When we finally catch up with our friends, we stand in what seems like the underneath of the bridge. I want to ask how we're going to get above the bridge but decide that Marli knows best (she's been here before) and let her lead us wordlessly.

We climb a short set of stairs, bordered by dirty walls graffitied and drawn on with disturbing graphics in markers, that lead to the open air, and then we're above the bridge. I let out a whoosh of air, taking in the scene before me.

The walking pathway is on a raised platform, on either sides of it, streets filled with cars rushing back and forth letting out honks and beeps. If I look to the side, I can only glimpse the rooftops of the cars, then the sparkling sea. Seagulls dip above my head as they mark their territory over the dazzling water, reflecting the sky in fiery shades of the sunset. The breeze carries the smells of salty water, rust, and car exhaust; wonder, admiration, and excitement. The pathway is mostly filled with tourists posing for pictures against the railing, bikers in helmets and knee pads, soft-cheeked children in beanies and scarves pointing excitedly at the cityscape.

A sudden flash blinds me. I turn my head to the source and find Zain standing with a Canon camera in her hands, a goofy grin on her face.

"Did you just take a picture of me?"

"Yeah!" she exclaims, clicking on the camera as she flips through the photos. I wonder if she'll force me to pretend not to notice as she takes another one. "You rarely ever smile genuinely; this is a moment for the books."

I don't have an answer to that, secretly surprised at her comment.

"Ugh, Zain," Tave groans. "Quit acting like a tourist. If we wanna cross this thing, we gotta start moving."

She rolls her eyes but starts walking nevertheless, and we follow in tow. Every once in a while when we stop and take in the view, I catch myself acting like the tourists around us.

"The city seen from the Brooklyn Bridge," Marli says when we stop walking for a little, leaning on the rail to watch the sea, "is always the city seen for the first time—"

"—in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world," Tave finishes for her. Marli looks at him with wide eyes. "From The Great Gatsby. Except they were talking about the Queensboro bridge."

"Right," she says with a smile, tucking in her jacket closer around her. The long fishtail braid flickers behind her. "I didn't take you for a Scott Fitzgerald fan."

Zain scoffs next to me. "Don't let him kid you, we were forced to read this last year."

Tave only rolls his eyes, not bothering to refute her claims. But everyone here (except Marli) knows how satirical the comment is. Tave has a 4.0 gpa, and the teachers don't call him by his full name unlike the rest of the students. I don't know why he acts the role of a dumb jock, taking every chance he gets to anger his parents with his piercings, choosing to let people think what they think. Albeit, a part of me admires it.

We continue our walk as the sun sets lower and lower until the skyscrapers swallow it whole, leaving sad streaks of tangerine, plum red, and periwinkle. The walk is longer than I'd anticipated, and by the end of it, my leg muscles are sore, my stomach is empty and growling, and the few sips of alcohol have gotten out of my system. The bridge leads us to Brooklyn, a place I'm not familiar with, and we decide to enter the first restaurant in sight which, luckily for me, ends up being a cheap Thai restaurant.

Inside, the lighting is dim, and the walls are a fabric brown, decorated with bamboo sticks and red lanterns. I try not to gag as a waiter carrying a plate of seafood walks by. I never liked the smell of fish. Another waiter with a buzzcut leads us to a black-leathered booth by the window, hands us paper menus when we're seated, and promises to be back in a minute. Marli, Zain, and I sit across Tave and Theo.

"Damn, I'm hungry," Tave mutters, fingering a battered page in the menu.

My stomach lowly growls so that only Marli can hear it next to me. We share a look, and she raises her brows, stifling a laugh.

When the waiter comes back, there is a pen wedged behind his ear, its blue cap gnawed on, and a pad of papers between his hands. He's pale and seems to be our age. Attractive too, I note, with sharp features and a piercing throw his left brow.

"How can I help ya?" He flips a page on his pad, looking up at us. His name tag reads Sean.

I choose the cheapest dish—mushroom chicken and vegetables—after everyone announces their orders, and turn my gaze to the glass. The sun is long gone now, the city a dark purple that will fade to black in a few minutes. A man buys a rose from the floral shop across the street, subtly sniffing it as he pays the store owner; a clown blows up a balloon animal; a child licks an ice cream cone.

Something catches my gaze under the table. Zain is fidgeting with her fingers, wringing them around her silver rings until her knuckles turn white. I follow her glare to find Tave grinning widely as he talks to the waiter, Sean.

"If you need anything else, just ring me up," Sean says with one last smile at Tave before walking away from our table.

When Zain directs her hot glare at Sean's back, I get it: she's jealous. And Tave is oblivious as he scrolls through his phone. Only Theo seems to know what's going here when he meets my eye knowingly.

The food comes, we eat while Tave and Marli make conversation about her mom's Chinese convenience store, and Sean makes his appearance again, clearing up our tables. When he picks up Tave's empty, food-stained plate, he slips a piece of paper into his hands with a wink that Tave smiles at before tucking it in the pockets of his coat.

"Excuse me," Zain mutters, her voice cold and snarky. "I need some air." She slips out of the booth abruptly and stalks out of the restaurant. A few seconds later, we glimpse her figure walking across the street through the window.

I don't why I do it, but I slip out of the booth with the intention of following her.

"Sage, I don't think it's a good idea . . ." Theo starts, but my back is already to him.

I dodge an openmouthed toddler as he circles around a table and step out of the restaurant. Looking around, I spot the back of her chestnut curly head, partially highlighted white by the bright glow of a street lamp as she sits on a bench facing the floral sop. Right now, I can go back inside. She can't see me and doesn't know I came out here. I don't even know how to comfort myself, nevertheless talk to other people.

Taking a deep breath, I force my legs to move until she turns her head and it's too late for me to back out. Thankfully, her face isn't tear-streaked when I sit next to her.

Not knowing what to say, I stay silent and stare at the floral shop and realize that all of the mysterious fights they'd gotten into in school must've been similar to this one: risen out of unspoken, bottled up mutual feelings and the lack of communication.

In sophomore year, Marli dated a guy—Nick—from her robotics class. Nick was tall with a scrawny face, a light case of acne, and a walk like that of a disabled man whose just granted new legs. Marli was funnier, smarter, and more attractive than him—I never got why him. They went out on a few dates, bonding over their similar interests, and on the fourth date when Marli thought the time had come where he'd ask them to make it official, he broke it off with a vague text. Unlike Marli, I didn't need any justification to know that he was too insecure to be around someone as great as Marli so she wept that night. I still remember the black, sheer top she wore with rhinestones on the sleeve (stolen from her mom's closet) and the moment I carefully painted her small lips a coral red from the Sephora in the mall downtown.

It was the first time I'd seen her cry, nevertheless cry that much, and I didn't know what to do, sitting next to her on the cold, metal seats in the mall facing a Starbucks. She told me, "Just stay. Don't say anything. Just sit next to me; I'll be fine now." Now, I hope that the same applies to this situation.

"He's just so fucking stupid, you know," Zain starts, her voice thick with emotion. "How can one person be so fucking dumb? I know Theo knows. I know you know. Heck, even Marli probably knows. So how can he not?"

I let out a half-laugh, blowing out air through my nose. "Who says he doesn't know?"

She doesn't reply, looking down at her rings. "I wish . . . I'd rather him not know. Because if he does the things he does knowingly and aware of my feelings to him . . ." She trails off and sighs. "God, I wanna punch his stupid, sexy face. Rip out the piercing off of his nose—his perfect nose."

This time my laugh is a full one. She looks at me with furrowed brows and a smile.

"What's so funny?"

"It's just . . . You're not the type of person to hide her feelings. You are loud, proud, and out there, but when it comes to Tave, you're anything but." I pause. "You're still loud, but you get what I mean."

She exhales. "It's different, and not that simple. That son of a bitch makes me weak."

I shrug and stand up. "It doesn't have to be different. Everything is what you make it out to be."

She stands up and tilts her head with a smile. "I like this Sage."

"Which one?" I ask as we start to make our way back into the restaurant.

"The smiling, wise, philosophical Sage. You almost seem . . . Happy and cheerful."

I fake scoff dramatically, pushing open the door to the light chitchat and dim lighting of the restaurant. "And what is it about me exactly that doesn't scream happy and cheerful?"

"I think it's the lack of smile lines on your face. Or the permanent crease between your brows from frowning so much. Or the—"

"Okay, I get it, Dr. Seuss," I interrupt her before she gets too amused by this.

༺༻

It's raining, hard. I've always found the use of idioms like 'a snowball's chance in hell' or 'fit as a fiddle' or 'a poor workman blames his tools' or, in this case, 'it's raining cats and dogs', a silly sugar-coating way of speaking, like middle-aged soccer moms gossiping in hushed tones at a summer barbeque. But right now, it would be unfair if I set the scene without the use of that giddy idiom because that's exactly how I feel: giddy.

We're in an abandoned street under the steady watch of white street lamps, washed by a downpour of rain so heavy that it seeps through my sweater, my shirt, my bra, mats down my hair, pools in my socks. I don't remember how we get here, too intoxicated on more alcohol (we all are), only that now I'm thinking no one has driven this street in a long time; this street hasn't heard laughter for a while, not until now.

Tave sits in a puddle of water guffawing after tripping over thin air and taking down Zain with him. Zain is wailing because her hair is wet, and curly wet hair is not a good combination. Marli is looking for her glasses, muttering to herself, "I can't find my glasses" "Has anyone seen my glasses, they're like black and the lenses are clear" "I really should find my glasses", and Theo and I are laughing, cackling because Marli's glasses are perched on her head.

You should tell her that she has her glasses on, a too-far voice says in my head, but I am laughing too hard that I can't find my voice.

A man must've been walking closer to us because suddenly he stands ten feet away from us. I'm still giggling when I glimpse him. He is old in ragged, oversized clothes, a bald head that shines under the harsh light from the street lamps, and a cane in his hand. He just stands there, staring at us. I should be worried and uneasy, but I feel giddy and funny.

"Should we offer him a seat or something?" Tave tries to ask quietly, but his loud, slurred words ring across the street.

The man takes another step closer, raises his cane in the air as if calling to the Gods to gather power. "Get the fuck off of my street, ya little fucking rascals!" His voice is creaky and deep like he was born with a cigarette between his lips.

"Actually, sir," Zain raises a finger in the air, her face goofy under sections of wet hair, "I'm Zain."

The man flares his nostrils. Theo stands up first and says, "I don't think he cares for our names, Zain. Let's just get going." He is wise, even as a drunk.

Marli groans. "But my glasseeess."

I giggle and point at her glasses on her head. "They're right there."

Her mouth forms an O before she covers her face with her hands, laughing.

"I SAID," the man bellows, his voice vibrating in my chest, "LEAVE!"

We scramble to get up, wet limbs sliding on the wet road like cartoon characters. Tave turns as if to tell the man something, when the man suddenly starts to run toward us, surprisingly fast for his old age. A flicker of panic rises in my chest, and we start to run away as if he can inflict any pain on us with his wooden cane.

We run as fast as we can, the old man on our heels when Tave trips again. I try to keep running but my legs are weak with laughter, clutching my wheezing guts, blind by the rain, my sweater too heavy.

"Fucking kids, I'm going to get you!"

His voice becomes distant, fading away in the angry rain until we turn a corner and find ourselves standing on a boulevard, a street filled with rushing cars and life.

"What"—laugh—"the fuck"—laugh—"was that?" Tave asks.

I deeply exhale, suddenly exhausted by all the running. "I'm never gonna get tired of this city."

We start to walk aimlessly, making sure to stick to the sidewalk in this state of intoxication, when I spot an elderly woman sitting at a cloth-covered table, above her a flickering purple-and-green neon sign that says 'Bodacious Temple'. Her frizzy grey hair is tucked under a black cap and she wears a long purple velvet coat. She shuffles a deck of black cards, some of them fanned face down on the table.

Her eyes snap to mine in a way that makes my heart skip a beat, my vision sharpens and some of the intoxicants evaporate from my blood. She beckons to me with a long, gnarled finger tipped with bold red nails that shine against brown leathered skin.

I am not superstitious; I don't believe in this stuff. Phony fortune-tellers prey on vulnerabilities and draw out people's fears. There's no solid science that backs their readings from a bunch of cards, no cause and effect.

Yet she nods with piercing eyes, her fingers curling in my direction and I start walking in her direction. She thinks she can get the best of me, draw my fears out and make me fall for her web of lies. I'm going to prove her wrong.

Marli nudges me. "Sage, are you good? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Yeah," I say. "I'm just gonna check this out."

"You believe in this stuff?" Theo asks incredulously, walking next to me. Tave and Zain stop to buy ice cream.

"Do you?"

"No, I don't," he replies in the most obvious tone.

The woman looks at Theo and Marli, barely glancing at them before settling on me.

"I don't either," I tell Theo, staring at the golden triple eternity circle on the back of the cards.

"Then, why do you stand here?" the woman asks throatily.

"You called out to me," I say easily.

"Hmm," she smiles to herself, crooked lips. "It is quite the opposite. Your soul is calling out to me, you are full of questions, doubts."

"Is that what you tell all your customers?" I ask. Sweat rolls down my palms, mixing with rainwater.

She looks up at me slowly through her lashes. "You are no customer. I won't charge you."

I say nothing, my heart racing for some reason. Nothing is free in this city, and I wonder what this will cost and in what abstract currency.

"My aunt does things like this, with stones," Marli whispers next to me as if not wanting to interrupt the woman's shuffling.

She hands the deck to me. "Let your mind relax, your soul has to connect when you shuffle them."

I do as she says and hand the cards back to her. She stacks them before pulling out six cards, placing them facedown in the form of a diamond.

"Are you ready to see your destiny?" the woman asks.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and nod.

She flips over the first card. A woman petting a lion with an infinity sign over her head. "Ah. This represents you, the Strength. You have courage in your heart, but it may overcome you sometimes. It means conquering your animal instincts. Let's see what hovers over you." She turns the card on top. "The Emperor. A male figure in your life symbolizes aggression and new beginnings. He can represent a father, a lover, a boss," she pauses, turning the card next to The Emperor. "But look, he is too close to The Devil. This man is your shadow, he brings out your dark side. You must be cautious, the courage in your heart is not a good clash with this."

She turns another card. "The Scales are karmic justice. You are looking for balance and discernment." She flips the last two cards simultaneously, her face pulling into a sour expression. One is a man who leans against a tree upside down, as if hanging. The other is a tower with figures falling out of the top.

"What is it?" I ask, unable to keep the urgency out of my voice. You're falling for it, I scold myself. But how can I not, when they seem so strangely accurate?

"The Tower," she says. "A disaster, a crisis, a death. Not necessarily yours," she adds quickly. "But it will bring a shocking, sudden awareness, this loss." She points to the other card: the upside-down man. "The Hanged Man. It symbolizes letting go, surrendering the ego. Turning everything you know upside down."

She leans back and crosses her arms, satisfied with my reaction. A trumpet plays distant jazz music across the street, the rain patters hard on the shade above our heads, a car honks loudly as it abruptly stops. I want to say something, to deny all this and call it a bunch of crap.

"Do you find satisfaction in this, in this game?" is all I can manage. I rest my hands on the cotton cloth of the table to steady myself and lean forward. The woman's nose is droopy and it becomes bigger when she smiles.

"It is no game, young lady," she says. "It is destiny."

༺༻

A.N: Hey guys! I'm sorry for the late update, but here's a long chapter. Don't forget to vote and comment!