“Easy,” I answer. “We would have learned about our deck at some point, given all the tarot shops we were planning to visit. The number four and the Prince of Wands hold significance to us we always would have emphasized, in any position. We got other suits and numbers, too, but you don’t see those as ‘signs.’ Because this is all just human synapse, us making meaning of coincidence as we decide where we really want to go.”

“You think this is all meaningless?” Logan pushes back. “That there’s no higher power at work? I’d think you of all people would understand the significance behind the tarot’s spiritual roots.”

You of all people. For some reason, it’s like invisible kerosene soaking my skin suddenly ignites. I become a woman inflamed, my words ready to burn.

“What I understand is that the human mind is powerful and that the tarot draws from its roots in psychology. So, yes, this is all deeply meaningful. But not because we’re trudging along some predestined plot penned by an omnipotent man in the sky.”

“That’s so reductive,” Logan counters sharply, “and not at all what—”

“Could it be both are true?” Chase interrupts. “That we choose our way walking down many planned paths? That it’s up to us to learn the right lessons?”

Chase is smart to try to defuse this conversation, even if I’d rather just have my best friend side with me. With literally just one moment to cool down, I realize Logan and I have been talking at each other instead of to each other. Still, the coded “Does God really exist?” debate has been bubbling below the surface between us for too long. We usually have the space to let it breathe, but today’s road tripping has pushed us together a little too tightly.

“Well, we can at least agree on one thing: we need to go stay at the Joshua Tree Inn tonight,” I say, standing. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mother Nature now truly calls.”

Washing my hands in the sink, I try not to stare too hard at my reflection in this fluorescent-lit mirror. My earlier suspicions were correct—I look like a hot mess of a wreck.

Once my hands are dry, out of habit I pull back my wild tangle of curly hair to see if the stress spots are finally growing back. I inadvertently pulled out entire strands when my panic disorder got particularly bad last year, but now most of the visible patches have grown over. Once finished, I then press a pastel-nailed finger on the underside of my jaw, flattening out the layer of fat there. I’ve always had a double chin and I’ve always wanted to know what my face would look like without one.

“I don’t know why you do that,” Cleo says, suddenly beside me.