Page 94 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“I saw a vision of you and me. That’s what happens when I touch people’s palms. I see the future.”

“I’m confused. What did you see?”

“Us,” I generalize. “Like, as a couple.”

“Well doesn’t everybody get caught up in their feelings? You date someone you like, you start imagining a future with them.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

His imagination is running wild.How could I have let my guard down like this? What do I even say next?

“It’s just that when I touch people’s palms, I can see visions of their future. Sometimes.”

ALL of the time, my conscience corrects me.

“And this happened with me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so that time you came over after the holiday market, did you know I was going to cook you Swedish pancakes and we’d end up in my bedroom? Because I didn’t know I was going to cook you Swedish pancakes and we’d up end up in my bedroom…”

I can hear the panic in his voice. He’s totally freaking out.

“No, I haven’t let my Exexveei work like that.”

“Oh god. It has a name?”

“XXVI is Roman numeral 26, as in, the year this gift gets bestowed upon people like me. And no,my visions weren’t specific down to the breakfast menu or anything. But...they can be,” I say before my conscience has a chance to kick me under the table again.

“So whatdidyou see?” he asks.

“Our palms connected and I saw a flash of you and me in a bed. Just a flash. That’s it,” I explain. “It was impossible to tell what came before and what came after. The vision was over before it even started, really.”

“We were in bed doing what exactly?”

Ollie is on a quest for specifics, but the truth is—

“I don’t know. I pulled my palm away before I could see more because I wanted things to be a surprise. I still do. It was just a few seconds, Ollie. I swear.”

“And this happenseverytime we touch hands? Because we touch hands, and other things, kind of a lot.”

“Well technically it would. But, I’ve taken extreme measures to protect myself from seeing anymore spoilers.”

Ollie slumps to the floor of the bathroom. He rests his back against the tub and stares into the room.

“Are you weirded out?”

“Wouldn’t anybody be? I guess I’m more confused than anything,” he says.

“Ask me questions,” I beg. Questions are his love language.

“What do you mean you’vetaken extreme measures?”

I pull out the smudge spray from the side pocket of my leggings and show it to him. It’s the least I can do to stop the bleeding.

“I made this,” I announce. “It’s a special formula that I coat my hands in before I see you. It forms a protective layer from my visions. Think of it like sunblock for harmful UV rays.”

“But it’sCock Blockspray instead?” he asks, reading and pointing to the frisky label.

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