you take it,” she said. “I do think I see great things in your future.”
Madame Richie was dangling a carrot on a string. Or rather, a piece of dog poop. But I guessed I was in such an awkward place in my life, I was interested to hear what generic foretelling she would come up with.
“Fine,” I answered, but then I narrowed my eyes. “But no laughing. Not a single chuckle,” I warned seriously.
It was clear she wanted to do exactly that, but she held it in by pressing her thin lips together. “Let us begin then.”
She moved the cloth-covered crystal ball to the center of the table and pulled off the cover with a flourish. She sure knew how to play the part.
She took a long look at me, then peered in to the ball with concentration. Tilted her head. No smoke appeared like it did last time. She probably didn’t have time to prep her parlor tricks since I’d arrived unexpectedly.
Lifting her head, she inhaled on her cigarette and deadpanned, “You are pregnant.”
I stared at her drily. “If I was pregnant, my stomach would be nearly as big as a basketball right now.”
She pursed her lips. “Could be small baby.”
“No.” Ronan’s baby? Yeah, right.
“Vorth a shot.” She shrugged.
She moved the crystal ball aside. “I do not see much now, so let us try the cards.” I didn’t know why I was still here, besides the fact I wanted her to work for the torment she’d caused me.
Madame Richie shuffled the tarot cards, the cigarette dangling from her lips. “So vat do you vant to know?”
Déjà vu on steroids slipped over my skin like electricity, raising the hair on the back of my neck. She asked me the exact thing six years ago, though instead of answering my question with something legitimate, she gave me a tiresome response about finding a man. I decided to ask the same thing again.
“I want to know what my purpose is in life.”
She raised a brow as if she found the question entirely bland, picked a card from the top of the deck, and set it faceup on the table.
I stared at it, my stomach on the floor.
The Devil.
A puff of Madame Richie’s cigarette smoke circled the card, a little humor in her voice. “Vell . . . this is interesting.”
Calmly, I got to my feet and headed to the door.
“That vill be fifty dollars,” she hollered after me.
raison d’être
(n.) a reason for existing
I took a Lyft ride to pick up Khaos on my way to The Moorings. Sweet Emma’s hair was sticking out in every direction when she calmly told me, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for him.”
Khaos came to sit by my side, acting as innocent as could be, but one of the cats shooting a glare at him was missing a large tuft of fur.
I apologized profusely, feeling awful for leaving Khaos with Emma. Though I knew he wouldn’t do well in a boarding kennel. I had no idea what to do with him the next time I had to leave, but I had two weeks to think about it before my next international shoot in Jamaica.
On the way to The Moorings, I thought of Madame Richie and her stupid tarot card. I mentally tried to figure out the odds of her drawing that card. I imagined all kinds of crazy ideas—like she’d watched me from behind trees for years and then played The Devil to unsettle me.
Frustrated with my musings, I exhaled and told myself it was just a coincidence. A freaky coincidence . . . But I refused to think about it again.
Khaos and I stood in front of my childhood home. I wasn’t thrilled about being here again, though I needed to grab the important things—such as my high school diploma, my birth certificate, other accolades I was proud of . . . and maybe a few pairs of shoes.
When we entered through the front door, it was clear the electricity had been turned off. No lights. No water. And the worst: no A/C. The house radiated heat beneath the hot summer sun.
I grabbed a water bottle from my bag and poured a bowl for Khaos. Panting, he plopped down on the cool stone floor, not used to the high Miami temperatures.
Finding a cardboard box, I dumped out the paperwork inside and filled it with everything I wanted to keep. When I was finished, I came down the stairs and told Khaos, “Come on. You can