Page 1 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Prologue

DearMoonie,

They say to sleep when the baby sleeps—which is what Ishouldbe doing. But I’m not like other moms. (I’m a cool mom!) Someday, you’ll see.

For now, you’re fast asleep in the same bassinet your two older sisters used and I’m wide awake, writing you this letter. Will I regret it later when I can hardly keep my eyes open during your midnight feed? No. I won’t. Especially because this might be my only chance.

My only chance to welcome you towomanhood.

When it’s time to read this letter, you will be 26 years old. You will officially be a woman. If you thought that was when you got your period or when you lost your virginity (PS: it’s okay if you haven’t yet, don’t rush. In fact, I repeat, DO NOT RUSH), you were mistaken. It isnow—on your 26thbirthday—by definition of my family lineage, at least.

Most people grow up celebrating just the milestone years: 1, 13, 16, 18, 21. Then, the anti-wrinkle serums start and the fun stops. But not for us. In fact, life is only just beginning for the Miller girls at 26.

In this family, there is no greater milestone than your 26thbirthday. And no gift as special as the one you’re about to unwrap.

Twenty. Six. Years.That is how long I’ll have to wait for this letter to mean anything to you.Butforeveris how long I’ll have to wait to actually sendit to you.

When we found out another girl was on the way, your dad made me promise to stop with all this. I guess it was getting...a bit much? I need your father to stick around. I don’t think I can do this on my own. Three girls? Solo? Withourgift? That’s a lot to manage, even I can admit that.

Once I finish this letter, I will be done. I will seal it but never send it because you deserve to have him in your life. For what it’s worth, let me leave youwith these two things:

One: Sometimes, there are glitches with our gift. I can’t go into much detail, because, well...a promise is a promise! All I can say is:roll with them.

Two: Speaking of glitches, the first time I held your hand at the hospital, I saw something. I shouldn’t have. But I did. Because of the promise I made your dad, I won’t get into it. But I will say this: you’re going to fall in love. I don’t know if it will last, but I do know thatFrench fries will be involved.

The magic is officially within you,Moonie Miller. Always has been, always will be.

Love you to the moon and back.

Mom

1

Chapter One

We all have our daily morning rituals—the activities that take place between morning-breath and coffee-breath. I prefer to skip straight to the latter, subscribing to the super powers of my French press like it’s a binge-worthy podcast; each episode, each pour, better than the last.

I grew up in the Windy City and know just as well as any bleary-eyed Tom, Dick, or Harry how morning joe is the gas station you spot in the distance when your fuel light comes on—the quicker you fill up, the faster you can return to feeling safe and normal. At least half my Facebook friends—the ones who have yet to move away from the Midwest—never skip a chance to post a pic of their homemade oat milk lattes in their chrome Yeti tumblers to their feeds with the caption “LFG.” I thought for the longest time that stood for “Lattes First, Girlies!” Come to learn, it’s “Let’s Fucking Go.” Believe me, I’m well aware of the magical powers of caffeine just as much as anyone. But the irony is not lost on me to think how it is so crucial for these folks to get at least one cup of go-go juice down before doing a job comprised mostly of sitting at a desk all day answering emails.

My ritual here is a little different. Because here in Ocean Beach, you don’t wake up on empty. And you don’t wake up early, either.

Just because my alarm is rarely set for before 9:03am (I have athingabout not setting my alarm for on-the-dot times), doesn’t mean I don’t work or have a serious job that relies on my regular attendance. It just means my career runs on a different speed—a different cadence and resistance, in Peloton terms.

So what do I do all day? I sit at a desk, too. But it’s not like the scoliosis-inducing jobs a typical four-year degree earns you. I’m proud to say I hold down the front desk at a beach-side yoga studio. While I’ll be the first to admit that there’s virtually no stress attached my job, it doesn’t diminish the fact that I still need moments of pure serenity. I need time where it’s just me on my patio with my French press and a few blips and quips from the neighbor’s parrot, Walter. I need that to remind myself of the life I chose over skyscrapers and city buses.

The majority of the country’s hustle-and-bustle population will never experience a pace of life like quite this for any real length of time—except for maybe on a vacation here and there. I pinch myself daily knowing this isn’t a vacation. This isn’t an Airbnb with an insane cleaning fee. This is my everyday life renting a house in Ocean Beach.

A lizard darts across a sunny spot on my cement patio and I don’t even flinch as I refill my coffee mug—a dark blue ceramic cup with a large ergonomic handle that feels solid in my hand. There are highlights of greens and browns throughout the dark pottery piece, like hints of seaweed and sand in the ocean. ‘An Ode to Earth’ my mother titled this one, mailed to me fresh out of her trusty kiln in Arizona.

Walter chirps: “Tres! Tres!”

He’s calling for my former foster dog—a three-legged pit bull from the local shelter who has long since been adopted. The two used to “talk” over the fence. File that under:things that are only normal in Southern California.

“Walter, be quiet,” his mom, Cassie, says as she heads out her front door. “Sorry. I keep explaining to him that Tres got adopted but he doesn’t seem to get it. Maybe you can foster another dog with all four legs and we can teach him to say ‘Quatro’next?”

“That’d be cool,” I tell Cassie, who is always working on expanding Walter’s vocabulary.

“Moons, I’m heading to Joe n’ Flow. Can I get you anything?” she asks.

---