By Hope Barajas
I. The Fool
I didn’t want to come.
Katie had been begging me to do something “unstructured” since finals, so here I was—perched on a cracked leather barstool at a place called The Hollow, where the drinks were cheap and the bartender was obscenely attractive in that very annoying way. Tattoos up both arms, sleeves rolled, dark hair. Smirk like he knew too much.
He set two drinks in front of us and said, “First round’s on the cards. Pick one.”
Katie clapped like a child. I rolled my eyes.
He slid a weathered deck across the bar. I cut it without flair. Drew one. Held it up.
“The Fool,” he said. “New beginnings. A leap of faith. Trusting the journey, even if it makes no sense.”
“I trust Uber,” I replied. “And science.”
He laughed. “Even scientists fall in love.”
I ignored the warmth in my face. But Katie, traitor that she is, whispered, “You should’ve worn your cuter top.”
II. The Tower
Fifteen minutes later, I got a text.
Ben: “Hey, we need to talk.”
Ben, my boyfriend. Well—was. We’d been together two years. Shared playlists, toothbrush drawers, mutual disdain for his mother’s quinoa.
I stepped outside to call him. A voice mail. Then a text from his sister:
“He’s seeing someone. Thought you should know.”
I stared at the sidewalk, at a gum stain shaped like a lightning bolt. A drunk girl vomited behind a dumpster.
When I got back inside, I must’ve looked like a ghost because Katie touched my arm gently. The bartender didn’t ask questions. Just poured me something warm and amber. Then he picked up the deck again.
I drew without speaking.
“The Tower,” he said. “Sudden upheaval. Destruction before transformation. Nothing comfortable survives this card.”
I downed the drink.
“Well,” I said. “That’s awfully on-brand.”
III. The Lovers
I didn’t go home.
Katie ordered nachos. The bartender gave me his hoodie because I was shivering. At some point, he leaned on the bar, arms crossed, looking at me like he wasn’t just being polite.
“You still think the cards are bullshit?” he asked.
“I think breakups are real. Cards are cardboard.”
“Draw again.”
I pulled one without looking.
“The Lovers,” he murmured. “Choice. Alignment. Sometimes heartbreak clears the path.”
“Clear for what?”
He didn’t answer, just tilted his head and grinned like he knew. I hated that I smiled back.
IV. Death
Around ten, the power flickered. Lights dimmed. Music cut. The bartender lit a candle and said, “Well, damn. We’re analog now.”
I drew another card while the other patrons grumbled.
“Death,” he said.
“Should I be worried?”
He shook his head. “Endings make space. Transformation again.”
“This deck’s obsessed with change,” I muttered.
“Maybe you’re resisting it.”
Outside, someone howled with laughter—or maybe just howled. The dark felt bigger than it should’ve.
“Is this part of some show?” I asked. “The spooky ambiance?”
“Maybe the bar has feelings,” he said.
I looked at the flame. For a second, I swore it danced in time with my heartbeat.
V. The Moon
Katie found someone to flirt with. I found a corner booth and curled up like a stray cat, the bartender trailing behind with two beers.
“Mind if I sit?”
“I thought bartenders had to stay behind the bar.”
He shrugged. “I’m on break.”
He slid the deck toward me again. I pulled a card, just to keep my hands busy.
“The Moon,” he said. “Illusion. Intuition. Fear and dreams.”
“I had a dream once that I married a guy with three heads.”
“Sounds hot.”
“Only one of them liked me.”
We laughed too long at that. The bar felt blurry and warm, like the edges of something not quite real. He looked at me like I wasn’t the kind of girl who’d cry in a bathroom stall—though I’d done that twice already tonight.
“Do you always read tarot for heartbroken girls?” I asked.
He sipped his beer. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t believe.”
VI. The Star
The lights came back on.
The moment cracked. The music started again—something slow and sweet and old. I blinked like I’d woken up from a nap inside a snow globe.
“Last one?” he asked.
I nodded.
I drew a card with a soft blue background and a naked woman pouring water onto the earth and into a stream.
“The Star,” he said. “Hope. Rebirth. The quiet after the storm.”
It was too gentle. Too kind. I wanted to laugh it off, but something in my throat caught.
“I thought tarot was supposed to be spooky,” I whispered.
He shrugged. “Sometimes the truth is gentle, too.”
I looked up. He was closer than I realized.
My phone buzzed. Another text from Ben. I didn’t look.
“Would it be weird,” I said slowly, “if I asked for your number instead of another card?”
He grinned. “I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”
“Maybe I believe in happy hour.”
VII. The Wheel of Fortune
He wrote his number on a napkin, which felt charming and cinematic and wildly impractical.
Katie and I stumbled out into the midnight air. She was singing. I was half-laughing, half-floating.
Before I left, I pulled one final card on instinct. No ceremony. Just a gut feeling.
He didn’t say anything—just looked.
“The Wheel,” I read aloud. “Change. Cycles. What goes around, comes around.”
It sounded ridiculous coming out of my mouth. And yet… I felt it. Like something had shifted.
Not big. Not loud. Just… pivoted.
And maybe that’s all fate is.
Not prophecy.
Not magic.
Just choosing to pull a card, even when you think the deck is empty.
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