Page 50 of Keller

We fall into step together, walking beneath the canopy of oak branches. Morning light filters through the leaves in shifting patterns. The air smells green and damp, river water and wet earth mixing with the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine somewhere nearby.

"Tarot." He shakes his head. "It's entertainment. Cold reading and vague statements that could apply to anyone."

"Sure." I step around a raised root in the path. "Most of the time."

"Most?"

"Some readers are intuitive. They pick up on patterns, body language, vocal inflection, the way someone holds their shoulders or avoids eye contact." I glance at him. "It's the same skill set as reading a poker table, I imagine. You look for what doesn't fit."

The same way I do, I almost add. But I don't.

His thick black glasses catch the light as he tilts his head. "Impressive. I guess there is a skill set for everyone. She wouldn't be doing it unless she could make it seem believable."

"I think some people are hyper aware of outside perspective."

He doesn't respond right away. We pass a woman pushing a stroller, her toddler pointing at a squirrel darting up a tree trunk. The wheels crunch over gravel.

"Outside perspective," he finally says. His voice is flat. "That's one way to put it."

I recognize that shift, the careful neutrality that settles when something lands too close.

The urge rises to ask about his mother. The tarot reader mentioned a maternal presence, an unresolved weight. Hisreaction was visceral, physical. Whatever she touched on, it wasn't entertainment.

But I don't think I've earned the right to ask that of him. If he wants to share, he will.

Knowing someone is not the same as interrogating them. I don't get to pry open his history just because I'm curious. He shared that his mother died when he was eleven. That's what he offered. Anything beyond that belongs to him until he chooses otherwise.

And honestly, I'm not sure I'm ready to go deeper either. The reader's words about compartments and prisons echo in my head. If I start asking questions, he might start asking them back.

We walk in silence for another minute. The path curves toward Royal Street, and the sounds of the city grow louder. Cars are increasing as the city wakes up.

Keller's shoulders relax by degrees, and the color returns to his face. Whatever passed over him at the tarot table seems to be receding, or at least being pushed back into whatever box he keeps it in.

We have that in common.

"There's a place up ahead," he says. "Cold-pressed juice. They do a pomegranate juice thing that's supposed to be good for muscle repair."

The shift in his tone is deliberate. I let it happen.

"Juice?" I raise an eyebrow. "Do you have muscle cramps often?"

I nudge him, letting him know I'm giving him a hard time, not judging.

"After a hard day lifting, I need it." His mouth curves slightly. "I'm not ashamed to admit I need it from time-to-time."

"I don't know if I trust a man who drinks pomegranate voluntarily."

"Very funny. Real men only eat fried food and drink soda?"

"Good point."

He laughs, and it's genuine. The tension in his jaw is finally gone. We reach the edge of the park where the path meets the sidewalk. Traffic moves in both directions, and a streetcar rumbles past in the distance.

The juice bar sits on a corner lot, wedged between a vintage clothing store and a place that sells handmade soaps. Two bistro tables crowd the narrow sidewalk. Green awnings provide shade, but the morning heat already presses down.

"Tell me what you like, and I can suggest some of my favorites."

"I like citrus, nothing sweet, earthy in there is okay, too. Surprise me."