Page 6 of Something Like Fate

I’m tempted to plot some light, innocent revenge. But for Teller’s sake, I keep my anger at bay and be what he needs: a calm, stablepresence. I give him a supportive pat on his shoulder, slow-blinking, staring at the dashboard, which is predictably void of dust and debris.

Here’s the thing—Teller and Sophie have been inseparable for three whole years. They met at one of thoseShark Tank–esque regional competitions for teens pitching business ideas and immediately became a couple.

Despite being long distance for two years before college, Teller fell hard in love. I should know, because I’m the one he confided in. The one he went to for peer review of his text responses. The one he consulted when deciding on a gift (a gold-plated, heart-shaped locket or a custom star map of the day they met) in celebration of their monthly anniversary. I even helped him pick out her promise ring. As his best friend, that’s my job.

I raise my brow, and a silent exchange passes between us.You’re kidding me.

I wish I were kidding.His chest falls in a shaky exhale.

With anyone else, I’d be firing off questions, itching to fill that dead space. But with Teller, that space is alive in the echo of our belly-busting laughter, tears, the murmur of secrets shared, and the quiet in between.

“What happened?” I finally ask.

We take a quiet moment to sip the icy sugar through our obnoxiously large neon straws. He reclines against the headrest and flexes his fingers over the wheel, measuring his response like always, never saying more than he has to. As someone who habitually word vomits before processing my thoughts, I found these few-beats-too-long pauses a little unnerving at first. But I’ve come to respect that about him.

“Game of Thrones,” he finally says. “During exams we decided we wanted to binge-watch a series. You know, a break and reward from studying. We both came up with a list of shows and assigned point values to the ones we wanted to watch the most. Typical geek-and-numbers stuff.”

“Only you could turn TV-watching into a mathematical puzzle.”

The corner of his lip turns up in the briefest smirk as he pulls onto the empty street. “Anyway, when we tallied it all up, we realized we both wanted to watchGame of Thrones.”

“Isn’t that a good thing, wanting to watch the same thing?”

Teller tosses one palm to the ceiling, the other hand still on the steering wheel. “You’d think, but apparently not. She went on this big rant about how we’ve become too predictable. How we agree on everything all the time, like what takeout to get, what music we want to listen to, our daily routine.”

“I thought having things in common was a positive.” I think about all the times Teller gushed to me about how they liked all the same movies and music. How they’re both introverts who prefer to stay in on Friday nights and do a puzzle. How they share a passion for trivia and big data. How they both make every decision logically, with care and precision, no matter how small, like spending a whole afternoon researching which cutlery set to buy for their apartment.

My grandmother used to tell me that having shared interests is the key to lifelong companionship. That’s probably why my parents worked so well with their shared love of science and true crime.

“Same. But Sophie said she felt suffocated and stagnant. Like we were becoming the same person after being together for so long. We both want to go into data science, get the same designations.” He pauses and lowers his chin. “Basically, she decided she wanted college to be about discovering herself. Said she wanted to explore her identity without me, to have new experiences so she doesn’t regret things down the road. And I get it. I don’t want to get in the way of her finding herself. But ...”

“You wish she would do that with you?” I finish for him.

“Exactly. I told her I’d give her some space and let her grow, but that we didn’t need to break up over it. We went back and forth, and she admitted she was bored.” By the way he saysbored, I know that hurt him.

My jaw tightens. He’s always been sensitive, even if he tries to mask it with sarcasm.

I pin him with a serious look. “Teller, you’re anything but boring. Your favorite song is ‘Monster Mash,’ for god’s sake.” It’s one of my favorite things about Teller. I only discovered this tidbit when we started sharing a Spotify account last year; it was one of his most-played songs. He was even among the song’s top 1 percent of listeners. I probably should have known, given his affinity for Halloween.

“I still don’t know why you think that’s so weird. It’s incredibly catchy and playful.” He says it so seriously, it makes me snicker. I can picture it now, him bobbing his head stiffly and mumbling the odd lyric, but only during the loud parts when no one will hear him.

“See? Not boring. You are perfect,” I say, tossing him a wink.

“I have no idea what that one is from.” He lifts a shoulder, not into the Guess the Rom-Com game we used to play, but I couldn’t resist this one.

“Come on! It’sLove, Actually.”

“Ah, right.” He pauses, the right side of his mouth curving into a half smile. “You’re sweet, Lo. But you don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I already know I’m boring.”

I thought he was, too, when we first met.

It was the summer before tenth grade. I was fifteen, and Dad had moved us from suburbia to a trendy downtown neighborhood lined with vegan restaurants and fair-trade coffee shops. He claimed it was to be closer to his work, but I knew his true motive. See, after Mom died, he raised me alone. To his credit, he was the best girl-dad, consulting internet tutorials on how to do hair, watching every rom-com in existence with me (even when they made him sad), and learning the lyrics to Taylor Swift songs so he could sing along in the car. But as I entered my “rebellious teenage years,” he needed reinforcements, which was why he wanted to live near Aunt Mei and Aunt Ellen.

My aunts were thrilled; they wanted to mentor the family gift, which they assumed I’d inherited from Mom. She was excellent at all three of our family’s key traditional Chinese fortune-telling practices, but ironically found her true passion in science. But after months of rigorous practice, it quickly became clear I had no abilities. Sure, I could study the rules of palmistry and face reading. But without the natural intuition to go along with it, I was hopeless. I couldn’t even figure out the math involved in Bazi without error. And if I’m being honest, I was a little impatient with the whole thing, angry over the fact that we weren’t also mediums. We couldn’t communicate with Mom or dead people in general, so what was even the point?

“Maybe it’ll take a little longer than normal to get the hang of,” a nervous Ellen suggested. “Our cousin Cece didn’t demonstrate her abilities until, what, fifteen?”

“Cece was twelve,” Mei mouthed, thinking I wouldn’t see. Even twelve was consideredlate, historically speaking.

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