Page 103 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Yas and I lock eyes. We know it’s not cursed. That kind of aura is totally absent here.

In the meantime, I flip to the page Sam referenced in the brochure. A complex diagram that’s straight out of a physics book takes up the entirety of the page. I have no idea what any of this means. There are drawings complete with arrows pointing to things like “Armageddon-inspired pile drivers” and “Roman-style support beams.” I think this is supposed to quell concerns forsinkage, but instead I’m just having flashbacks to that awkward Animal Cracker scene between Ben Affleck and Liv Tyler while an asteroid was hurtling toward Earth.

“Any final questions?” Sam asks.

“Is this the asking investment for both spaces?” Yas points to the pricing chart on the back page.

“Yes. Unless you want them separated,” says Kathy. “Our developers are definitely willing to close off the stairwell and take two separate tenants if that’s what fills the space the soonest.”

“I would want both,” I say with confidence.

Yas makes eye contact with me and gives me aslow your rolllook.

“Hypothetically, of course,” I quickly pump the brakes. “First, I need to talk this all over with my business manager and attend the panel discussion.”

“Take your time,” Sam repeats back to me.

“But not too much time,” Kathy jumps in. “You’re the first of three showings today.”

I have no idea if that’s bullshit or not, but I get it. If I’m going to try to get a vision for what this space could be, the time for that to set in is now.

“Understood,” I say. “My business manager and I are headed to lunch now to discuss it. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

“You two ladies have a great day,” says Sam with a bit of a perverse wink.

At that, Yasmin and I depart as Kathy and Sam lock up the vacant building behind us.

“Quick question,” says Yas as we walk east on Newport Avenue. “AmIyour ‘business manager’?”

“How did you know?”

“Oh, mama. I can already tell you’re going to owe me lunch for this one.”

We place our order at the counter at Poma’s—the quintessential, cash-only surfside sandwich shop. Subs here are a foot long and are served with a side of peperoncini peppers. Chips are made from freshly-sliced potatoes that get flash fried in a vat of oil and sprinkled with salt and vinegar. Trust me when I say, they are worth every penny—and calorie.

“So as your ‘business manager,’ I humbly request that you fill me in here, Ms. Monopoly. Last time I checked, you were some version of a broke, defunct fortune teller who was taking bad advice from evil influencers. Now you’re investing in high-end commercial real estate 2,500 miles away from your home?”

“Thisis my home,” I say. “I’m moving back.”

“It’s expensive here,” she reminds me.

“I know. But I came into some money,” I say, swallowing a crisp sip of Diet Coke straight from the cold can. “A lot of it.”

“Alright. Are we talking…scratch-off lotto ticket winnings, or money laundering?”

“Inheritance,” I answer.

“Who died?”

“Gerda, my old landlord.”

“Whoa. Really? She’s OB royalty. How did I not hear about that? I can’t tell if I’m more shocked she died, or that she leftyoumoney.”

“How do you think I feel? I guess I was the only person who resembled family to her. How sad is that?”

“Not sad at all,” saysYas. “You are the family she got to choose. It’s the family wedon’tget to choose that sets us up for true sadness.”

When she says that, I think briefly about my own family, specifically, my mother—who all but abandoned me and my sisters, in her quest to find her true authentic self. Maybe it’s because she’s still looking for it?

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