Page 3 of Something Like Fate

“Fled through a window,” she repeats, wholly unsurprised.

I sidestep to avoid dipping my toe in a puddle of mystery fluid and explain how I announced I was going to the bathroom and instead found myself in the storage room.

“Shut up. He probably thinks you drunkenly took a shit in there and passed out,” she says with an aggressive snort.

The thought of Mark B. and his frat bros scouring the storage room in search of human feces has me practically doubled over, gripping thedresser for support. We laugh until we cry, until our abs ache. Once we’ve semi-recovered, she asks, “But seriously, why are you suddenly so against hooking up with him? You were so into it a few months ago.”

I cringe, plunking onto the bed, lamenting the missed opportunity. “Honestly, I ask myself that daily. He’s ... nice. I just don’t get soulmate vibes from him.” Bianca skewers me with anot this againlook, so I add, “And he made me feel like a total dumbass for not knowing what the wordperspicaciousmeans.”

Bianca twists her lips. “What does it mean?”

“Exactly. No one knows, except people trying to sound smarter than they actually are. He explained it, but I blacked out and disassociated.”

“Ew, what an asshat. You know, I heard he failed prelaw last semester. I bet he’s trying to overcompensate,” she says.

“That would explain the look on his face when I told him I wanted to drop out of college and be a dog walker,” I say. It was a joke—technically. One of those test-the-water jokes that had an edge of seriousness.

He looked at me like I’d announced I was going to live in the forest, wearing a leaf to cover my privates and trading berries and twigs as currency. “Why would you drop out for a minimum-wage job?” He saidminimum wagelike it was a dirty word, which was on brand, coming from a family of highly decorated lawyers. His grandfather was a judge whose name was tossed around for the Supreme Court.

“I don’t know if I like my program,” I’d told him truthfully, the weight of it lifting off my chest. I’d been grappling with my total disinterest in the program all year, terrified to tell anyone, especially Dad, who was thrilled I was following in his and Mom’s footsteps as forensic scientists.

“Why don’t you switch majors?” he asked. It was a fair question. But I’d already taken a range of electives, none of which were any more interesting.

Unlike Bianca, who’s known she’s wanted to study fine art since she was thirteen, I’ve always had a mild interest in everything and apassion for nothing. In fact, I’m not entirely sure college is for me, which is why I’ve been tossing around the idea of deferring or dropping out entirely.

Bianca sighs while doing dance stretches on the edge of the dresser. “Okay, so maybe he’s a little bit of an elitist prick. Maybe he’s not yoursoulmate. But the boy has an eight-pack,” she says, winking suggestively.

I avoid her hawk eyes and start picking the thick, Barbie-pink polish off my nails. “Isn’t it wrong to use Mark B. for his body?” I ask.

She swats my hand to stop me from stripping my nails—a bad habit of mine. “Men use women for their bodies all the time.”

As though the universe is on Bianca’s side, my phone pings with a text.

Mark: Where’d you go?

I open a follow-up text, only to be assaulted with a dick pic.

Weary, I fall back onto the lumpy mattress. Why are guys so gross and predictable?

“That’s ... a very unflattering photo.” Bianca grits her teeth, tilting her head to examine it from all angles.

“Is genitalia on its own ever attractive?”

“I’ve seen some striking peen, but this is not one of them.”

“See? Romance is officially dead, Bianca,” I say through a violent shiver, recalling his wandering hands that felt more like octopus tentacles.

“He’s still down to hook up after you ran away like that. I’d say it’s more alive than ever,” she points out.

“It’s on life support. For me, anyways.”

Bianca frowns like I’m hopeless.

“Coming from the girl who blubbers on my shoulder duringThe Notebookwhen Noah declares into the rain that it’s still not over. The girl who weeps when celebrities break up because you get so emotionally invested.” She hesitates, peeking over her shoulder to ensure no one iswithin earshot before whispering, “I think your family’s gift and all the fairy-tale love stories have given you unrealistic expectations.”

I appreciate her guarding my secret, as she has since I invited her to Lunar New Year with my aunts. I don’t normally make a habit of telling people about my family’s abilities; people get weird about it. Some are terrified, some automatically think you’re bonkers, and others are disappointed we can’t foretell their futures on demand. Others want us to help them connect with deceased loved ones, even though we aren’t mediums (there’s a difference). So I hadn’t mentioned anything. Funny enough, Bianca recognized Aunt Mei from a psychic fair she went to a few months earlier. She’s been fascinated by psychics and mediums ever since her grandma died. She even has her own deck of tarot cards and YouTubes how to do readings.

“That’s probably true.” She’s not wrong. In the car, you can find me listening to my romance playlist while gazing longingly out a rain-flecked window, pretending to be in the music video.

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