“But you like him, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“And I know he likes you. I mean, like, crazy-likes you.”
“Sweetie, Xavier likes a lot of women.”
“Not the way he likes you.”
Oh, the innocence of youth. I don’t like the jaded side of me that has emerged since I discovered Bodhi’s betrayal, but I’ve come a long way toward reclaiming my positive outlook.
“What are you doing for the summer?” I ask her.
She crosses her arms and scowls out the windshield. “My mom will probably try to stick me in some stupid summer camp so she can work and sleep around.”
“No, Piper. I don’t allow that kind of mean negativity around me.”
She chews on the inside of her lower lip and looks away, but I see the glimmer of tears in her dark eyes. The girl takes me straight back to myself when I was her age. She’s lonely as hell and angry about it. I know how much that hurts.
“Would you like a job at the marina this summer?” I ask her.
“What?” Her attention swings back. She sniffles and blinks the tears away. “I didn’t think I was old enough for a job.”
“Aren’t you fifteen?”
“Don’t you have to be sixteen?” she asks.
“I’m pretty sure all high schools offer some kind of work experience program. You’ll have a bunch of rules to follow, but you’ll legally be able to work. Maybe,” I say drawing out the word, “if you’re really nice to your detention teacher, he or she will let you go see the guidance counselor and you can ask him or her about it.”
Her eyes brighten, and her expression opens. “What kind of job could I do at the marina?”
“Oh, wow, there are so many places for you to work—the marina itself, the resort side of things, the market, the restaurant. You could help me with events.” I give her hand a squeeze. “First things first, talk to your counselor.”
“Okay, I will. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sweetie.”
Once she jumps out, I cruise from the parking lot and get back onto the road toward home.
I know he likes you. I mean, like, crazy-likes you.
I’m well aware of the attraction humming between Xavier and me, but what I told Piper is true: Xavier likes a lot of women. And I deserve someone who is so crazy about me, he doesn’t even notice other women. Still, it’s disappointing. I’m crazy about Xavier in a lot of ways, and even after all the shit I’ve been through, I find myself thinking that age-old myth that maybe if he’s with me, he won’t want other women.
Everyone wants to feel special. Every woman wants to find the mythical One. I was so absolutely sure I’d found my One in Bodhi, it still hurts to think I wasn’t his.
The tension inside me reaches a tipping point and sends a signal to my brain: I’m trying too hard to handle this on my own. I could definitely use some divine guidance, so I tune in to my heart and send a quick Help me out here to Chamuel, the archangel of relationships. Then I do what I tell others to do—I tune in to my heart and listen, then open my eyes to look for signs. Signs most people miss because they’re too busy being wrapped up in the chaos of life—including me.
I let out a breath and relax my shoulders. The tension in my chest eases. I always find a measure of relief believing I’ve got a higher power working on my behalf. It’s a concept I picked up while I was at the monastery in Tibet after I walked away from Bodhi. In my two months of silent healing there, I read dozens of books. One, by one of my favorite authors, talked about spiritual guides who are always ready and willing to come to your aid if requested.
Since then, I’ve developed what I consider a playful relationship with spiritual guides and angels. Placebo effect or not, I feel lighter, and that’s half the battle.
I’m enjoying the sense of relief as I pull up behind another vehicle at the stoplight. The color strikes me first—a beautiful bright pink hue. I smile because Chamuel is represented by the color pink. But despite my sometimes-ethereal beliefs, I’m very firmly planted in reality. One pink van sighting isn’t going to change my mind about Xavier.
I glance out the window and take in the golden rolling hills and newly built homes in a nearby development. When I look forward again, more pink pulls my attention to the paint on my fingernails. Which then causes me to glance at my workout clothes—all pink.
A flicker of panic tingles along my neck. “Don’t toy with me, Chamuel. We both know Xavier and I aren’t a good fit.”
When the light turns green, I change lanes and glance at the side of the van, where the company name and logo make my jaw drop: Angel’s Posey Passion is flanked on either side with fluffy white angel wings. After a year in Wildfire, I’ve never heard of this florist and never seen one of its delivery vans.