Page 47 of Love Letters from a Libra
“Is that what I am, your boyfriend?” he teased. There was something in his eyes that made my heart skip. We hadn’t put labels on what we were. We hadn’t needed to in the safety of our world, but now, with the podcast, my followers, and this public declaration of us as a thing, the question hung between us.
“For public consumption, let’s go with ‘partner in cosmic crime.’ Less high school, more accurately descriptive,” I suggested half-jokingly.
“Works for me.” Jules was lying back against the couch cushions, relaxed in a way I was still getting used to. Early Jules was always slightly alert, ready to run at the first sign of emotional intensity. This version, lounging in my space, comfortable with my audience, potentially analyzing every word, was evidence of how far we had come.
I hit record on the actual podcast, sat up, cleared my throat, and put on my ‘radio voice’ as Jules called it. “Testing, testing, this is Zanaa Scales recording the one-year anniversary episode of ‘Between the Signs’ on . . . May fifteenth.”
“And Jules Smoke, reluctant guest and provider of skeptical counterpoints,” he added, leaning in toward the mic with unexpected ease.
I laughed and swatted at his arm. “Not yet.”
I stopped the recording, satisfied with the levels, and took a deep breath. In ten minutes, we’d go live. My audience knew to tune in exactly at two p.m., and the thought of their expecting ears made my pulse quicken again.
“Are you sure you want to do this? My followers can be intense. They’ll analyze everything about us, including your tone and body language. They’ll probably try to calculate our compatibility based on how many times we laughed at each other’s jokes,” I pointed out.
Jules reached for my hand with that same certainty I remembered a year ago, under the stars.
“I showed up to Sunday dinner with your aunt Camille, and I can handle your podcast listeners.”
I laughed out loud as I remembered that terrifying brunch. “Fair point.”
I adjusted my position again, sitting cross-legged on the floor cushion I used for recording.
“Okay, today’s guest is . . .” I paused, practicing my introduction while bouncing my foot slightly against the floor. “Today’s guest is Jules. Yes, that . . . Jules.” I glanced at him, his eyes already on me, warm with something that made my chest tight in the best way.
Two minutes to go. I twisted my moonstone ring, centering myself the way I’d done a thousand times before readings or podcast recordings. This was just another episode. Another conversation about connections and human compatibility. Except it wasn’t. It was us exposing our private journey for public consumption. Offering a story as evidence that sometimes the stars didn’t write the path, but two people who chose to walk it together, step by deliberate step.
“Ready?” Jules asked.
I nodded and hit record. “Welcome to the one-year anniversary of ‘Between the Signs,’ where we explore the cosmic and ordinary everyday life. I’m your host, Zanaa Scales, and today’s episode is about cosmic compatibility in real life. What happens when the stars suggest the connection, but daily reality has to maintain it? For this special episode, I’ve invited someone who knows a thing or two about testing compatibility. Today’s guest is Jules, yes . . . that Jules, the one I’ve referenced as Moon Man for the past year.”
Jules leaned toward the mic with an expected ease. His deep voice still made my stomach flutter. “Thanks for having me though. I should clarify that Moon Man is not my chosen nickname. That was all her.” He laughed.
“Don’t act like you don’t love it. For those who don’t know, Jules and I have been together for exactly one year as of last week, and he agreed to help me explore what cosmiccompatibility looks like when you’re arguing about whose turn it is to wash dishes.” I laughed.
“Or whose plants are taking over the other person’s workspace,” Jules added with a smile.
“The plants go where they want. I don’t control them. So let’s start at the beginning so my listeners know how we met.” I tried not to smile too widely.
Jules looked at me. “We met at a coffee shop. She thought I was either her soulmate or a serial killer. But our first date was at a botanical garden.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide my smile. “In my defense, you were unnervingly observant. You knew my birth chart before I even told you my name.”
“I read your blog, did my research.” He chuckled, admitting something our listeners didn’t know.
“Stalker,” I teased the word, carrying no weight between us now, though once, it might’ve been a genuine concern.
“Here we go,” Jules joked.
“Yes. He recited my natal chart like poetry and somehow convinced me to go on a date despite my better judgment.”
“Your judgment was excellent. Your rising sign in Capricorn equals a practical vibe. It’s literally in your stars,” he countered.
The ease with which he referenced astrology still caught me off guard sometimes.
“Let me tell them what happened on our first date at the botanical gardens,” Jules continued, reaching to tuck a curl behind my ear. Jules’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “She read the plants their horoscopes.”
“They were clearly stressed.” I defended myself, laughing.
