Chapter 17 Hazel
HAZEL
Logan and I meet at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning at the rental car place to begin our journey north.
It’s only when I’m buckling up that it fully hits me that I invited myself—on a whim, of course—to Maine. To meet Logan’s family. It seems I’ll never learn.
I half expected Toffee to be waiting in the car, but apparently Logan gets a break from cat-sitting duties when Mrs. Walker’s back in town. I’m half disappointed by this.
Logan sets a pouch in my lap. I 100 percent didn’t expect to be gifted a road trip kit from Logan. Inside is Advil (for my headaches), more Hello Kitty Band-Aids (just in case), water, a USB car charger, a granola bar (to stave off hanger), and, of course, cherry gummies.
We manage to beat the traffic going out of the city, spending the first hour in a peaceful quiet. We slowly wake up with the help of our cinnamon lattes and bagel sandwiches. Thankfully, my nose acclimates to the rental’s overly strong Fall Spice air freshener as soon as we reach the highway.
I have the heat blasting on my side while Logan has his temperature set in the high sixties. He drives with his hands firmly placed on ten and two, his concentration on the road ahead.
In exchange for the early wake-up call, we’re rewarded with a sunrise that bathes every inch of sky, tree, and road in gold.
I learn that Logan isn’t a big talker when he drives—he’s too focused—but he does like listening to classic rock.
Somehow, an hour zooms by. Logan seems to relax a little more.
Now, he holds the wheel steady with his casted hand, his fingers wrapped around the base.
Three hours in, he surprises me by grabbing my hand, holding it all the way up until he pulls into a gas station somewhere in Massachusetts and turns off the car.
There’s a bright red neon sign shaped like a hand—palm lines included—just past the gas station’s building. “Palmistry and Tarot Reading,” it says, taunting me. Logan gets out of the car to fill up, clocking the sign only once the pump has been inserted into the tank.
He catches my eye. “No,” he says immediately.
“I’m the one who says that,” I say, climbing out of the car to stretch off the last few hours. “You’re the one who says ‘yes,’ remember?” I peer over at the sign again. Of all the gas stations we could’ve stopped at, it had to be this one.
“Logan, I think we need to check it out.” I tilt my head to the side to work out a kink in my neck. I’m too sore to consider the consequences.
“We’re not going to a gas station fortune teller,” he says.
“That building isn’t in the gas station. Let’s just see?” I say, using what’s practically his own catchphrase to entice him.
He shakes his head. “There are basic life rules to live by. You don’t eat gas station sushi, sandwiches, or salad. Same rules apply to gas station fortune tellers.”
“It’ll be like a temp check. To see if our efforts are doing anything,” I reason. “More data will help.”
Logan pushes the gas pump nozzle back into its holder. He glances at me. I must look convincing—or desperate—enough, because he finally nods in agreement.
Turns out, the palmist’s building is attached to the gas station. But in my defense, it has its own front door. The words “Fiona’s Fortunes” are printed on it in swoopy lettering.
It’s surprisingly modern on the inside. Behind a simple white podium, another neon sign spells out “#HighFive” and an @ sign with the business name and a few numbers.
This has less of the vibes of a tourist trap and more of someone who might read our palms and film it for social media.
“Hiiii!” A young woman, who looks to be in her early twenties, pops out from behind a pink curtain. “Sorry, I was wrapping a Live.”
By that, she must mean an Instagram Live, which only sounds familiar because Jerry had to once explain the difference between that and a Reel to me for one of the brand deals he had “in the works.”
“Welcome! I’m Fiona Lee, and this is my place!” she says, smiling brightly at us. “Well, my dad owns the gas station next door.”
“I’m… Zel, and this is Gan.”
Beside me, Logan laughs into his fist.
“You two are so cute. Can I get a high five?” she crosses over to me, her hand held up above her head.
I awkwardly return the gesture. She turns to give one to Logan when she sees his cast and fist bumps him instead.
She waves us both farther into the space.
“Come! Let’s get those palms read. I promise, readings are quick because you’re at a gas station. Clearly, you’re on your way somewhere.”
A part of me is worried Fiona learned her knowledge of palmistry from social media and that this will be a huge waste of time and money.
It might even throw us off course with everything we’ve tried.
But I don’t want to judge Fiona by her neon signs and intense energy.
She deserves a chance. And if it’s all nonsense, we’ll wipe our hands of it.
I’m laughing to myself about my pun when Logan takes me by the elbow and whispers, “Remind me why we’re doing this again?”
“We’re collecting data,” I whisper back. Admittedly, I’m also kind of curious to know what about our lives is already written on our bodies. I keep this one to myself.
Fiona guides us to a back room where there are pillow puffs and a low, wooden, antique table. Fairy lights drape across the ceiling with posters of hands covered in intricate lines layered over the walls. In the corner are stacks upon stacks of boxes of candy bars.
“My dad uses this place for storage,” Fiona says with an eye roll. “But I get the place for free, so I can’t complain. Please sit where you like.”
Logan and I sit on puffs next to each other. His knees knock mine as he crosses them, his long limbs pretzeling over each other on the ground. Fiona sets her phone on a charger behind her and sits across the table from us.
“Because the palm lines vary on each hand, I prefer to read both, but I see that won’t be possible for you,” Fiona says to Logan. “Are you both right-handed?”
We nod.
“Let’s focus on your dominant hands, then,” Fiona decides as she pumps sanitizer into her hands before offering it to us.
“Readings are forty dollars each. I’m fast, but I’m good at what I do.
That’s what you’re paying for. I’ve been doing this full-time for years.
I have 1.2 million followers on my socials, and I was taught everything I know by my auntie, who’s a fortune teller in Taiwan. Does that help?”
Fiona’s got good intuition, I’ll give her that. Or my skepticism isn’t as subtle as I think.
I give it a second for regret to sink in. Surprisingly, I find that I trust Fiona, and not because she has over a million followers. I glance at Logan, who shrugs.
I nod to Fiona, and we begin.
Fiona reaches for my right hand and stretches it out. I stare at my palm that I’ve never paid much attention to, tracing the way the lines carve their own path in my skin.
Fiona runs a long, pink manicured nail over my palm. There are diamonds pressed onto her nails in the shape of arched lines. Like palm lines.
“Your hand lines reveal your personality and character traits. I focus on the five big ones: Life, Wisdom, Love, Marriage, and Fate,” she says, her bubbly voice surprisingly reassuring. “Ooh, clear palm lines. You’ve had good luck recently.”
Logan gives me a knowing look.
“You have a solid Life line,” Fiona says, pulling my attention back to her. “It’s long and deep. You have a strong life energy.”
“Are you able to tell how long I’ll live?” I ask curiously.
Or… wait. Do I even want to know that?
“Common misconception,” she replies. “That’s not what the line’s about.” She runs her nail horizontally across my palm, tracing another specific line. “Your Wisdom line overlaps a lot with your Life line. You’re careful, but you worry too much.”
Now I’m sweating.
On the next line, Fiona’s nail crosses from just below my middle finger to the edge of my hand, moving downward. It’s a particularly sensitive and more ticklish spot. “Your Love line is shorter. You’re a little irrational, a little narrow-minded.”
I take this in but don’t respond.
“The way it curves down like this and has these splits, though”—Fiona pokes at my skin where the line breaks off—“means you’re willing to sacrifice everything for it.”
“For what? Love?” I want to laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”
Fiona hums. “You say that so confidently, but your palms don’t lie.” She taps the outside of my palm. “Your Marriage lines. Long means you’re picky.”
Not picky enough, given my track record with marriage.
“And your Fate line, which is also your Career or Money line,” Fiona says, leaning in closer. She traces twice vertically from my wrist to the center of my palm. “You have two!”
“Does that mean she has two different destinies?” Logan asks. He’s been quiet this entire time, watching very closely.
“It means you have big changes ahead,” Fiona says. “In your life or work. Maybe both. They’re straight, though, so you have a lucky future ahead. Your life looks stable.”
Stable. I’ve never considered my life to be stable before. Not as a kid. Not as a young adult. Not even as a lottery-winning adult.
Something about this experience is weirdly comforting. It’s like, in this world filled with uncertainty, there are at least a few knowns right here in the palm of my hand.
Fiona instructs me to press my fingers together side by side. She holds my hand up to the light. “You hardly have any gaps between your fingers. You don’t let money slip through easily,” she says.
A very thin crack of yellow from the overhead light peeks through below my knuckles. That sounds about right, too.
Logan grips my thigh softly and gives me an uneasy smile. Probably because he knows he’s next.
Fiona turns my hand over in hers and gives it a little tap. “Thank you for sharing your lines with me.” She gestures to Logan. “You’re up!”
He doesn’t take her hands. Instead, he apologizes, stands, and leaves. My mouth drops open as he disappears behind the curtain.
“Don’t worry,” Fiona assures me. “That happens a lot.”
I stand to follow him, hesitating at the door. “Fiona, from what you saw…” I say, turning back around, “do you think I—things—will turn out okay?”
She gives me an encouraging smile. “Only you can decide that.”
Feels at odds with her whole business of interpreting-lines-literally-etched-into-my-skin, but okay.
I thank Fiona for her time. She points out the QR code for payment. Even though Logan didn’t get a reading, I decide to pay for both sessions. Plus, a big tip. Past me couldn’t imagine spending this much money on something like this.
Before I go, Fiona stops me at the front door.
“Zel! Remember, your palm lines don’t solely decide your future,” she says, her tone laced with a different, more thoughtful tone.
This isn’t the peppy Fiona who I’ve spent the last ten minutes with.
“I captured you now in this moment, but over time, your palm lines evolve. Just as you, too, evolve. I’ve shared my interpretation and my insights, but we all have the power to change our lives. To change our fortunes.”
“How?”
“Stop doing the things that aren’t working for you,” she says simply, her easy-breezy attitude back. Then she waves goodbye, leaving me alone out front with that fortune-cookie advice.