Page 9 of Love Letters from a Libra (BLP Signs of Love #13)

From any other man’s mouth, it would’ve sounded like a line, but from him, it felt like the truth offered freely without expectation, and that was when I realized what felt different about him.

He wasn’t trying to get something from me; there was no emotional labor, no validation, and no performance of who he thought I should be.

He was witnessing who I was right now in all my contradictions, and somehow, in his witnessing, I felt more alive than I had in a long time.

We sat quietly for a moment, the jazz still playing softly in the background.

There was something about being here, like his roots somehow extended to me when I was in his space.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For letting me be me, unfinished.”

After Jules dropped me off, I dropped my keys in the clay dish by the door.

A lopsided thing I made at a pottery class during my try new things phase.

I kicked off my shoes and entered my bedroom.

I grabbed clean clothes and immediately took a hot shower and performed my daily hygiene.

In my bedroom, the prayer plant Jules gave me sat in the windowsill, and its leaves were tilted upward to the light like hands raised in supplication.

It was the only thing in my apartment that seemed perfectly placed.

I grabbed my spray bottle and misted the leaves.

I walked around and checked the soil on my other plants and sprayed the ones that liked the humidity.

My phone buzzed from where I tossed it on the bed.

It was probably Toni or Rell wondering where I disappeared to last night.

I was right. Toni’s name appeared on the screen, and my cousin’s photo with her toddler son smiling at me. I swiped to answer.

“Please tell me you’re not dead in a ditch,” Toni fussed.

I laughed, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I continued watering my plants. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Don’t sunshine me. I texted you at least three times last night. Where were you?”

“Out,” I said, deliberately being vague.

“Mm-hmm. Out where? With who? And what? And don’t try that I’m grown shit with me. I changed your diapers.” Toni’s rapid-fire questions were accusatory, but I could tell that she was smiling.

“Yeah, when you were twelve, and I’m pretty sure you propped me up on some pillows and went back to watching your music videos.” I laughed.

“Details,” she dismissed.

I sighed, knowing she wouldn’t let up. “I was with the café guy, and we’ve been kind of seeing each other.”

“Kind of seeing? What exactly does that mean? Either his eyes work or they don’t.”

I couldn’t help laughing at her corny joke. “We’ve hung out a few times and last night. I ended up staying over.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said again, stretching the sound.

I clarified quickly. “Not like that. Nothing happened. Well, not in the way you’re thinking.”

“The ones that get in your head before they get in your bed. Those are the dangerous ones,” Toni replied, suddenly serious.

She was wrong. I sat on the edge of my bed, tired. “Yeah, well, he’s different.”

“That’s what you said about Romeo, Darnell, and what was that yoga teacher’s name? The one with the man bun and the trust fund?”

“Anthony. And Jules is nothing like them.”

“Jules? What’s he do?” I heard her writing his name down so she could look him up later.

“Cybersecurity. He’s some kind of digital detective or something.”

“He’s good with computers. Great. Make sure he hasn’t used those skills to stalk you online before deciding he’s your soulmate.”

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see me. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, cuz.”

“I’m just looking out for you. You know how you jump in head first before checking to see if there’s water at the bottom.”

The truth stung a little. “I know. I’m being cautious this time.”

“Cautious like staying at his place on, what, a third date?”

“It wasn’t like that,” I insisted, though I wasn’t sure I could explain what it was like even to myself.

Toni sighed, and I pictured her shaking her head. “I get it. Just take it slow. Your mom called me yesterday. By the way, she said you hadn’t been answering her texts.”

The swift change of subject was classic Toni, but the mention of my mother made me wince. “I’ll call her today. Was she all right?”

“You know how she gets when she doesn’t hear from you, spiraling about whether you were upset with her, sick, or working too hard.”

I closed my eyes briefly, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders.

My mother didn’t cry when my father left.

At least not in front of me. She continued to run the household, but I felt it.

How she went quiet at night, or how she froze when the phone rang with an unknown number.

I learned how to sense her moods, how to be the easy one in the room.

Even now, with miles between us, I felt the pull to manage her feelings.

“I’ll call her. I’ve just been busy with the blog and stuff,” I repeated.

“Stuff named Jules?”

I ignored that. “How’s my favorite nephew?” I asked, even though he was my cousin.

“Oh, he’s currently finger painting on the kitchen table despite a perfectly good piece of paper in front of him. Aren’t you, monster? He misses you and says his life lacks cosmic alignment without you.” She giggled.

I laughed. “He absolutely did not say that.”

“I’m translating from toddler speak. Speaking of that, how’s the blog doing?” Toni inquired.

“The blog is doing well. I had a sponsor reach out yesterday about a potential partnership.”

“Your daddy would be proud. Look at you making money off the stars!”

The mention of my father sent a pain through my chest. “Have you talked to him lately?”

“Last week. He said he left you a voicemail, some saxophone solo he thought you’d like.”

“Yeah, he did,” I said softly.

My father was a touring jazz musician who communicated primarily through music rather than words.

He’d send a saxophone solo when he missed me.

It was a language that took me years to understand, but now it felt as natural as breathing.

He lived in New Orleans, only coming into my life dropping short bursts of music and stories before disappearing on tour again.

This left my mother and me to piece together something resembling normalcy in his absence.

“I should go. This child is one paint stroke away from redecorating my entire kitchen. Call your mother, and be careful with the computer boy,” Toni said after a moment.

“His name is Jules.”

“Whatever. Love you, girl.”

“Love you too.”

I hung up with a smile that faded quickly as I looked around my apartment. I needed to call my mother, respond to comments, pay bills, and finish the blog post. The list continued, with life’s regular demands reassuring themselves after the strange bubble of protection I felt in Jules’s apartment.

My phone buzzed with another notification. It was a voice memo from Jules. I stared at it for a long moment before pressing play and hitting speakerphone.

Jules:

Last night was … nice. I hope your day felt how it started, slow and sweet. No pressure, but I’d like to see you again soon. Just say when.

Twenty-three seconds was all it took, but something about his words and the slight pause before ‘nice,’ which was as if he had considered a stronger word but held back, made me replay it immediately.

Then again, his voice felt like a continuation of the intimacy we shared last night, like somehow, he was still with me.

I should’ve responded, said something casual, but I didn’t. Instead, I set the phone down and continued my morning routine.

“No pressure,” he said, but pressure wasn’t always external. Sometimes, it built from within, like the growing certainty that I was falling into something I didn’t understand. Something that simultaneously felt like falling and flying.

That night, I opened a fresh page in my notebook, uncapped my pen, and wrote, Is it real this time or just another phase of the moon?

The question stared at me, both simple and more complex. I wrote down the word ‘Jules’ . His name conjured a feeling in my chest I wasn’t ready to name.

The way he makes me feel both seen and safe is a combination I rarely experience, but I’ve been wrong before about men who seem steady when they aren’t about connections that feel cosmic until they crash me back to earth.

I’ve mistaken intensity for intimacy and attention for affection, too many times to count.

I set my pen down to reach for my tarot deck. I shuffled slowly, letting my thoughts settle into the rhythm of the cards sliding against each other.

“Show me what I need to know about Jules, what’s real, and what’s projected intention.” I shuffled the cards, and when it felt right, I cut the deck into three piles, then reassembled them before drawing a single card from the top. I placed it face down, blew out air, and then turned it over.

The tower reversed.

“Shit,” I muttered, staring at the image. The card meant a sudden change in revelation. In reverse, it spoke of avoiding the necessary destruction and delay in the change, living in denial of what must fall apart, a warning.

I should’ve expected this. The universe rarely told me what I wanted to hear, especially when I was already skating on thin ice emotionally.

“Don’t ruin this. Not yet,” I whispered to the cards or whatever forces sent it to me.