Pen Pal

“Kayla? You okay?”

Aidan glances over his shoulder, following my gaze. I turn back quickly to the table and force a smile. “I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

It isn’t a lie. And it’s not as if I’m going to sit here and admit the someone I thought I knew may or may not be a ghost, so I’ll just keep this stupid smile on my face until my heartbeat returns to normal and I can stop the screaming inside my head.

There are no such things as ghosts. There are no such things as ghosts. There are no such things as ghosts.

Dear God, please let there be no such things as ghosts.

We start on our appetizers. We share small talk. We order entrées and eat. I don’t remember much of the rest of the dinner, because my brain is preoccupied with trying to solve the puzzle of who the man in the trench coat is if he’s not an apparition from another dimension who’s stalking me all over town.

I really need to go see that shrink.

When we’re finished eating and we say our goodbyes to Deb and Jake, Aidan guides me out of the restaurant with his hand around my upper arm. When he steers me toward his truck parked in the lot outside, I say, “I take it I’m not going home tonight.”

“You’ll be lucky if I ever let you go home at all.”

Oh, boy. It sounds like I’m in big trouble. I guess that kiss at the table isn’t going to make up for what happened earlier. I say nervously, “I left my handbag in my car.”

He shoots me an intense look, his energy crackling. “Forget the handbag. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

I’m sure my gulp is audible.

The drive to his apartment is tense and silent. I keep opening my mouth to say something but closing it again, lost for words. It’s dark by the time we arrive at his place, and it’s starting to rain.

He parks, kills the engine, and turns to me, eyes glittering.

He says nothing, so I go first. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest when you asked me what was wrong.”

He waits for more, his silence burning.

“I should have told you the truth, but…I was hurt. And angry. And felt like a fool.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t lie to me.”

I whisper, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I believe that. But what happens next time? What happens if I ask a question you don’t want to answer? You gonna lie to me again?”

Not trusting myself to speak because I’m getting emotional, I shake my head.

“No, really think about it before you answer. Do you feel you can’t trust me?”

I look out the windshield into the drizzle and swallow back tears. “It’s myself I don’t trust. My head is all fucked up. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I know is that I want you. I want you more than anything, and I don’t understand how that could have happened so fast.”

He reaches across the seat and takes my hand. Giving it a firm squeeze, he murmurs, “Same. And I’m as scared as you are, bunny, but I’m not gonna let it get in the way of enjoying every fucking second. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Oh God. He’s killing me. I’m going to expire right here in the front seat of this truck.

I cover my face with my hands. He drags me across the seat into his arms. Then we sit there in silence broken only by the patter of the rain on the roof.

After a long time, he says in a husky voice, “You ready to take your punishment?”

A shudder runs through me. I whisper, “Yes, sir.”

He kisses my temple, then whispers next to my ear, “Good girl.”

What happens inside my body when I hear those words can’t be normal. There’s tingling, shivering, butterflies, the works. But all that stops abruptly when Aidan releases me and starts the car again.

Confused, I ask, “What are you doing?”

His only response is to pull out of the parking lot and onto the street.

“Aidan?”

“I’m taking you back to your car.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re going home.”

“I don’t understand. Why am I going home?”

When he just keeps driving silently through the rain, I say miserably, “Because that’s my punishment.”

Gazing out the windshield, he says, “I told you I’d give you what you need, which might not be what you want. Right now, what you need is space.”

My heart in my throat, I whisper, “What I need is you.”

Wincing like he’s in pain, he shakes his head. “I never want you to look back at this time and think we rushed things. I never want you to have regrets. Not about us. So we’re gonna slow it down to a crawl and take baby steps.”

“I think it’s too late for baby steps.”

He glances at me. Even in the dimness of the car, his gaze is so intense, it burns like fire. When he turns back to look at the road and takes all that heat away, it leaves me freezing cold. By the time we get back to the restaurant and he parks on the street behind my car, my teeth are chattering.

Leaving the engine running, he reaches over and strokes a hand over my hair, then squeezes the back of my neck.

“Go on,” he says softly.

“Why do I feel like I’m never going to see you again?”

“Because you’re a drama queen. Now get your sweet ass out of my truck, bunny. Call me when you’ve got clarity.”

“Clarity?” Emotion makes my voice high and tight. “What does that even mean?”

He leans over, takes my face in his hands, and stares right into my eyes.

“When you’re ready to take off that wedding ring, you’ll have clarity. Until then, I’m not doing anything for you but muddying up the waters.”

He presses a firm, closemouthed kiss to my lips. When he withdraws, he takes my heart with him.

“Now go,” he commands gruffly, staring out the windshield into the rain. “When you’re ready, you know where to find me.”

Fighting tears, my face hot and my heart throbbing, I say, “I don’t want to leave it like this.”

“I know.”

“I think we can work this out another way.”

“I don’t.”

“Aidan, please!”

“Get out of the car, Kayla.”

My lower lip trembles like a baby’s. A cry of anguish is stuck in my chest, making it impossible to breathe. I stare at Aidan’s profile, but he refuses to look at me. He just gazes out into the rain with one hand white-knuckling the steering wheel and a muscle jumping in his jaw.

It takes all my willpower to get my hand onto the door handle. What I really want to do is fling myself at him and hang on tight, but I know it won’t get me anywhere.

Once Aidan makes up his mind, there’s no changing it.

I open the door, climb out, and stand on the curb in the rain, staring at him.

He hangs his head and exhales hard. Not looking at me, he whispers hoarsely, “Goddammit, bunny. Just fucking do it.”

I swing the door shut. It closes with a hollow clang. The truck pulls away from the curb and drives off, picking up speed until it races around a corner and disappears from sight.

I turn my face to the sky, close my eyes, and let the rain slide over my cheeks to mingle with my tears.

I don’t sleep at all that night. I lie awake in bed, staring at the shadows playing on the ceiling and listening to the rain on the windowpanes, my head full of Aidan and my heart aching with his loss.

I could call him, but he wouldn’t answer. I could go to his apartment and pound on the door, but he wouldn’t open up. I could write him a letter and beg and plead, but I know all I’d get in response would be silence.

He’s doing it for me—for us—but damn, does it hurt.

The strongest medicine always tastes the most bitter.

I drag myself from bed in the morning and force myself to work. The hours pass so slowly, they feel like years. By three o’clock, I’m in such a state, I quit work for the day and head over to the building where Dr. Letterman’s practice is, determined to get an appointment.

Halfway there, I spot a sign for a psychic. On impulse, I pull to the side of the road and stop.

“Readings by Destiny!” the neon pink sign declares. It beams out from a front window of a charming yellow cottage with white trim. Taped under the sign is a rough drawing of a crystal ball floating between two hands. Stenciled beneath are the words, “Today Only, $10 Special!”

Though I suspect the poster is in the window every day, I decide ten bucks is a small price to pay to have my fortune told by a woman named Destiny.

If nothing else, it will be a fun story to tell.

Walking up the stone pathway to the front door, I hear windchimes and smell the sweet scent of burning incense. Feeling slightly foolish, I ring the bell. After a moment, the door opens to reveal a short old woman with a deeply creased face wearing a purple jogging suit with purple leather Air Jordans.

“Hi,” I say, smiling nervously. “I was just passing by and thought I’d get a reading.”

After looking left, then right, the woman shuts the door in my face.

Taking that as a sign from the universe that I should abandon my ridiculous mission, I turn and start to walk away. But the door opens again and a woman’s voice calls out, “Hello there! Helloooo!”

I turn to find a younger version of the first woman standing in the doorway. She’s also short, but the hair piled atop her head in a complicated braided mound is black instead of white, and instead of a purple track suit, she’s in a flowery teal-and-gold muumuu.

Strings of colorful plastic Mardi Gras beads are draped around her neck. Gold bangles decorate both arms from wrists to elbows. Her lipstick is bright red, and the polish on her long acrylic nails is sparkly silver. Dotted throughout her coiffure are clusters of rhinestones that look like Christmas tree ornaments.

It takes a significant amount of self-control to keep a straight face.

She wiggles her fingers at me and smiles. In a syrupy Southern drawl I suspect isn’t authentic, she says, “C’mon in, sugar.”

“Are you open? The other lady didn’t seem very welcoming.”

“Don’t worry about Mama.” She waves her hand so her chunky rings catch the light. “Blind as a bat and madder than a wet hen. I try to get to the door before she does, but the woman’s as spry as a billy goat. Come in, come in!”

That’s got to be some kind of record for animal similes, but I decide her enthusiasm makes up for getting the door slammed in my face and accept the invitation.

Slightly out of breath, she closes the door behind me, then hustles me into a parlor off the hallway, excitement oozing from her every pore.

I get the feeling she doesn’t get many customers on a Tuesday afternoon.

Or maybe ever.

“Sit, honey,” she instructs, pointing to a small round table draped in black velvet flanked by a pair of tufted gold-and-maroon velvet chairs. On top of the table is a deck of cards and a crystal ball on a low silver pedestal.

The room is decorated in what I suppose is standard fortune-teller décor. A red scarf is draped over the fringed shade of a floor lamp. A tall glass étagère displays an impressive collection of crystals. At the window, a pair of dusty-gold brocade silk curtains held back with tassels lend the space a certain shabby glamour, as do the throw rugs on the wood floor that are worn in spots, but still elegant.

Several framed and incomprehensible astrological charts adorn the walls, along with a quote from Henry David Thoreau: “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

Next to the Thoreau quote hangs a vaguely disturbing portrait of Jesus with an open chest cavity exposing his bloody, thorn-encrusted heart. His eyes are turned beseechingly heavenward.

I sit at the table, inhaling the heady scent of patchouli while looking around for any sign of my sanity.

Good grief, what was I thinking?

My hostess doesn’t give me time to dwell on my regret. She plops herself down opposite me and announces, “I’m Destiny, sugar. And it is my great pleasure to meet you. Now, y’all tell me why you’re here.”

She waits expectantly as I try to formulate a non-crazy-sounding answer. “I’d like a psychic reading, I guess?”

She crinkles her nose. “Oh, honey, you don’t have to draw the pictures on the wall for me. I know you’re here for a reading! My question is why do you need a reading? Tell me what’s goin’ on in your life.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be your job to tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes, yes, but I need a question for the Tarot.” She points at the deck of cards on the table between us. “You have to approach a reading with intention, you see. You can’t just start pulling cards all willy-nilly. There’s a process to this. We have to do it proper.”

I sense condemnation in her tone, so I answer with what I hope is appropriate respect. “Of course. Um. Well, I guess my question would be… What am I supposed to do?”

Destiny flutters her false eyelashes accusingly at me. “While I cleanse the cards, you can think about how to narrow that down to somethin’ more useful.”

She proceeds to conduct an elaborate “cleansing” ritual on the cards which includes first blowing on the deck, then setting various crystals on top of it while muttering unintelligible words. Once that’s finished, she shuffles the deck, raps the bottom edge against the tabletop three times to straighten it, then sets the deck in front of me with a theatrical flourish.

Then she goes to the window and pulls the drapes closed, plunging the room into a murky semi-gloom. “You have your question, sugar?”

“Yes.”

“Ask the Tarot.”

I regard the deck of oversized cards warily, expecting to see an eyeball staring up at me from among the scrolls and twisting vines illustrated on the back. “How do I move on from my husband?”

Destiny takes her seat again, nodding. “Good. Cut the deck in half, then put it back together and fan the cards out in a half circle.”

Her voice is hushed now. Her level of excitement seems to have risen. Even in the murk, I can see the drops of perspiration gathered on her upper lip.

After I’ve followed her instructions, she says, “Now, pick three cards and place them in front of you, from left to right, turning them over as they lie on the deck without flipping them upside down as you do.”

I have to take a second to work that out in my head because my brain is a wet noodle. But I manage to complete the task to her satisfaction.

At least I think she’s satisfied. She could also be having a heart attack.

Her only visible reaction is widened eyes, but there’s something chilling in her stare. The way she’s gone from animated to frozen in the space of only a few seconds is unnerving.

Following her gaze, I glance down at the cards I’ve drawn.

The one on the left shows a person lying on the ground with a row of swords sticking out of his back. The one in the middle depicts a nude couple holding hands under a tree, but the card faces toward Destiny, not me.

The one on the right is the weirdest. It’s an upside down skeleton in full body armor riding a horse with a scythe in his bony hand, and boy, that is really fucking freaky and not at all helpful to my fragile state of mind.

I look up at Destiny. “So? What does it mean?”

Her voice hushed, she says, “You have two major arcana cards, which in itself is significant.” She points to the scary skeleton and the nude couple. “The major arcana represent karmic influences and what’s happening on the soul’s journey toward enlightenment. These are important lessons you’re being called to process. But when reversed, it means you’re not paying enough attention. And here, both major arcana are reversed. This is a very complex draw.”

I’m already disliking the sound of this. “Complex bad you mean?”

Ignoring that, Destiny points to the card with the guy with all the swords in his back. “The card on your left is your past. This is the Ten of Swords. Swords carry a powerful masculine energy that deals with the mind. As you’ve drawn it upright, it indicates crisis, loss, deep wounds, painful endings…”

She glances up at me. “Betrayal.”

The skin on the back of my neck crawls.

She points to the nude couple. “The card in the middle is your present. You’ve drawn The Lovers, which normally represents a balance of forces, complimentary energies, trust in a relationship, harmony, and strength. But here it’s reversed, which indicates disharmony and imbalance. Whatever’s happening in your love life will cause you great pain.”

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful. I can’t even catch a break from a stupid deck of cards.

Destiny points to the card on my right, the armored skeleton on horseback.

“This card represents your future.”

When she doesn’t say more, I prompt impatiently, “And? What does it signify?”

She says simply, “Death.”

We stare at each other across the table as the clock ticks on the wall and my heartbeat goes haywire.

Desperate for some kernel of positive news, I argue, “But it’s upside down. Wouldn’t that mean life or something? When it’s reversed, doesn’t it mean the opposite?”

She shakes her head, making the ornaments in her hair quiver. “Death is a very misunderstood card. It isn’t just about life ending. It’s about new beginnings, transformation, and change. Metamorphosis from one state to another. When the Death card is reversed, it means you’re resisting change. There’s been a major upheaval in your life, but you’re not letting go of the past. And the longer you refuse to let go, the more painful your situation will become. You must purge yourself of old baggage before it weighs you down permanently.”

Purge myself of baggage? Like a psychic enema?

Befuddled, I sit back in my chair and exhale.

Destiny says gently, “Sometimes it’s helpful to draw a follow-up card to understand better what the Death card wants you to let go of.”

I look at the fanned-out deck of cards and think I’d rather chop off one of my own fingers with a dull knife than hear more depressing news.

“Go ahead,” she insists. “It’ll be good for you.”

I snort. “Good for me like a root canal?”

“Pick one, sugar.”

Well, shit. Might as well get my ten bucks’ worth.

Hesitating, I hold my hand over the deck, trying to get some kind of karmic signal from it. When nothing happens, I just pick one that’s sticking out a little farther than the others and place it face up on the table to the right of the Death card.

“Ah. The Magician.”

Destiny sounds pleased, which makes me feel better. “Is that good?”

She shrugs. “Well, it’s another major arcana card, and reversed, so it’s complicated.”

“Of course it is.”

Ignoring my defeated tone, she says, “But boiled down, it means that what you need to let go of are your illusions.”

I furrow my brow. “Illusions about what?”

Destiny meets my gaze. There’s something very sad in her eyes.

“Only you can answer that question, sugar. You asked the Tarot how you can move on from your husband. My advice to you, based on this reading, is to take a hard look at exactly what you’re holding on to.” She taps a fingernail on the Ten of Swords. “There’s a betrayal here. Maybe it’s about that.”

I shake my head. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Michael never betrayed me.”

“Are you sure?”

Into my head pops the memory of the time the woman at Michael’s holiday work party called him a prick. Sharon or Karen or whatever her name was, the same woman who stood behind me at his funeral and wept.

I push the memory aside and say firmly, “I’m sure. It has to be about something else.”

Destiny looks at me as if she knows all my secrets, and they’re really bumming her out.

“All right, sugar. You know best. Just sit on it for a spell when you leave. Think it over. And in the meantime, I’ll pray for you.”

Why the hell do people keep telling me they’ll pray for me? Fiona said the same damn thing!

Irritated, I stand. That’s when I realize I left my purse in the car. “Sorry, but I have to run out to my car to get your money.”

Destiny stands, too, folding her hands at her waist and smiling at me. “Oh, there’s no charge, sugar. The reading’s on me.”

So now I’m getting the pity discount, same as Eddie the handyman gave me. I must be much worse off than I realize if my face inspires such charity. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

I back up, eager to get out of this house. Destiny doesn’t offer to walk me to the door. She simply stands there smiling sadly, making me feel worse than when I walked in.

As I’m closing the front door behind me, she calls out, “Safe travels, sugar!”

Somehow, that strikes me as the most ominous thing she said of all.