getting ready… I’ll spare you the details.”

“Don’t apologize for being sick,” I say firmly. “It’s an affront to our friendship. You put on your baggiest, comfiest pajamas, lie down, watch something terrible, sleep. Whatever you need. Can I bring you anything? Crackers? Gatorade? Company?”

“I wish I could say yes, but I think I just want to go curl up in the bed and listen to my Twilight audiobooks.”

I smile. Daphne loves Twilight . She’s read the books and seen the movies more times than I can count, and it’s her go-to whenever hungover or sick.

“Give Edward my best,” I say.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Daphne says, her voice slightly pleading. “I can’t believe this is happening in a year when you just went through a breakup.”

“I’m really good, Daph,” I promise. I don’t tell her that I’ve barely thought of Christian since, and even when I do, it’s largely in relation to Kylee. For reasons I fully understand, Kylee’s opted to pause our tutoring sessions, but it still stings a little. I miss her and the chance to talk to someone about the cosmos.

“Okay,” she says reluctantly. “I love you. You know that.”

“Always. Love you, too.”

I hang up with my best friend and set my phone on the counter with the tiniest of sighs. I meant what I told Daphne. I would never be mad at her for having to cancel because she’s sick. She could have canceled because she met a cute guy, and I still wouldn’t be mad at her. That’s just not how we operate.

But none of that changes the fact that I have an elaborate table for two set, and what I think is a pretty lovely baked Brie, beef Wellington, au gratin potatoes, and homemade chocolate soufflé waiting.

Not to mention my new red dress. One of my favorite stores had a sale and it felt made for me.

I glance in the direction of the fish tank. “I guess it’s you and me, Andromeda.”

I’d like to think she waves her tail at me in greeting as she glides by, but it’s not much to work with.

Unless…

My eyes cut to my cell phone.

It’s flirting with disaster. I know that. In a few short months, Simon Archer will be out of my life. Even if he weren’t, he wants nothing to do with me romantically, and hanging out with him on Valentine’s Day is only going to shine a big old spotlight on that.

Your instincts are spot-on, and every step you take now is a necessary part of your journey toward what you’ve been seeking.

“Alright, horoscope,” I mutter. “You’ve gotten me this far.”

I pick up my phone and call Archer.

It rings endlessly, and I’m about to end the call when he picks up. “Randy?”

“Hey.”

A pause. “Everything okay?”

“Of course, why?”

“This is the first time you’ve ever called me. You either text or barge in.”

“ I barge in?!” I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “Never mind. Is Alyssa in town today?”

Another pause. “No. Why would she be?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Valentine’s Day.”

“Why would she be in New York City because it’s Valentine’s Day… Oh. Sure. Right. No, she’s not here.”

I roll my eyes upward. The man is the very opposite of a romantic.

“So, what’s up?” he asks a touch impatiently. “Your dress zipper caught before a date with Christian?”

Even though it’s been just a few weeks, my memories of Christian feel so faded and distant that the question catches me off guard.

“Christian and I broke up a few weeks ago.”

There’s another pause, even longer this time. “Oh.”

I roll my eyes again. It’s a good thing I wasn’t expecting a bigger reaction, because I definitely didn’t get it.

“Okay, so look,” I say. “Daphne and I usually do a whole Galentine’s thing together, but she came down with a nasty stomach bug. So now I have all this food, and… are you hungry?”

“On Valentine’s Day?”

His wariness of the holiday is so purely single man that I rub a thumb between my eyebrows for patience. “Don’t worry, I promise not to wait until the end of dinner before proposing.”

“Does inviting me in Daphne’s stead have anything to do with your horoscope?”

I blink. “Well, actually, now that you mention it—”

“Then no. Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got work to do.”

He hangs up without waiting for my response, and even for Archer, it’s abrupt. I pull the phone away and stare at it. “Alright then.”

So, a solo night. I can make that work. Lots of practice.

I put my fancy baked Brie dish into the oven and try to decide between champagne and the nice red wine I’ve had decanting since noon. Mostly, I try not to dwell on the sharpness of Archer’s rejection. I wasn’t expecting him to fall all over himself to spend the hearts-and-flowers holiday with his platonic neighbor, but that the prospect was that distasteful…

I decide on champagne and am just pulling the foil off the cork when I hear a knock at the door. It’s an unfamiliar noise. Daphne and Archer always just let themselves in. Christian always rang the doorbell. But a knock?

I go to the door and press my face to the peephole.

Immediately, I step back, my heart pounding. Archer?

I open the door and find a very irritable-looking Archer on my front porch. He has a bouquet of purple flowers in one hand, a plastic bag in the other.

My eyes focus on the flowers first. “Are those from…”

“The Buzzes,” he says, shoving the cut flowers at me. “Don’t worry, I googled the proper way to cut them without damaging their growth.”

“I… they’re…” So perfect.

I shift my focus to the bag, which I now see holds a fish.

“Perseus,” he says a little grumpily. “I actually got him this afternoon, before I realized it was Valentine’s Day, so now it seems…”

“Romantic?” I say, batting my eyelashes.

He shoves the bag against my chest and steps into the foyer, immediately moving to the kitchen.

Then he stops. Steps backward so we’re shoulder to shoulder. He jerks his chin at the fish. “That is not a love declaration.”

My eyes go wide. “Oh, but it’s practically Tiffany’s!”

Only when he storms away with a grunt do I allow myself a smile.

Because it’s better than Tiffany’s.

Very carefully, I untie the top of the bag and let the pretty black goldfish join his new girlfriend in the fish tank.

“Perseus, huh? You know your Greek mythology,” I call into the kitchen.

“Again, Google. Perseus saves Andromeda from a sea monster and… that’s all I remember.”

“They’re also constellations,” I say, joining him in the kitchen. “Perseus and Andromeda. Two of my favorites.”

His eyes flick up. “I know. You’ve told me during one of your late-night rambles.”

Have I?

I don’t remember.

But he does.

Archer lifts the champagne bottle. “I saw that you’ve been tearing at the foil. Am I opening it?”

“Please,” I say, turning my attention to my phone. I pull up the deliberately cheesy Valentine’s Day playlist I’d put together that afternoon and connect it to the little Bluetooth speaker I keep on the kitchen counter.

A few seconds later, as the music swells, I hear the festive pop of a cork, and he pours us each a glass. I try not to remember that the last time I had champagne I was with him.

And that we kissed.

And that he very firmly told me it was a mistake.

“I thought you had to work,” I say, accepting the glass with a smile of thanks.

“I did. I do. I am.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Happy Valentine’s Day, or whatever.” He clinks his glass to mine and takes an irritated sip.

I take a sip myself, then pull the Brie out of the oven, feeling a little gratified at the way his eyes light up. I’ve added a layer of apricot preserves atop the puff pastry–wrapped wheel of creamy, decadent cheese, along with some chopped rosemary, thyme, and roasted pecans. I slide it onto a platter, which I’ve already prepped with fancy crackers and salted apple slices.

“So, Daphne’s sick,” he says, watching as I plate.

“Poor thing. Yeah.”

“And Christian’s… gone.”

“Well not dead ,” I say. “Don’t say it like that. It just didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

I glance up briefly at the controlled intensity in his tone, then quickly back at the cheese. I lift a shoulder and try to keep my voice light. “Oh, you know. He has a daughter. Who wants a mom. I might be moving to California…”

“Might?”

I set the platter in front of him, as well as a side plate and silverware. He wastes no time digging in, making me realize that I’ll miss this. Cooking for someone. I didn’t even know I liked cooking for myself, but sharing a meal, whether it’s fancy Valentine’s Day fare or leftover chicken Parm, is an unexpected pleasure.

“I mean probably,” I say quickly. “I won’t know until the interview.”

He nods, then gives me a once-over as he chews, as though seeing me for the first time. “You always dress like this for Daphne?”

I look down at my red dress with a smile. “Only on Valentine’s Day. It’s new. And expensive. But she’s worth it.” I look back at him. “Why’d you change your mind?”

“About?” He wipes his mouth with one of the red, glittery cocktail napkins I’ve set out.

“Tonight. You said you had to work. And hung up on me.” I give him a patient look. “You know, right, that I wasn’t trying to seduce you? You were my backup plan.”

I break off then, distracted by the playlist I’ve put together of some of my favorite love songs. I let out a small, happy sigh at the opening notes of Nicole Henry’s version of “Moon River.”

He watches me. “Having a moment there, Randy?”

“Yes,” I admit openly. “I love this song.”

He looks at me a second longer, debating something, then he nods, almost to himself, and comes around the kitchen counter.

Wordlessly, he holds out a hand to me.

Wordlessly, I take it.

And then I’m dancing.

Dancing to a quietly old-fashioned love song on Valentine’s Day, in my kitchen, with a neighbor who is a friend, who is… everything.

For now.

My cheek finds its way to his chest. His to the top of my head. His heartbeat warm and steady, his presence solid and so dear to me that I find my eyes watering.

“Randy,” he murmurs, shifting his head slightly so his mouth brushes atop my head.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

There’s a moment of silence. “I have to work the next few weeks. A lot. You may not see much of me.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. We only have a few more months before I need to move—either to California, if the job works out, or back to the city, if Stanford doesn’t want me and I return to Nova.

But I remind myself not to be selfish. My work has always been the most important thing to me. I can’t begrudge him for feeling the same about his own.

The hand at my waist pulls me slightly closer, the thumb of his other hand brushing over mine. I don’t think he’s aware of it, which makes it sweeter somehow.

“I just…” He swallows. “I just want you to know. I’m not avoiding you, not really. I just need to go sort of heads-down on the art for a while.”

“I understand,” I say.

Though I’m not sure that I do understand. His words make sense, and I respect his creative process. But I feel like I’m missing something; that something else is going on that he can’t tell me. Or won’t.

For the next minute, we just dance. Except it doesn’t feel like dancing so much as clinging to each other. To a moment we can carry with us when our lives inevitably diverge.

Finally, as the last of the music fades out, I start to step away, but his grip tightens, as though reflexively, holding me near.

“Archer?” I say softly, because I can feel conflict radiating from him; I just don’t know the cause.

His jaw works for a moment, and then with an impatient shake of his head, he releases me and steps back.

“I’ve gotta get back,” he says.

“Oh—sure,” I say, disappointment mingling with confusion at his strange mood, even as I try to remember that he’s probably just distracted by his work deadline.

Archer heads toward the front door, everything about him radiating an unnamed frustration.

He pauses before stepping out of the kitchen, bracing his palm on the doorjamb, giving it an impatient tap, before turning back around.

With purpose he walks back toward me, and for a thrilling moment I think he’s going to kiss me, to claim my mouth with that same searing passion I felt on New Year’s Eve.

Instead, when he dips his head, it’s to brush his lips over my cheek. His mouth pauses near my ear, uttering a gruff whisper. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Randy.”

He steps back, and his walk out of the kitchen is more purposeful this time. He doesn’t turn back.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Archer,” I finally manage to echo, though the front door’s already slammed shut.

I lift a hand to my cheek, a little startled to realize that I’m crying.

Because that Happy Valentine’s Day, Randy ?

It had felt an awful lot like goodbye.