When I first moved in and was midway through unpacking, she’d ushered me over to her apartment. She’d insisted on feeding me sweet tea and macaroons while telling me all about her Arthur. I remember going back across the hall to Danny and telling him that I wanted us to be just like the Heckles when we were old and had lost the ability to care if you were interrupting someone. He laughed and joked that I was aspiring to be a crazy old lady with no filter. I’d playfully smacked him for being so crass, and we’d ended up having sex in the living room amidst all the half-opened boxes and mess. Later that afternoon, Mrs. Heckles had passed Danny in the hall and mentioned something about youth being wasted on the young and missing nooners. From that point on I’ve loved her. She’s the eccentric old Grandma I never had.

“Trouble with smoking though, Robyn,” she interrupts and pulls me from the memories suddenly weighing heavily in the bottom of my heart, “is that I’ve gained almost fifteen pounds.” She reaches beside her and lifts her purse, retrieving a pack of half-eaten Oreos.

“Ah, the munchies…maybe you should cut some fruit up and keep it in a little tub to snack on when you finish your medication,” I smirk.

“Where’s the fun in that?” She smiles. “Speaking of fun, did I see you leave with a dashing young man in a dinner suit last week?” She nudges me. “And if I’m not mistaken, the equally handsome chap whose motorcycle you just climbed from is someone different.”

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Not if I can help it, dear. Now my sister always used to say that the best way to get over a man is to get under a new one, so which one are you getting under—or maybe it’s both?”

I choke on nothing but air and the smoke billowing from her doobie. She seems to think it’s hilarious, and I’m sure to anyone passing by, a high eighty-five-year-old woman trying to get the lowdown her neighbor’s sex life would be pretty funny. Mrs. Heckles on a normal day has no filter; stoned she’s flat-out rude and yet completely endearing.

“I’m not under either of them,” I tell her and her face falls a little.

“Why ever not, dear? If I were twenty years younger there’d be no stopping me,” she announces, stomping out her joint and immediately reaching for an Oreo.

“You want one?”

I take a cookie and nibble the edge.

“The guy in the dinner suit is a man I met by chance last week in Starbucks. He’s called Cole. I spilled my coffee on him and he asked if he could take me out to dinner, that’s all.” I take another bite of the cookie and continue. “You’d like him. He’s a nice guy. The man that just brought me home is my new boss, Callum. There’ll be no getting under him. You’d like him, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure the two of you would get on like a house on fire. You both say whatever passes through your mind.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that, Robyn. When you get to be my age, you’ll look back and wish you’d spoken your mind more often.”

I stop looking at her and stare out at the street, watching the waves ripple as the traffic moves through the puddles left behind from the earlier rainfall. I can’t help wishing that Danny had that attitude. At least then I could maybe understand what went wrong.

Friday nights at Reveal are brutal. Annie had told me to prepare for a busy shift, and I should have taken her warning more seriously. My feet ache like hell today from running drinks back and forth wearing heels. A requirement and staple of the uniform, Zane had said. Flapper-style fringed red dress, black gloves, and matching black pumps. I have to admit, the girls waiting tables look equally as good as the ones on stage. Everyone plays their part and keeps up the speakeasy theme the club adopts. Everything from the table decor to the uniforms and the music, it all plays a part in pulling the customers back in time to an age where women were ladies, guys were gentlemen and everything had an air of grandeur to it. With last night’s tips, I’m only $300 short of the money I need to pay back Mr. Carter. Zane had said that I could wait tables between performances tonight, so I’m hoping I can make the full amount and buy myself more time before the next installment is due.

I’m stunned when I walk into Reveal before it opens tonight. The whole place has transformed. The Gatsby styling has made way for the carnival theme that happens once a month.

“You’re here! Give me a hand, will you?” Annie asks, passing me a pile of brightly-colored organza.

“Zane and Callum are in the back, and nobody set up the booth for the tarot reader. She’s in the bathroom at the moment. Everyone’s busy, would you mind decorating that booth over there? Just throw the material around the table and the back of the booth—you know, make it look gypsy-ish.”

“Gypsy-ish? Is that even a word?”

“It is now!” she fires back, rushing off in the opposite direction and grabbing a pile of costumes from one of the tables.

I walk over to the booth Annie pointed me to and begin laying out the organza as best I can.

“Hello!” I startle and step back, knocking into a tall, billowy woman with wild, raven hair wearing a long, deep moss-colored dress that pools at her feet. The cards she’s holding drop to the ground and I immediately bend to retrieve them while apologizing.

“Stop!” I jump again at the shrillness of her voice and pause, looking up at her.

“Don’t touch them,” she says, looking from me to the ground and then repeating the motion. Slowly she bends and retrieves the three upturned cards, placing them on the table I was dressing, completely disregarding the rest of the pack scattered across the floor.

“I’ve never seen this before. Come sit down, if you will.”

I swallow and stand up. “Okay,” I mumble. I’m nervous about things like this; my mom always used to laugh that I’d never cross paths with a black cat, walk under ladders or step on cracks in the pavement. I’m a superstitious person. I always have been. I whole-heartedly believed in fate and destiny when I was younger. I guess I still do to a degree, even if the universe has been kicking my ass lately. I slide into the booth and wring my hands. I’ve never visited a spiritualist or had my cards read. I’ve always been too scared, you know, in case they tell you that your fate is doomed, and you’re about to die.

“I’m Athena,” she offers taking a seat in front of me. Her features are striking, from the coffee-colored pallor of her skin to her bright green eyes. They must be contacts, I decide. They’re so unnaturally vivid I can’t seem to look away. She’s stunning and intimidating all at once.

“This card here.” She points to a knight riding atop a white horse and carrying a black and white flag. “Don’t be alarmed, but this is the card of Death.”

Don’t be alarmed! What the hell?

I sit back wide-eyed and filled with a sudden burst of anxiety.

It’s not real.

It’s not real.

It’s not real.

The chant doesn’t soothe the panic, and I can feel my pulse begin to race at the mere mention of the card’s name. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m shaking. She senses my discomfort and begins to explain.

“People often take the meaning of this card far too literally. They fear that the indication is for the death of either themselves or others around them. You can relax; it’s not the case for you. Death is symbolic of the ending of a major phase or aspect of your life. It symbolizes the beginning of something far more valuable and important. You must close one door to open another.”

“I’m not sure I’m following what you mean,” I confess.

“You need to put the past behind you and part ways, ready to embrace new opportunities and possibilities. It may be difficult to let go of the past at times, but you will soon see how important it is in order to bring renewal and transformation into your life. If you resist these necessary endings, you may experience pain, both emotionally and physically.”