And I was making Tarot cards.
Well, paintings of Tarot cards. The eventual goal was to scan them and package them as a deck, but for right now I had a series of eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch paintings depicting most of the Major and some of the Minor Arcana. Tonight’s project was finishing up The Hierophant. I pulled out the canvas and the photo of Barista Ike and a few magazines. This card was all about ritual and formality, the sort of guidance that comes through process and strict mysticism. At least, in my view. Which meant a painting of Ike on a golden collage throne, holding a cross and a horned moon and sitting in a temple I’d constructed of photos of Stonehenge and Ethiopian mystics and anything else I could find in National Geographic or travel magazines. It was still in that “hot mess” phase of creation, where nothing really fit together quite yet. But it was getting there. Slowly.
As I scoured magazines, I kept glancing up at Ethan, a knot slowly forming in my gut. He reclined on the sofa with Great Expectations propped open in one hand, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips occasionally dancing along with his reading. We’d been performing this ritual weekly for the last year and a half, and even now, in the depths of February, there was something about this that seemed hopeful, like together we were on the verge of discovering something greater about ourselves. And there were only a few months left until we graduated. How many more times would we sit in this same location and worry about homework and art while the rest of the world slumbered on?
He glanced up at me and gave me a cocky little grin.
“Planning on drawing me like one of your French girls?” he asked.
I blushed, but I didn’t look away. Winter always made me think of firsts and lasts.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said. I gestured to the café. “All this.”
The smile dropped off in a heartbeat, his face softening.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
I sighed. My life seemed like one giant timeline right now: College applications were in, which meant two weeks until my thesis, one or two months until I heard back from colleges, then another month or two before graduation and then . . . I had no idea.
“You, me,” I said. He and I had always had a joking relationship. Banter was how we showed we cared.
He nodded slowly. We’d each applied to four colleges, and only two overlapped. For me, they were both reach schools. My grades were good. My art was good. But I wasn’t certain they were good enough. And, judging from how many panic attacks Ethan had while applying (often remedied by me buying him ice cream and walking through the snowy woods or by the lake together), I knew he felt the same.
“We’re going to be fine, you know,” he said. He looked into my eyes when he said it, which was kind of unusual for him when being serious—he had that way of glancing off into the distance dreamily, like he was choosing his words from the ether. This new gaze reminded me of Chris. “Even if we don’t get in together, we’ll still be in touch. I mean, c’mon, we’re practically married. You’re stuck with me for life, whether you want to be or not.”
I laughed.
“Truth. You are like glitter.”
His smile came back.
“Exactly. I’m serious though, I have good feelings about this. You’re my bestie. You’re not going anywhere.” He leaned in closer. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I glanced away. “Just tired.”
“Let me guess. Not all homework related?”
I took a sip of tea. His next words were almost a whisper.
“Are they back?”
It took all my self-control not to let the teacup spill.
“You can tell me, you know,” he said. I slowly set the teacup down, careful not to let it shake too much. “It helped, last time.”
Well, he thought it helped. The fact is, I don’t know if telling him about the dreams of my ex had done any good.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just a bad dream. I’m sure it’s just stress.”
He nodded.
Ethan and I were besties. We would be together till the very end. But that friendship, it only really went forward. I didn’t tell him much of my past and he didn’t press the subject. He knew I had a boyfriend before coming here. He knew it went south. He knew that because of what happened with Brad, I wasn’t interested in dating. And that sometimes I had nightmares about my ex. Ethan knew it, and he respected it. And that’s all he would ever know.
He wouldn’t look at me the same way if I told him the rest.
“You know I’m always here for you,” he said.
“Thanks love,” I said. But you wouldn’t be. Not if you knew.