Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
And I love that he sees it in me.
Heart thumping a little harder, I reach out, squeezing his hand as I smile. “No, he’s not my fellow. We’re just friends,” I tell Effie.
It’s true, he is my friend, and I hope he will be for a long time. A part of me would desperately love for this to be more, but that isn’t in the cards for us. And maybe that’s for the best. If Weaver were really my “fellow,” I’d lose him eventually.
He’d get tired of being with a small-town girl who’s never done anything or been anywhere. The charm of teaching me things I don’t know would turn into annoyance that I’m so clueless, and then I’d be left alone with nothing but my regrets and several pissed off and betrayed relatives.
As friends, I can call him in New York whenever I want. I might even be able to go visit before Christmas, the way he said I should. I’d love to walk around the holiday markets and ice skate at Rockefeller Center with him. But then, I think I’d have fun doing just about anything with this man. He just makes me feel so alive, like I’m fully awake for the first time in years.
I’ll always be grateful for that, no matter how long our connection lasts.
Effie hums beneath her breath, her wise eyes flicking back and forth between us. “Oh, I see. Well, that’s a special thing, too.” She smiles in a way that makes me think she isn’t buying the “just friends” thing as she motions to the chair in front of her. “If Gertrude doesn’t mind, you’re welcome to sit with us while I do her reading.”
I shake my head. “Oh no, I don’t need a reading.”
“You paid for one,” she says, casting a pointed glance toward the blue bowl on the corner of the table, where I placed my twenty-dollar bill.
“That was for the chance to take your picture,” I say, lifting my cell. “And I did, and I think I got some beautiful shots. Thank you so much.”
“May I see?” Weaver asks, extending his hand toward my phone as Effie insists, “Nonsense, you’ll have a reading. I don’t charge for my picture. I have a firm grip on my soul. I’m not worried about someone stealing it with a photo.” She smiles again, shooing me into the chair with sweeps of her wrinkled hands.
Torn, I pass my phone reluctantly into Weaver’s palm, warning him, “I haven’t had the time to process them, so don’t judge. They’ll look much better once I take them into the editing software on my computer and adjust things.”
He nods.
“And don’t look at the cat pictures,” I add. “Most of them aren’t good, but I haven’t had the chance to delete the bad ones. I prefer to do that on my computer, too. Sometimes you see something in a photo on the large screen that you can’t see on a small one.”
He nods again, the hint of a smile on his lips. “I understand. Sit down. Have your reading. I’ll give you your privacy.”
He steps away with my phone and for a second, I’m possessed by the urge to run after him and snatch my cell back into my hot little hand. I never show raw photos to anyone. Not even my best friends. I only show processed pictures when I’m certain they’re something special.
I don’t want to be that annoying amateur photographer who’s always showing off my mediocre shots, desperate for attention I don’t deserve. I have a certain amount of talent—if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been accepted into the college of Art and Design right out of high school—but I haven’t developed it nearly enough.
But before I can spazz out, Effie pats the top of the table and says, “Sit now, love. You need this reading. I can feel it. Your spirit is unsettled.”
My brows lift. “Really?”
She nods, her kind eyes filled with compassion, but also a steely resolve. “Really. I’m no charlatan, darling. I wouldn’t lie, especially not to a sweet new soul like yours.”
Intrigued, I cast one last glance over my shoulder at Weaver, who is leaning against a pillar wrapped in fake vines a short distance away, scrolling slowly through my camera roll with an unreadable expression.
Shoving aside my anxiety, I sit down in the cushioned chair opposite Effie, and exhale a nervous breath, “Okay, I guess. Tell me everything.”
She laughs, a rusty sound that’s still nice in my ears. Kind of like a cat’s purr. “Oh, sweetheart, we don’t have time for that. And you wouldn’t want it anyway. There’s such a thing as too much information.” She curls her fingers. “Give me your dominant hand. We won’t worry about the tarot cards or crystal ball with you. I have a feeling I’ll be able to read everything we need to know right on your palm.”