“Thank you for not telling me to get over my fear of flying,” Ivy said.

  She couldn’t think of anything more tacky than dismissing someone’s fears as irrational. Maybe there were, to some, but to the person affected, the terror was real.

  “Telling you to get back on a plane would be like telling me to get back on a surfboard.”

  Ivy looked at her sideways. “You don’t like surfing?”

  “Probably as much as you like flying.”

  She shuddered dramatically. “Gives me the heebie-jeebies. Look.” Ivy pointed to the gooseflesh that had popped on her arms. “What do you have against surfing?”

  You’d look smoking hot in a bathing suit.

  Biting back a smile for more than one reason, she started her story similar to the way Ivy had told hers. “Five years, three months and two days ago…”

  “Ooh, you do have a thing for numbers,” Ivy teased. “Tell me more.” She laughed. “I’m channelling your words.” This time she roared with laughter. “Channel. God, I’m such a juvenile.”

  Brooklyn nudged her playfully. “Too young for me.”

  “Far too young,” Ivy agreed with equal humour.

  They continued walking, boat sheds coming into view.

  “When I met my wife, she was a pro-surfer.”

  “Wow.” Ivy turned to her. “So, it’s true what they say. Opposites attract.”

  “I don’t think we’re that opposite.”

  “Last night we were like two magnets.” She scissored her fingers, making Brooklyn laugh.

  She’d been doing that a lot the past two days. Even talking about her ex didn’t fill her with the same despair it usually did.

  “When I met Adrianna.”

  “Posh,” Ivy said.

  “Shut up,” Brooklyn chuckled. “She taught me how to surf. I loved it at first. There’s nothing like catching a wave. One day I got wiped out. My board clocked me in the head.” Without thought, she touched the back of her head as if she would still find the lump there. “I was so disoriented I couldn’t tell which way was up.” It’d been utterly terrifying. She’d been convinced she was going to drown. “By the time I broke the surface, I was choking on saltwater and completely freaked out. That was the day I hung up my surfboard.”

  It was also the beginning of the end of her marriage. “My wife didn’t understand why I didn’t just get back on the ‘horse’.” She finger quoted the word. “She found someone else who loved surfing, and as the saying goes⁠—”

  “She’s a cunt,” Ivy said. Her eyes sparkled and dimples popped on her cheeks. “Sorry. Nasty word.”

  “In some contexts,” Brooklyn agreed.

  “What?” Ivy looked at her with surprise. “Do you call yours a…” She lowered her voice. “A cunt?”

  “You are deplorable.”

  Not normally, I just like making her laugh.

  “Hey, let’s go on one of those.” Ivy pointed to a sign for punting tours.

  “What exactly is punting?” Brooklyn asked.

  “A flat-bottomed boat powered by our own chauffeur.”

  Minutes later, an Edwardian-dressed guide helped them aboard the narrow boat from the dock. As they settled into the cushioned seats, a sense of tranquillity washed over Brooklyn.

  Was this going to make it harder to part ways? Probably, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not with the river stretching out before them. They glided beneath a stone bridge, the only sounds the gentle rhythm of their chauffer’s pole cutting through the water, and the soft rustle of leaves when they emerged again.

  This place is as beautiful as Brooklyn.

  She would miss those thoughts. But at least she believed them now, which felt empowering and also made her wonder why she’d let being cheated on make her feel less than desirable.

  A pair of ducks floated past, four little ducklings following in their wake, their downy feathers a blend of golden yellow and soft brown.

  “Aw, cute.” Ivy’s phone was in her hands in seconds.

  Surprising Brooklyn, she shuffled closer on the padded seat and held the camera in front of them. “May I?”

  Appreciating that she’d asked first, Brooklyn’s respect for Ivy grew tenfold. “You may.”

  She clicked two pictures. “I have a board at home. You know, like cops have for victims of crimes. Mine’s for my conquests.”

  At Brooklyn’s appalled look, she burst out laughing.

  She’s so gullible. And so freaking hot.

  “Not that gullible.” She cursed herself, certain those words hadn’t been spoken aloud.

  Ivy’s frown confirmed it. “Can you read my mind or something?”

  “It’s a secret power of mine.” It was said with enough sass for Ivy to believe Brooklyn was simply teasing her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ivy

  With more reluctance than expected, Ivy pointed the nose of the car in the direction of the airport. Although she felt a pang of sadness now that they were about to part ways, mostly she felt euphoric. She wasn’t a religious person, nor was she an atheist, but it felt like something spiritual had passed between them—a weird and wonderful feeling.

  Between her part-time job at the accounting firm, her family’s business, and the comfortable routine of home, she’d built a cocoon around herself and called it contentment.

  How wrong she’d been.

  These past two days had reminded her why it was worth taking the risk to put herself out there. Next time her friends tried to drag her to Invercargill for a night on the town, or even a quiet drink at the bar, she would accept.

  If Brooklyn lived closer, they would be good together, Ivy had no doubt about it, but her fear of flying was real. Sure, she had a car, but with thirteen hundred kilometres separating them, it wasn’t as if she could just pop over for a weekend.

  Foot on the brake, Ivy came to a stop at a set of lights. “So, what does Brooklyn do for fun?”

  Her reply was instant. “Hook up with hot women in hotel rooms.”

  “You pay for hotels in your hometown?” Ivy fired back.

  “Absolutely.” Brooklyn gave a sharp nod, blond hair bouncing. “Wouldn’t want them following me home like a lost puppy.”

  “Like Irene,” Ivy said.

  Brooklyn waved a finger, thinking. “You know, I had that exact thought last night when she practically latched onto my leg.”

  Ivy had, too, but it was more along the lines of cocking her leg and peeing on her like a dog. The light turned green, and Ivy eased off the brake. “Any pets?”

  “Yep, two fish. Fin and Fishy McFishface.”

  Ivy snorted.

  Brooklyn smirked. “Say it out loud,”

  “Fin and Fishy Mcffiss…Mcfist…” Why was that so hard? “Fishy Mcfiss…” She broke it into three syllables. “Mc-fish-face.”

  “Well done,” Brooklyn said, body angled sideways in the passenger seat. “What about you? Any pets?”

  “Yep, a Persian cat. He’s a ginger.”

  “Is that his name? Ginger?”

  “No.” It was worse, but she searched her brain for something more entertaining. “Fritz McFrizzleface.”

  “Suits him,” Brooklyn said, failing to hide her grin.

  “Say it…”

  “Fritz McFritzleface.”

  Whether she’d botched it on purpose or not, Ivy couldn’t say, but they were both smiling widely when Ivy pulled into a parking space outside departures.

  She shut off the engine and turned in the driver’s seat. “So, no regrets?”

  “None.” The corners of Brooklyn’s eyes crinkled. “You?”

  “Not a single one. I feel alive. Dangerous even.”

  “Good thing I’m flying, then,” Brooklyn said.

  Although she’d been teasing, her assessment would be right. More people died on the roads than in the air. She knew that, but it didn’t make her want to board a flight.

  At the rear of the car, Ivy hauled Brooklyn’s suitcase out of the boot.

  Around them, the scrape of suitcase wheels on concrete, the slam of car doors, and the occasional honk from the taxi rank filled the air.

  “Well, I guess this is it.” Brooklyn opened her arms.

  Ivy stepped into them. She held tight, breathing her in one last time. When Brooklyn finally pulled away, her eyes were bright, no tears of sorrow.

  “Take care of yourself, Ivy.”

  “You too, Miss Brooklyn.”

  Ivy leaned against the car, watching the sway of Brooklyn’s hips, suitcase bumping behind her.

  Damn, she’s fine.

  As if sensing her gaze on her, Brooklyn turned. She waved, and then she was gone, swallowed up by other travellers.

  Ivy climbed behind the wheel, marvelling at how a training course she’d been reluctant to attend had turned out to be the best thing that happened to her all year. Possibly longer.

  The drive home took as long as Irene had unhelpfully pointed out. Right on eleven, Ivy pulled up in front of her small bach, headlights sweeping across the weathered timber, gravel crunching under the tyres.

  A quarter moon hung in the sky, lighting the pathway to her door. Inside, she ditched her bag and tossed her laptop on the kitchen table. She was tired yet wired. Her muscles ached, but not in an unpleasant way. Mostly from driving, but she liked to tell herself it was from the positions she’d been in last night.

  A night she wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

  Wandering over to the double glass doors, she peered out at the familiar lights of Bluff twinkling across the dark water. An orange shadow drew her gaze lower. She slid back the door.

  “Hello, Fritz McFrizzleface.”

  Garfield gave her a blank look. Not very original, but the name suited him. She scooped him up and nuzzled his fur. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

  After giving him some treats he didn’t need—her parents would’ve fed him well while she was gone—Ivy poured a tall glass of water for herself.

  Her phone buzzed. Her heart jumped. She rushed to grab it, almost tripping over Garfield.

  A single swipe of the screen brought an instant smile to her lips.

  Brooklyn: Hey. I hope you made it home safely. Thanks for the last two days. Sleep tight. Xx

  Ivy: Just got in. She attached the photo she’d taken of them on the Avon River and hit send.

  Brooklyn: We look cute.

  She wasn’t wrong. In the photo, to anyone looking in, they looked like two mates enjoying a day out. While they may never hang out like besties, thanks to distance, Ivy knew beyond a doubt, she’d made a lifelong friend.

  Who knew, maybe one day she’d go on a road trip, take the ferry across the Cook Strait and head north to Napier.

  Epilogue

  Sunhat on, Brooklyn took in the sights of the Taupō Gypsy Fair as they made their way towards the entrance, weaving between parked cars. It was smaller than the fair she’d been to in Napier, but no less vibrant.

  Beyond the trees, sunlight glistened off lake Taupō. She could just make out a sailboat on its way out to Motutaiko Island, no doubt taking its passengers to view the Māori rock carvings.

  She’d been there once, years ago, and she could still envision the ten-metre-high carving emerging from the stone, the tohunga’s face etched in bold—Māori priest—guarding the tranquil waters below.

  “Woot, woot. We’re here.” Tammy and Kaylin handed over their gold coin donation and skipped under the archway, colourful streamers blowing in the breeze.

  Brooklyn handed over her gold coin donation and followed behind her friends. Families wandered between stalls, some sat on the grass, watching the live entertainment, and food trucks filled the air with the scent of fried food and candy floss.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Tammy asked. “Seems like a shame.”

  “Yeah, I am.” A moment of panic squeezed Brooklyn’s chest.

  What if Gypsy couldn’t lift the spell…or whatever she called it? It wasn’t like it would be a curse to live with—hearing women’s desires had brought her confidence, passion, a night she remembered fondly—but the invasion of privacy gnawed at her.

  Besides, Ivy had taught her the most important lesson. Genuine connection didn’t need supernatural enhancement. Sure, the potion had set the ball in motion, but the most meaningful moments between them had nothing to do with mind-reading and everything to do with two women choosing to be together.

  Kaylin’s voice cut into her musings. “The biggest shame is that you hooked up with someone who lives so far away.”

  “Maybe you should have a reading,” Brooklyn said. Despite her abysmal dating record, Kaylin was a huge romantic at heart. “Take a magic potion and find the one.”

  “I might just do that.” Kaylin turned her face up to the sun. She fanned out her skirt, but stopped short of twirling in a circle.

  “Just pick an ex and give her a second chance,” Tammy said. “I’m having the best sex of my life.”

  Instead of hogging the walkway between stalls, they moved out of the way, letting a young couple pass.

  “Sex isn’t everything,” Kaylin said in a hushed tone.

  Brooklyn held her tongue. It might not be everything, but she now saw the allure of a one-night stand.

  “Tell me it isn’t…” Tammy nudged Brooklyn in the side. “Brooklyn got drilled. Cleaned those pipes out till they shined. Am I right?”

  She had no idea who her friend was channelling—am I right? —but damn, she loved hanging out with these two. Their personalities complemented each other, which was why they’d remained close friends since high school.

  As they neared the familiar barrel-shaped caravan, sunlight reflecting off the hand-painted stars and moon, nerves tightened her stomach.

  “Last chance to back out,” Tammy said. She pulled some candy floss out of the bag and offered a piece to Brooklyn.

  Certain that wouldn’t help settle her stomach, she declined.

  Kaylin hugged her as if she might never see her again. “Good luck.”

  Although she meant well, a sense of foreboding tingled up Brooklyn’s spine. Telling herself not to be so dramatic, she clutched the metal rail, warm from the sun, and ascended the three steps. Before she had time to push aside the curtain of beads, Gypsy appeared, black eyes scrutinising her.

  “I wondered if I’d see you again.”

  “You remember me?” Brooklyn asked as she stepped inside.

  The interior smelt the same as before—sandalwood and the same acrid smell that made her nose twitch—but being here felt different. Like she was a different person from the woman who’d stood here last time with hanging plants tickling her hair.

  She wasn’t as sceptical. That was for sure. Even so, she was surprised Gypsy remembered her. She must’ve seen hundreds of people as she traversed the countryside with her little community of wanderers.

  “What brings you here today?” she asked. The door clicked closed, sealing Brooklyn’s fate again.

  “You tell me,” Brooklyn said. Gypsy was the psychic, after all.

  Her smile was also indulgent. “Many people return for a second reading. Everyone needs hope. To believe life will get better. That they’ll find the one.”

  “I don’t want to know if I’ll find the one.” Brooklyn rested her elbows on the table, the velvet cloth a soft contrast to the hard wood beneath. “I want the potion reversed, the voices to stop.”

  “Voices?” Gypsy steepled her fingers, silver hair framing her face.

  “Yes, I can hear thoughts of…” She cleared her throat. “Desire.”

  Ivy’s thoughts echoed in her head.

  Is that a spark in her eyes?

  I wonder how long she’ll fight it.

  Not for long. She’d caved the same night.

  “Normally, you wouldn’t hear their thoughts.” Gypsy eyed her across the table. “You’d pick up on cues. Feelings. But you did⁠—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I drank it all.”

  Gypsy bounced her chair back, stopping when it hit the wall that was only inches away. Before long a teacup was in front of Brooklyn. This time the brew was sweet rather than bitter. Too sweet, which meant she didn’t overindulge. What would happen if she did? She didn’t want to find out.

  “Your ability to read desire was always there.” Gypsy took the cup from her. “You just had to believe in yourself.” She moved aside a curtain covering some shelves built into the caravan and retrieved a hand carved piece of wood. “This came into my possession today. I’m not sure why, nor was Willow from the handmade timber crafts stall.”

  Brooklyn suppressed an eyeroll. Willow from the timber stall. Of course. She’d bet the person selling herbs was named Sage, and the vendor selling gemstones was Crystal.

  What would Brooklyn’s workname be? Data, probably. Boring.

  “I think this was meant for you.”

  When Gypsy laid the plaque in her hands, all her stupid jokes died.

  A woman who knows her worth is unstoppable.

  A woman who embraces it is unforgettable.

  She traced the words, letting them sink in. The carved wood was smooth against her fingertips, the letters deeply etched. Someone had spent hours on this piece, sanding, carving, shaping each letter with care.

  “I couldn’t possibly take this.”

  “Nonsense.” Gypsy waved her hand in the air, gesturing to the hanging plants, potion jars, knick-knacks, and tarot card boxes crammed into every available space. “I have no place for it.”

  “Let me at least pay you.”

  “Pay me by believing in yourself.”

  Beyond grateful, Brooklyn tapped the corner of the plaque against her palm. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “Pleasure’s mine, dear. Now off you go. Can’t make a living giving things away.” Her voice was gruff, her smile kind.

  “I think my friend wants a reading.”

  “Send her in.” Gypsy set the box of tarot cards on the table, dismissing Brooklyn, but she didn’t feel dismissed—she felt like she’d been transformed.

 

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