Page 81 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Yes. His name is Nate. He came through the shop this morning to get some supplies and mentioned the meet-up. Nice German guy, if you’re considering collecting stamps…

I press send on an eye-roll emoji and let the face speak for itself.

Either way…might be nice to meet a fellow Exexveei’er.

I don’t know about that. True, on one hand, it’d be nice to know I’m not alone—especially since neither of my sisters practice anymore. If I find someone else with the same gift, I could compare notes, ask questions, bring up concerns. But on the other hand, I’ve made it this far being a one woman show and have developed a bit of notoriety along with it, thanks to social media. The last thing I want is for people at this meet-up to see me, put two-and-two together, realize I have palm reading/future-seeing abilities, and out my secret abilities to the world. Or worse, try to join forces. Nate and I don’t need to be the Donny & Marie of the woo-woo world.

Still, the desire to feel less alone in all this wins over.

Where is it?I ask back.

Bohemian National Cemetery. 2pm.

Why, oh why, does this have to be at a cemetery?

Thanks. I’ll think about it,I type back.

I set my phone back down on the nightstand. It isn’t lost on me that besides Angeline, Ollie, and my sisters, nobody really texts me these days. Yas was my best friend in San Diego, but with time and distance, our digital chats are slowing down. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to roll-up at the cemetery with no expectations and walk away with a few new friends? After all, there could come a time when an apprentice is needed at Moon Batch Apothecary. Someone to roll up their sleeves, literally, and make a batch of potion. After all, Angeline recently told me her days of bending over a tub are over, unless George Clooney is involved, of course.

I quickly google how to get to Bohemian National, knowing that both of my sisters aren’t likely to loan me their cars to go hang out in a cemetery with some strangers for the afternoon. The route shows quite the combination of trains and buses and a bit of walking, but if I leave now, and dress warmly enough, I can make it just in time for the start of the meet up.

Donning a slouchy black beanie, a puffy coat, and big sunglasses, I arrive at the massive limestone gatehouse of the Bohemian National Cemetery shortly after 2pm. For the end of January, it’s actually a crisp, sunny day in the mid-forties. Apocalyptic for Southern California, but patio weather for Chicago.

I double check that location-services are off on my phone before heading in. I don’t need my followers to check my Snapchat geolocation and see that I’m spending my downtime roaming a haunted graveyard.

Yes, I said haunted. In googling how to get here, I came across a cheeky little article saying many people have reported feeling like someone was near them here, but then turned to see no one at all. It could be that the victims of the greatest maritime disaster of Chicago are all buried here and their spirits haunt the grounds, but instead of repeatedly checking over my shoulder, I choose to look straight ahead where a giant Cubs-themed burial site catches my eye. Apparently, some super-fan splurged on decking out this section of the cemetery, complete with a row of original seats from Wrigley Field. If it wasn’t so morbid, I’d say this would be a great place for a picnic. But, instead it’s the perfect spot for a woo-woo weirdo meet-up.

“Hi! Are you here for the secret meet-up?” a guy about my age in a cute maroon shacket cheerfully asks the closer I get to the memorial.

“Ummm, maybe?” I say. “Are you Nate by chance?”

“I am.”

I breathe a little easier knowing I’ve found the right person and the right place. Speaking of the person, I’m a little peeved Angeline left out the fact that Nate is quite the looker. A little shorter than Ollie, with dark hair and eyes, Nate gives off serious Penn Badgley vibes. Here’s to hoping he’s nothing like his serial killer character onYOU.

“So youknow Angeline?” I ask, figuring it doesn’t hurt to add one more layer of verification, given the circumstances.

“I met her this morning. She’s great. Her shop is awesome. She has quite the crystal collection. It was hard not to bag one of everything.”

As Nate adds some color as to how he knows our mutual friend, I realize how nice it is to connect with someone—especially a man—who just immediately gets it. So far, the closest I’ve come is Mr. Macnider, who is a nice guy, but I probably wouldn’t hang out in a cemetery with him. Otherwise, my experiences with Chicago men have essentially just been with slow-burn Ollie and off-his-rocker Antonio—neither of whom were the definition of “readily accepting.”

“So this secret meet up…it’s for special people?”

“We prefer the termmagical,” he says.

I look beyond Nate and count ten people. Ten people who are just like me. Ten people who have a gift. This is, by all accounts, an MPA meet-up: Magical People Anonymous. I’m delighted to be here, but definitely feel like I should have brought a box of donuts and a jug of coffee for my fellow counterparts.

“Forgive me,” Nate says. “But who are you?”

“Moonie Miller.”

“I know your name, silly. We all follow you on social media. My girlfriend has one of your candles. I meant: who are you being today? Are you Bella fromTwilight?” Nate’s brown eyes get big in anticipation of my answer.

“No…”

“Lara Croft?”

I shake my head, no.

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