Free Burning Moon by Jo Watson Page B

care, I was terribly offended by this suggestion, and he could see that.
    “I mean that in the nicest way possible,” he said, pointing to the corner of his mouth in a You’ve got something on your face kind of gesture.
    I grabbed my napkin and rubbed my mouth, then looked at him for confirmation that it was gone. He shook his head and pointed to the other side, and I repeated the process again, looking up for confirmation once more. But Damian shook his head again, got his phone out, and then took a photo of me. He turned it around so I could see.
    How I’d managed to get tomato ketchup on my forehead was beyond me.
    “Oops” was all I could manage. But before I could do anything about the splotches of wayward sauce, Damian leaned across the table and wiped my face with his napkin. He had such a look of concentration on his face as he poured a little bit of water onto it and went to work on my forehead. Then my cheek, and then the corner of my mouth. My lips tingled as the cool fabric touched them. Suddenly all I could feel were my lips and all I could see was him.
    I pulled away quickly and sat back in my chair.
    “Thanks.”
    “Pleasure.”
    This whole situation was just so, so bizarre. Here I was, on my honeymoon, in the most romantic place in the world, with a stranger who had just been gently, and very familiarly, wiping my face clean with his napkin. Who the hell had seen this coming?
    Not even my mother’s psychic Esmeralda (real name Mary) had predicted this, not that I placed much confidence in her psychic abilities, but surely something this big would have come through somewhere, considering she “read me” the day before my wedding! My mother had insisted on it. My mother didn’t do anything without consulting her; she barely went to the toilet without a phone call to find out whether her bowel did in fact want to move. I’d never held psychics in very high esteem, especially not this one, who my mother met in rehab. I do placate my stepsister Stormy in the nicest way possible, though. She too professes to get “vibey vibes and the feels” about things. They’re usually along the lines of, “Lilly, you must wear pink today. Or red. Maybe both. Actually, I think it’s green I’m seeing, and watch out for the number 794.”
    When Michael and I had first gotten together, my mother was adamant that I get our cards read to make sure we were compatible. Of course I’d said no, but then she pulled one of her famous guilt trips.
    “It’s fine, don’t go, it’s your choice. But what am I going to do now? I’ve already paid. Maybe I can get a refund? But it’s fine if it’s not for you, sweetie. Oh my God, but she canceled that other appointment for you! But I’m sure she won’t mind. Like I said, no worries.”
    So half an hour later I was sitting in Esmeralda’s “reading room,” a dark and very dingy cottage at the back of her property. As I walked in, I was instantly deafened by the cacophony of wind chimes. Chimes made of shells, feathers, crystals, and the skulls of little woodland creatures hung like bats from her roof. The next thing to assault my senses was the incense that practically choked me, followed by the near heart attack her pet monitor lizard, Sid, gave me as his scaly tail brushed past my ankle.
    And there she was, in full chiffon-draped glory, the star, Esmeralda, sitting at her little table covered in black velvet. And you know what it’s like—even if you don’t believe in the powers of the woman sitting across from you fingering a pack of dirty cards, you want to. My mother had obviously told her about Michael, and even though I knew that, I still soaked it all in.
    “I see a man. A blond man.” She had a very fake mystical-sounding accent.
    Of course, my heart did cartwheels at this point.
    “Yes, I see him very clearly now.” She fanned her cards out and moved her fingers around in little circles. “I see your future with him. I see you walking down the aisle.