Chapter Six
Julien
I opened my mouth to respond.
Nothing came out.
Not a word. Not a sound. Not even a confused grunt of acknowledgment.
I just stood there, frozen on stage in front of two hundred medical professionals, my clicker still raised mid-air, my brain completely and utterly offline.
“Oh my Goddess, it’s you!” she said again, louder this time, as if I might not have heard her the first time.
“From the lobby! My sisters called, and they knew! Phoebe did a reading, and Freyja talked to Lucille, and they both said I’d already met you, and I was like, ‘No way, I haven’t met anyone,’ but then I realized it was you! The grumpy suit guy! You’re my...”
She was walking towards the stage.
Actually, walking toward the stage.
While I was giving a presentation.
To two hundred people.
About neurosurgery.
My brain finally rebooted, but only partially. Enough to register what was happening, but not enough to formulate an actual response beyond internal screaming.
What is happening?
What is HAPPENING?
WHAT IS HAPPENING?
“... and I know you probably think I’m crazy,” she continued, now halfway down the aisle, her voice carrying through the dead-silent conference room like a megaphone, “but I promise I’m not crazy, I’m just very in tune with the universe, and the universe is very clear about this, like extremely clear, and my tarot cards this morning pulled The Lovers and The Sun, which is basically the universe screaming, ‘THIS IS IT,’ and then I bumped into you.
Literally bumped into you, and I felt it, that cosmic pull, that destiny energy, and I tried to tell you but you were in such a hurry and I get it, you’re clearly a very busy and important person giving very important talks about”—she squinted at the screen behind me—“brains? You talk about brains? That’s so perfect because I’ve always said the brain is just the universe’s way of experiencing itself and—”
“Stop,” I finally managed to croak out.
She stopped walking. Smiled wider. “I know, right? It’s overwhelming. The cosmic significance of—”
“No.” I found my voice. Sort of. It came out strangled and slightly higher pitched than normal, but it was there. “Stop. Just stop talking.”
Two hundred people were staring at me.
Then at her.
Then back at me.
The moderator was standing off to the side, her mouth slightly open, her severe expression replaced by something that looked like horrified fascination.
This was not happening.
This could not be happening.
I’d driven seven hundred miles. I’d gotten a speeding ticket I hadn’t deserved. I’d sprinted through a casino. I’d made it here with two minutes to spare.
And now this—this person—was derailing my entire presentation because she thought we were cosmically connected.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I know this is probably not the best time, but the universe doesn’t really care about timing, you know? It just kind of... happens when it happens. And it’s happening right now. Can’t you feel it?”
“The only thing I’m feeling,” I said, very carefully, “is a strong desire for you to leave this conference room.”
“Oh.” She blinked at me. “But we need to talk about—”
“We don’t need to talk about anything.”
“But the universe—”
“The universe,” I said, my patience fraying like a rope under tension, “is not a factor in this conversation. What is a factor is that I am currently in the middle of a presentation. To two hundred people. About neurosurgery. And you are interrupting it.”
She looked around as if just now noticing the audience. “Oh. Right. Sorry about that.”
“So if you could please”—I gestured toward the door with what I hoped was a polite but firm motion—“leave. Now. I would greatly appreciate it.”
I expected an argument. I expected more rambling about cosmic energy and tarot cards and whatever other nonsense she’d been spouting.
Instead, she smiled.
A bright, genuine, absolutely delighted smile.
“Of course!” she said cheerfully. “I totally understand. You’re working. I respect that. I’ll just wait for you outside, and we can talk after, okay? The universe can wait a little longer. It’s been waiting this long, right?”
And then, miracles upon miracles, she turned around and started walking back up the aisle.
Actually walking away.
Leaving.
I watched her go, half-convinced this was some kind of trick. That she’d turn around halfway and come back with more theories about destiny and cosmic connections.
But she didn’t.
She just walked straight to the doors, gave me a little wave and another brilliant smile, and skipped—actually skipped—out of the conference room.
The doors closed behind her with a soft click.
Silence.
Two hundred people stared at me.
I stared back.
The moderator cleared her throat. “Dr. Darcy? Would you like to... continue?”
Would I like to continue?
Would I like to continue?
I’d just been interrupted mid-presentation by a woman who thought we were soulmates because she’d bumped into me in a casino lobby and felt “cosmic energy.” A woman who’d walked into a medical conference and started rambling about tarot cards and the universe experiencing itself through brains.
And now I was supposed to just... continue talking about minimally invasive surgical techniques like nothing had happened.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes. Let’s continue.”
I clicked to the next slide, my hand only shaking slightly.
“As I was saying,” I continued, my voice steadier now, “recent advances in imaging technology allow us to map neural pathways with unprecedented precision...”
I made it through the rest of the presentation on autopilot. My mouth moved. Words came out. Slides advanced. I answered questions during the Q&A session with what I hoped was coherence.
But the entire time, a small part of my brain—the part that wasn’t focused on neural pathways and surgical techniques—was screaming one continuous thought:
What the hell just happened?
The presentation ended at 4:47 PM.
I’d gone thirteen minutes over my allotted time, probably because I’d lost five minutes to the interruption and tried to make up for it by talking faster during the second half.
People applauded. The moderator thanked me. Several attendees came up to ask follow-up questions about specific techniques I’d mentioned.
I answered them all with the mechanical precision of someone who’d had this conversation a hundred times before, while internally I was still processing the fact that a complete stranger had walked into my presentation and declared us cosmically connected.
By the time I escaped the conference room, it was after five.
I needed my bag. I needed to check in. I needed to find my room, take a shower, and pretend this day had never happened.
I headed straight for the front desk.
The same clerk from earlier was still there, which I took as a good sign. At least she’d know about my bag situation.
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound pleasant despite the fact that I’d just lived through the most chaotic three hours of my professional life. “I’m Dr. Julien Darcy. I left my bag here earlier before my presentation. I’d like to collect it now.”
She typed something into her computer. Frowned.
My stomach dropped.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Darcy,” she drawled. “But I don’t see any record of your bag being checked with us.”
“What do you mean, you don’t see a record? I handed it to you. Personally. Less than three hours ago.”
“Let me check with the bell desk.” She picked up the phone, had a brief conversation, then hung up and gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir. They don’t have any record of your bag either.”
I felt something inside me start to crack. Not the small crack from earlier. A bigger one. The kind that suggested structural failure was imminent.
“That’s impossible,” I said, very quietly. “I watched you take it. I watched you put it behind the counter.”
“I understand your frustration, Dr. Darcy, but—”
“My laptop is in that bag. My clothes. My toiletries. Everything I need for the next three days.”
“I’m sure we can locate it, sir. If you could just give me a few minutes to—”
“I don’t have a few minutes. I’ve been traveling for twelve hours. I drove seven hundred miles. I got a speeding ticket. I got interrupted during my presentation by a woman who thinks we’re soulmates because of ‘cosmic energy.’ And now you’re telling me my bag is missing?”
My voice rose slightly on that last word. Not shouting. Not yet. But definitely heading in that direction.
The clerk’s eyes widened. “Sir, I promise we’ll find your—”
“It’s not missing.”
I froze.
That voice.
I knew that voice.
I turned around very, very slowly.
And there she was.
The gypsy. The “cosmic energy” woman. The person who’d derailed my entire presentation.
Standing right next to me. Smiling. Holding my bag.
“You left it at the bell desk,” she said cheerfully.
“But then they moved it to lost and found because nobody claimed it, but I saw it and I recognized it because I have a really good memory for details. It’s the universe’s way of helping me stay connected to important things, and I was like, ‘That’s his bag!
’ so I grabbed it for you. You’re welcome! ”
She held it out to me, still smiling that bright, delighted smile.
I stared at her.
Then at my bag.
Then back at her.
“You,” I said slowly, “took my bag.”
“I rescued your bag,” she corrected. “There’s a difference. It was in lost and found. I found it. Now it’s not lost anymore. See? The universe provides.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
No words came out.
My brain had officially given up.
“Are you okay?” she asked, tilting her head.
“You look a little pale. Do you need to sit down? There’s a bar right over there.
We could get you some water. Or a drink.
You look like you could use a drink. I could use a drink too, actually.
Not because I need one, but because celebrating cosmic connections is important and—”
“I need a drink,” I said.
It was the only coherent thought I could form.
I needed a drink. Desperately. Immediately. Possibly several drinks.
I turned and started walking toward the bar I’d spotted earlier near the casino floor.
Behind me, I heard her cheerful voice. “Oh good! I’ll come with you! We have so much to talk about!”
And because the universe apparently had a sense of humor and hated me personally, she followed.