Page 11 of When to Call a Blitz

“Lemon is all you Mil. You know carrot cake is the way to my heart.”

“I love you so much but I’m not sure I can eat another slice of carrot cake. Ever,” Mila says quietly through a mouthful of baked goods.

Letting out a sharp laugh, I raise my eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“Cake Sundays are a lot when you’re eating the same exact kinds over and over, Heidi.” She points her fork at me accusatorially.

Okay well, she’s got a point. Unless you love a cake flavor as much as I love carrot cake, it’s reasonable to not want to eat it every single day.

The rest of the night includes chilled glasses of white wine I don’t know the name of, cake, and cuddling on the couch under three different blankets watching a movie. My version of a perfect night.

And it’s not until I hear Mila snoring on my shoulder that I realize how tired I am.

With a sigh, I crawl out from under the blankets, careful not to disturb Mila in the process. Grabbing our plates and glasses, I bring them into the kitchen and place them in the dishwasher before grabbing a water.

The place is quiet, with just the low hum of electricity to settle my soul, but I turn on my fan the second I get to my room anyways, needing something else to keep my mind from drifting too far into the deep end.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, my hands on my hips as I look around.

I’m tired, but there’s a bizarre amount of thoughts dancing around my head that I desperately need to get out.

Grabbing my journal from the top drawer of my bedside table, I get on my hands and knees to grab the pen that had rolled under my bed after I knocked it off the table in the middle of the night.

Finally getting settled in my bed, I open it to the next clean page, and I start writing.

And I unload everything.

When I’m done, I still feel like I’m missing something. I’ve always been someone who hates the unknown. I hate not knowing how something is going to turn out. What’s going to happen next. I want to be prepared, which is half the reason I spend every single shower rehearsing every single conversation I even think I’ll ever have over and over in my head.

And there’s one thing that I know usually calms my nervous system.

Reaching into my top drawer again, I grab the beautiful deck of matte-black tarot cards, holding them between both hands in my lap. Closing my eyes, I think about everything I’ve been stressing about. Everything that I want to come true. Everything I want to let go of.

I just need a little bit of hope.

Biting my lip, I shuffle the deck for about thirty minutes.

What do I need to prepare for?I keep asking. More rejection?

Separating the deck into three, I stack each part on top of each other, combining them once more before pulling a couple cards.

And I stop in my tracks, my heartrate picking up just slightly.

Because staring back at me is The Tower.

“Fuck,” I mutter before putting all the cards back into the deck, shuffling again, and repeating the process.

The problem is, the Tower shows up again.

Rolling my eyes, I fling myself back into my pillows.

What the hell did I do to deserve this?

Annoyance pricks up my spine as I think about what this could mean. Generally you only get the Tower if there’s going to be major changes in your life. It represents the crumbling of your foundation, whether for better or worse.

I usually like to look at all the cards, no matter what they are, in a positive light. In reality, the cards are a tool, and I loveusing them to reflect on life every day. But The Tower is a whole different beast, and the last time I pulled it was when I quit my job with the abusive boss.

The Tower doesn’t just randomly show up when it doesn’t mean business.

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