Miranda in Retrograde

27. Aries Season

ARIES SEASON

The storm you’ve been subconsciously bracing for bears down tonight, darling Gemini. Not all is what it seems.

Archer is good on his word. I hate that he is, but he is. I hardly see him over the next few weeks. Not coming or going from his apartment. Not from the roof.

Objectively, I know he’s just hard at work, as he warned me he would be.

But it feels as though he’s done with me in the process.

And perhaps that’s for the best.

Because I need to be done with Archer, too.

I spend March in what feels like nonstop phone and video interviews with the entire Stanford Physics Department. Trying to impress without seeming like I’m trying to impress. Already identifying who’s a Friday night happy hour possibility, and whom I should avoid at all costs.

The interview process is going well. I can feel it.

What I can’t seem to feel is any particular excitement about it.

Achievement, yes. Pride, yes. It feels good to be wanted in the academic space again. To feel like the past twenty years of my life haven’t been a waste of time.

But excited?

I’m working on that part.

Spring weather’s been knocking at the door every so often for the past couple of weeks, so I’ve been spending more and more time up on the roof lately. With my telescope.

Alone.

Well, I have the Buzzes.

But somehow the stars through my telescope seem a little less bright without the man and his charcoal on the neighboring roof.

Which is why, on a clear, mild evening in early April, when I come up to water the Buzzes, I draw up short at the sight of him, the man I haven’t seen in over a month. Archer’s hands are in his pockets, his head tilted backward as he looks up at the clear night sky.

He doesn’t glance my way. Of course he doesn’t. He’s Archer.

And yet, no part of this annoys me.

It’s simply him.

As he is.

He’s just… Archer.

I try to play it cool. As if the last time I saw him it wasn’t Valentine’s Day, and we hadn’t danced, and it hadn’t felt like… something .

“No easel tonight,” I say very casually, since there are no art supplies in sight.

He holds up his right hand without looking over. “Trying to prevent hand cramping. I’m putting the finishing touches on my series today and forgot to take breaks.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I say with enthusiasm, despite my mood. “Not the hand cramp. But finishing the series.”

Archer nods in acknowledgment, then hesitates a moment, as though debating something.

Finally he walks toward me, stepping up to the ledge of his roof so we’re face-to-face. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out. Wordlessly, he hands it to me.

I take the black envelope from him and look down at the fancy wax seal with what I now recognize as the elaborate A . that serves as his signature. “Fancy.”

He gives an indifferent shrug, though the tension I feel radiating off him belies the casual gesture.

I slide a thumb under the envelope’s flap to open it and pull out an elegant invitation.

“It’s for my art show in SoHo in a couple weeks.” He shoves his hands into his back pockets. “They’ll be revealing my new series.”

“Oh, wow. Wow . I’m so happy for you! I can’t—”

I break off when I see the date of the show, feeling my heart sink in my chest. “I fly out to California that evening. My interview’s the next afternoon.”

His head tips backward slightly as he inhales. “So, you’re doing that.”

I sense a tinge of disappointment, as though he expected better of me, and I feel myself shift into a defensive stance, physically and emotionally.

“If by that you mean pursuing my dreams, then yeah,” I say, a sharp edge slipping into my voice.

In response, he merely gazes at me, and my temper flares.

“Okay, let’s recap tonight’s interaction,” I say, wagging a finger between us. “You tell me about a major career accomplishment, and I’m over the moon for you. I do the same, and you can’t even pretend to be excited for me?”

“Bullshit,” he says quietly.

My mouth opens in protest, but he steps closer, his eyes flashing with anger.

“You’re not looking for congratulations, and you don’t need me to be excited for you,” he continues. “You want someone to reassure you that you’re doing the right thing, to tell you what to do and how to live so you don’t have to make any actual decisions about your own life.”

“I—”

“Because that’s what you do , Miranda,” he says, more animated and angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “You make your life through a paint-by-numbers system. Someone else draws the lines, and you just follow instructions.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Yeah?” He crosses his arms and bends slightly so his eyes are level with mine, daring me to dig deeper. “So, you remember making a conscious decision to become a physicist? To go into academia? To pursue tenure track? Or was that merely a prescription that you followed to a T?”

“ Maybe ,” I say. “Maybe you’re right about that. Maybe I did pursue tenure a bit blindly in the past. But at least I can admit it, and course-correct. And let’s not forget that I took an entire year to deliberately step away from that so-called paint-by-numbers life.”

“ Wrong ,” he says furiously. “You think your Horoscope Project was brave and bold, and maybe it could have been. But all you did was swap one rule book for another. This wasn’t about you putting your faith in the universe having a plan for you. This was about you needing another step-by-step instruction manual after your last one didn’t go the way you hoped.

“Every part of your time here has been scripted,” he continues. “From your fish, to your meal choices, to who you want to be with. I’ve refused to be a part of that script, and guess what? I refuse to be part of the next one as well. You want to switch back to following the academic rule book because it’s easy, go for it. But don’t expect a standing ovation from me.”

Every word lands a painful blow upon my very soul, and there are whispers of truth in there that I’ll agonize over later.

But not before I make a few points of my own.

“You want to talk about easy , Archer?” I ask. “Who’s the one who’s locked himself away from the world so he won’t have to deal with it? You pretend it’s just part of being an eccentric, isolated artist, but we both know what it really is.”

His eyes narrow in warning, but I ignore it, because suddenly I see him. I see so clearly what’s been right in front of me.

“You got hurt ,” I say. “Your fiancée hurt you. But instead of admitting that—even to yourself—instead of owning it and healing, you use it as an excuse to shut down, to pretend like nothing matters to you.

“You think your relationship with Alyssa is casual ?” I continue. “It’s not casual. It’s not some modern, adult relationship, Archer. It’s cowardice, plain and simple. It’s so you don’t have to go all in on another human being who might hurt you like Willow hurt you. I may play by a rule book, but at least I’m in the game!”

My outburst ends on a shout, my heart hammering hard in my chest.

Archer doesn’t move, aside from clenching and unclenching his jaw, as we stare at each other in anger and frustration for several long, emotionally charged moments.

“You done?” he asks finally, his voice low.

I swallow and nod because my throat aches with the threat of impending tears. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m done.”

“Good. Because you and me. This. We’re done.”

I have a halfhearted impulse to point out there is no we . That there’s nothing to end because nothing ever started.

But I know it isn’t true.

Whatever’s developed between Archer and me these past few months may not have a name, but it’s the most real thing I’ve ever experienced with another person.

The most intense.

The most rewarding.

The most painful.

“Good luck with the interview, Randy,” he says. “I hope you find everything you’re looking for.”

Archer walks away then, and I let him, because while I don’t agree with his entire assessment, he’s not wrong about me being on a path that doesn’t include him. I know what my next few years will entail. I’ll have to work harder than ever to prove myself after a failed tenure bid. From another state. In another time zone.

I don’t need my horoscope or our incompatible natal charts to know that Archer and I aren’t meant to be. Were never meant to be.

But after his door has shut with a slam, after he’s gone, I slowly lower to the cold iron chair on the roof and finally let the tears fall.

Because I can’t shake the feeling that everything I’m looking for?

Just walked away for good.