Major Detours

by Zachary Sergi

  “Yeah, I figured,” Anwar says. “I was actually going to ask you about something I’ve been thinking all day.”

  Anwar shifts his eyes from me to Cleo. She holds up her hands.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” she says.

  Anwar pauses, his eyes scanning as if he’s trying to find the right words. Then he returns his focus to me, looking serious.

  “Do you ever think maybe… you’d be better off without the deck?”

  The question jolts me.

  “No,” I say plainly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking, from a total outsider’s perspective, owning that deck is starting to seem more like a burden than a privilege,” Anwar begins. “All these Perillian followers wanting things from you. The stuff they’re claiming about your grandma. I don’t know, maybe some things are just meant to stay buried? Or maybe digging it all up could be someone else’s problem?”

  “But it isn’t someone else’s,” I answer. “It’s mine.”

  “I know. All I’m saying is that you have a choice here, even if it doesn’t feel like it. I mean, this deck has become the center of your universe, at least for this trip. If it weren’t yours anymore, what would this trip—what would your life—look like?”

  “You think I should sell the deck?” I ask. “That I’m becoming obsessed with it, like the Perillians?”

  “If you don’t mind me jumping in here,” Cleo says, continuing off my nod. “We’re nothing like the Perillians, not really. Who they claim to be and who they really are don’t line up at all. They say they want people to work for their knowledge, but spill their guts at the first sign of interest. They say they want to be private, but that’s just their way to draw people in. Their obsession with the deck makes them feel special, like queens and kings of their own mountain. Luckily, that mountain is just a little hill to us. We see things for what they really are. Right?”

  “Right,” I say, even though I wouldn’t necessarily have thought of our Perillian experience this way. Leave it to Cleo to have a totally fresh perspective.

  “I totally get it. Just figured I’d play devil’s advocate,” Anwar says. “It’s all pretty exhausting, as you already know. Think we can pass out?”

  I look back at Anwar—so much for our romantic night. Then I think it’s just as well. I don’t really think I can do anything with him until I process what he just said.

  And, more important, until I process the conversation I just had with Cleo.

  Click here

  When I wake up the next morning, Anwar sleeps soundly in the main bedroom. I allow myself a few seconds to stare at his still-ridiculously-good face, then leave him behind in pursuit of coffee and carbs. Walking downstairs, sunlight pours through the windows of our cabin, and the green of many trees can be seen in every direction. I exhale, feeling at home. Despite anything and everything else, I think I am exactly where I belong, as I breathe in the sappy freshness of the air.

  Entering the kitchen I am surprised to find Chase sitting at the table, looking distinctly like he doesn’t belong. His hair is all rumpled, there are bags under his eyes, and his usual focused intensity seems to have curdled into a permanent frown.

  “You’re up early.”

  “I didn’t sleep much to begin with,” Chase answers.

  “Wanna talk about it?” I try.

  “I don’t think I can yet.”

  I give Chase a sitting-down side hug as I pass him, hoping it will help. I know it’s probably normal for someone with a maybe-broken heart to act this way, but I’m still worried about him. Chase has barely spoken or eaten or done much besides breathe since yesterday.

  “Can I at least make you something to eat?” I ask.

  “I already made coffee,” Chase says, suddenly standing. “I’m gonna shower before we head out.”

  With that, Chase exits the kitchen. I don’t have much time to dwell, because Cleo enters soon after. She wears another pair of her signature glasses—hot neon pink today—and a loose-fitting pair of overalls covered in custom patches.

  “Morning sunshine! You just missed Chase.”

  “I hope that’s him in the shower?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Good,” Cleo says, making a direct line for the coffee pot. “Charvan was starting to smell like his breakup funk.”

  “At what point should we be launching an intervention?”

  “Just give him time,” Cleo answers, reaching for the inhuman amount of sugar and creamer she puts in her coffee. “I remember sharing a wall with my sister during her first breakup. Broken hearts are no joke, but they heal. Eventually.”

  There’s a beep from Cleo’s pocket, then she takes out Toky, who must require feeding and poop-clearing. It makes me reach for my own pocket, where the Dalet locket rests. I haven’t felt ready to touch it since Coupled Cottage. Part of me doesn’t want to open it again, not until I can see Grandma fully, with clarity. Who was that twenty-something girl in the photo, really? And was she anyone to Carson Perilli?

  “Besides, I think it’s obvious we all came out of that Isle a little changed,” Cleo adds, sitting at the table. “I know I have. I was actually up most of the night thinking about it.”

  “Oh, really?” I say, settling down at the table next to her. Rummaging for pots and spatulas can wait. “Do tell.”

  “I actually told myself I was going to wait until we got back to say anything,” Cleo begins. “There’s so much else going on, I don’t want to distract.”

  “Impossible,” I say. “You’re on this strange journey just like the rest of us. And you could never be a distraction. To me, you’ll always be a main event.”

  Cleo blushes, hearing this. Then she smiles at me in that way I’m so used to, with that warm beam of sunshine.

  “Even though that was a hot mess being made in Coupled Cottage, I still can’t stop thinking about my conversation with Lily,” Cleo continues. “She might have been out of line, but I also think she might have had a point. I think maybe I’ve stuck with certain things because they’re easier for everyone else. But reacting to Lily, I realized it’s not my job to shrink to make anyone else feel comfortable. So I think…”

  Cleo pauses a second, gathering herself.

  “No, I know I want to start using nonbinary pronouns. I’m going to start with they, them, and their, to see how it feels.”

  I know Cleo means this as a statement, but it still comes out sounding like a question. Cleo looks to me imploringly, almost as if for… approval? Or if not approval, then some sign that this is okay with me, as one of their best friends. Well, if Cleo needs my support and my acceptance, they have it. Unconditionally.

  “If that’s what feels right to you, then I am so here for it,” I say. “I think it’s great, Cleo. Really great.”

  Cleo exhales, their smile brightening once again. “It does feel right. This has always been who I am. It’s just, given the way our world works, it took me some time to fully understand it. I’ve learned so much about myself this past year, how much I like embodying ends of a spectrum. I like remaining fluid. I like balancing incongruous things. So I think my outward sense of self needs to embody that, too?”

  “You know you kind of sound like a walking tarot card right now, just a little?” I say, grinning.

  “I know,” Cleo sighs. “Who knew I’d actually learn something grounded from these cloudy cards of yours?”

  “Welcome to the club,” I say. “But hey, two opposing things can be true at the same time, right? I’ve been trying to get that idea into my thick skull, too.”

  I smile at Cleo and they widen their own smile one more time. I take a beat to really soak in this conversation. Even though it was short, something tells me it’ll be a moment Cleo and I both remember for the rest of our lives.

  “Shouldn’t we get going?”

  Chase appears in the doorway looking freshly scrubbed, but definitely still exhausted. Despite his dubious appearance, he
actually is correct—we’ve taken more time than we should getting to the next missing card. We all needed a beat to collect ourselves, but the moment to scale the next cliff has arrived. After all, we haven’t come across a single Perillian since we left Summerland. Somehow, I can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a bad omen.

  “I’ll go see if Anwar is awake.”

  Upstairs I find him still in bed, definitely sleeping. He looks so peaceful, his full lips slightly parted and his hand strewn across the curves of his chest. I hate to disturb a picture so pretty.

  Instead of dwelling, I dress myself in lilac shorts and a mint green t-shirt, because it feels like this day is in need of some bright, flowery vibes. Somewhere during this process Anwar stirs, stretching like an enormous grumpy cat.

  “Is it morning already?” he asks. “I feel like I could still sleep for hours.”

  “Morning it is. We’re getting ready to head out.”

  “Oh, damn,” Anwar says, looking overwhelmed suddenly. “Hey, do you think maybe it’s okay if I stay behind for this one? I’m not feeling my finest or freshest.”

  “Oh. Sure,” I say, trying to hide my initial burst of disappointment.

  “Besides, this hidden tarot thing is for you and your friends. I’m sure they’ll be happy not to have me intruding again.”

  “You’re not an intruder.”

  “I am,” Anwar says. “But I’m also an intruder who can make a mean meal, cooked for whenever you adventurers return from your latest journey.”

  Thinking this over, the next set of coordinates is only a short trail through the woods from here. So chances are we’ll be back at the house sooner than later, one way or another.

  “I request an eternal breakfast when we return.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Anwar leans across the bed to squeeze my hand before I go. He then looks up at me, his amber eyes suddenly brimming with feeling.

  “Thank you, Amelia.”

  “For what?” I ask, a little unnerved by this sudden rush of emotion.

  Anwar doesn’t respond. He just squeezes my hand again, like I already know the answer. Perhaps I do, I think, as I step away. Grabbing Cleo’s backpack, I give Anwar one last look from the doorway…

  But he has already nuzzled his face back into his pillow.

  The walk through the woods takes longer than any of us expected. Not necessarily because of the distance, but because there was no actual “trail” to follow. We had to forge our own path every step of the way, over rolling roots and around enormous trees and through rocky dirt. Somewhere along the way all three of us lost cell service, but luckily Cleo’s map app still got us where we needed to be.

  We now stand in front of a wooden structure in the woods, built in a low valley between two hills. It’s not big enough to be a cabin, but it’s probably too big to be a shed, plus it has windows and a greenhouse-style roof. Not that we can see anything inside—the entire structure is completely unkempt, overgrown with moss and vines. It looks not unlike something out of a fairy tale, warm and inviting but likely hiding something grim inside.

  “Well, the door is ajar,” Cleo says, pointing. “But I so do not want to be Hansel or Gretel in this scenario.”

  Chase looks equally hesitant, so it falls to me to lead the charge.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone has been here for a long time,” I say, striding forward. I force myself to take a breath as I approach the door because, truth is, I have zero idea what I’ll find on the other side. After all we’ve been through, literally anything feels possible.

  Still, with Chase and Cleo standing behind me, I slowly push open the door. Unexpectedly, my first thought is that it feels weird being only three of us—unbalanced somehow without a fourth. My next thought washes this away, however, as the door swings open.

  Inside the shack, we see only color. My eyes struggle to take it all in. Nearly every inch of the space is filled with flowers. One corner is devoted to roses, thick-thorned stems with white and red blooms. Another corner houses a hydrangea bush blooming light blue and pink. To our left, I’m stunned to find an actual pond, brimming with lilies.

  The middle of the shack has a wooden beam that stretches across it, but it’s barely visible. Pots of flowers and succulent bulbs hang from the beam, which is also covered with twisting vines and rows of herbs. Perhaps most breathtaking, however, is what sits underneath this beam, in the center of the room: an arrangement of flowers and plants in tiers, like something you’d see at an opulent wedding. Just behind this floral altar I spot a platform that is shaped, rather appropriately, like a pentacle.

  Taking this place in, I feel its energy coursing through me, its floral and earthy smell hanging thick in the air. Suddenly I feel like an Empress who has found her throne room, deep within the heart of Mother Nature. It’s like my senses come alive in this place, like this space somehow belongs to me.

  Or rather, like I belong to this space.

  Though I doubt it’s as abandoned as I first thought. Plants might do well on their own, but they don’t stay this manicured. Which means the next Corner of Perillians must know about this location, even without our deck. My heart starts pounding. What exactly do these so-called Repentant Perillians have in store for us?

  “Look, in the center of the pentacle platform.”

  Chase points as he speaks, so Cleo and I look closer. I immediately see it, in the center of the platform—the seams of a secret door.

  As much as I really want to soak in the wonder of this secret garden, I walk straight up to the platform. Finding the other hidden cards involved such difficult processes, but could it really be that finding the King of Pentacles might be more straightforward?

  Examining this door, I see there’s a hidden panel in its upper corner. Opening this panel, we find it houses a keypad lock, its numbers replaced with simple tarot symbols. My hope crumbles like dirt, however, when I realize this keypad has already been unlocked, along with the formerly locked door. Lifting open this door, my hope then shatters entirely when we find an empty compartment inside—which means whatever was once here must have already been taken.

  Someone got to the King of Pentacles before us.

  I suppose it was naive to think all the Perillian Corners would have the same reverence as the Baxters. Or that all Perilli’s puzzles would be equally unsolvable. But then I think: these hidden cards are supposed to be unobtainable without our deck. That rule has proved to be true so far, so could there be something more than meets the eye here?

  I look to Chase to find him already staring at me. He nods—we’re obviously both thinking the same thing.

  “Hey, wonder twins,” Cleo says. “Not everyone understands your freaky unspoken language. What are you thinking?”

  “That these hidden cards can’t be found without the deck,” I say, reaching around to open Cleo’s backpack. If we’re looking for clues, surely the cards will help. “Which means someone either got very lucky, or the King of Pentacles is still hidden here somewhere.”

  “You think this is all a decoy?” Cleo asks.

  Chase just shoots Cleo a look: Stranger things have happened.

  I zip open the narwhal backpack’s secret compartment, the one hidden in its inner lining. My fingers reach for the deck, but with a sudden lurch, I grasp…

  Nothing.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  “The deck isn’t here.”

  Even as I speak the words, I refuse to believe they’re true.

  However, even after I’ve emptied the backpack, handing it over to Cleo to double check—even after we turn the entire damned thing inside out—still, we find nothing. The deck is gone, just like the emptied pentacle platform. My hands reach up into my hair, tugging in exasperation as buds of panic begin to flush my skin.

  How can that be? I just put the deck in here last night. How could—

  “Amelia,” Cleo says, their eyes filled with dread. “Did you… Did you ever put t
he deck away in front of Anwar?”

  My heart suddenly sinks. It slides out of my body and buries itself in the coarse earth below.

  Oh goddess. Please, no.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHASE

  BACK AT THE rental house, we find Anwar has gone without a trace.

  I wish I could say I expected something else. Just like I wish I could say I expected Anwar to pick up any of the dozen times Amelia tried calling him. Wherever he has fled, two things are clear: One, he took the Perillian deck with him. Two, we’re never going to hear from him again.

  I suppose we could track down Anwar’s home near Solvang, but by then he will no doubt have sold the deck—it’s the only reason I can fathom he stole it in the first place. There would be no point to that empty confrontation, showing up at Anwar’s door to fight over something long gone. It wouldn’t undo what he has done, or make his betrayal sting any less.

  These words scroll through my head and sear as they settle, because they can obviously apply to Logan. Though really, since he left, I find myself applying most things to him. Almost everything reminds me of Logan and nothing makes me feel better about potentially losing him. Food just makes me nauseated, and I have no appetite anyway. I can’t sleep, instead playing over every single thing Logan has ever said to me. I don’t have energy for anything except this loop, agonizing in my own rut. Missing Logan feels deep, like my roots have been severed. Instead, there’s only rot left, wet and bleeding.

  The one thing that distracts me also disgusts me, but right now disgust feels like a welcome relief. So, sitting alone in the kitchen while Amelia and Cleo ransack the bedroom for a third pointless time, I do the disgusting thing: I open Instagram on my phone and search for Seidon’s page.

  I haven’t messaged or followed him, but I have spent many sleepless hours poring over his photos. No matter how much I stalk and stare, I cannot resolve how someone like him could be interested in me. Am I allowed to be flattered? Am I allowed to want to sleep with him? It feels like Seidon’s interest could be a bridge to some other world, a ledge that dives into uncharted valleys.