I rummaged in my desk drawer for my oldest deck of Tarot cards, the one Mom had given me when I was sixteen, the same year Aunt Beryl gave me the premonition about my one true love. I’d pretended that her words hadn’t sunk in. That her psychic vision hadn’t jarred something loose inside me and had realigned the way I moved about in my adult life. It was no secret that I enjoyed the hell out of men. But if I didn’t get the sense that they could be the one, I’d moved on pretty damn quickly.
