Page 117 of Hidden & Held

“His parents bought me a palm sander with a hook-and-loop base and variable speeds.” Their eyes glaze over at my description.

“That’s … thoughtful?” Mack questions.

I nod. “Very. And Jackson went … a little overboard.” I chuckle as I begin counting all the items on my fingers. “He had a custom-designed Lane Legal Services logo made from a local artist I love. He then made a generous donation to the Foundation. New ceramic coating for my car to repel dirt. Oh, and we are testing out a canoe on the river tomorrow.”

“Wow, that’s it?” Becca teases.

“Well …” I leave out the way I was so graciously woken up this morning with Jackson’s head between my legs.

“Ugh, stop it. Leave that disgusting coupled up face away from us single ones.” Nessa groans as she moves to the dining room table, lighting candles in a semi-circle formation. “Alright, for this special birthday edition of Zentrology night, we are taking a look at our lives, past, present and future. I am, of course, speaking of the ancient art of palm reading.”

“Yes, the cracks and divots on my hand are truly the end-all-be-all of my life path.” Becca chortles as she scoops more cake into her mouth.

Nessa sticks her tongue out at her when Mack interrupts their gentle jabs.

“In all seriousness, what if I get a scar on my palm? How will that impact my life and reading?”

“It was pre-destined, all a part of your growth path, babe.” Gesturing toward the seat across from her, she says, “Birthday girl, you’re up first.”

Taking a seat, Nessa grabs my hand, facing it palm up, candlelight dancing with the movement. “Okay. Don’t move.” She traces a line at the base of my thumb, presses her finger into a spot near the middle. “See this break? Right here, where it stops and then starts again a little higher up?” She looks up at me with a triumphant smile. “That’s a rebuild. Something ends and then you don’t just recover—you come back bigger. Dare I say rising from the …”

“Don’t say it⁠—”

“Ashes.”

I try to pull my hand back, but she grips tighter. “I’m not done.” Flattening my palm, she drags one finger along the crease under my fingers. “Your heart line starts a mess. Look—all broken up, right at the start, like it can’t decide where to go.” Her voice softens slightly. “But it clears up. Look how clean it runs the rest of the way, as long as your lifeline. That’s rare, actually. Most people’s love line kind of … peters out.”

Staring at my own palm, I see the lines she is referring to, attempting to get the same wisdom she sees.

“So basically,” Becca says, not putting down her cake, “hard childhood, worse thirties, and then you die in love at ninety-two. Groundbreaking stuff, Nessa.”

“It’s called creative interpretation, Rebecca. And with that attitude, you’re next.”

As Nessa foretells our loves through the indentations of our hands, one after the next, the wine bottles become emptier and the predictions become wilder. Curled up comfortably on the couch, Mack slides in next to me.

“So, Phoenix, tell us honestly, how are you?” She reaches out squeezing my arm. “You look”—she gestures up and down—“lighter.”

Sitting back, staring at my palm and tracing the love line, I reply, “I am. The Foundation work is hard but rewarding. The four-day work week has made me richer in something I never dreamed of wanting or measuring. Time. Time for myself, for working on the duplex, and, surprisingly, Lane Legal Services.”

“Atta girl, three income streams. Love that for you.” Becca clinks her wine glass with mine like a proud parent.

“Not to mention time for looovee,” Nessa singsongs.

“Yes, that too.”

I squirm in my seat, thinking about my last date night with Jackson, how we curled up in my bed afterward, recreating another audiobook scene.

Outside, I hear an engine turning over, clicking away, before it finally starts.

Mack perks up. “Wait, is that my baby?”

She runs to the front door, throwing it open to reveal Jared and Jackson in the driveway with her old Jeep Wrangler’s hood open. Jackson has on a pair of Levi’s that hug his ass and sneakers in place of his usual Italian loafers. A sharp contrast from his attire when he first came to Cascadia.

“You fixed it!” Mack runs to hug Jackson when Jared moves in between, spinning her around, stealing the hug for himself.

“Yeah, now you can sell this hunk of junk,” he adds.

She clutches her imaginary pearls. “How dare you say that about Betsy! Do you know how many miles of fields this ol girl has taken me through?”