Page 6 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“Just a place to live!” I exclaim.

“What are you talking about?”

“My landlord is ending my lease. It’s a whole thing. I don’t really want to get into it right now. Matcha latte?” I ask, bringing the coffee cup closer to my nose for a sniff.

“Café con leche. Well,oatleche, if we’re being honest. Take a sip.”

It tastes like holiday cheer in a biodegradable cup. How have I never heard of this before?

“It’s so good,” I say.

“I know, right? But if my Abuelita Sarita knew I ordered these withoatmilk, there’d be hell to pay. I can just hear it now—the screen door slamming behind her followed by the shrill of her voice as she frantically waves a pot of warm cow’s milk in front of my face like she’s got a time sensitive organ transplant in tow. Too bad lactose intolerance is a concept lost on my Abuelita. Oh well. At least I got the ‘extra cinnamon’ part right.”

Just then, my phone chimes on the counter—a nice reminder I forgot to put it on silent. I quickly switch the sound off, as I read the text.

“Who’s that from?” Yas asks.

“Brody. He’s just wishing me a—”

I pause as I stare at the screen.

“A happy birthday? What a sweetie.”

“More like a happybreakup, I think. Can you translate this?”

I hand Yas my phone. She sets down her large, circular, turquoise blue-framed sunglasses on the counter for a better read.

“Moons. Been fun. But can’t jam solo with you anymore. No hard feelings,” Yas spouts off slowly before sliding me back my phone.

“Been fun?” I paraphrase in utter disbelief.

“Sorry, mama.”

I like that Yas calls me mama—even though the only thing I’ve ever been a mother to was my three-legged foster dog from the San Diego Humane Society.

“Well that’s fucking great,” I say with the enthusiasm of a high schooler finding out they have pop quiz in chemistry.

“Were you guys serious?” she asks.

Good question.

The first time we shared a platter of fish tacos (okay, maybe it was the bucket of Coronas), I accidentally confessed that “dating a guy named Brody” was on my unofficial California Bucket List. He then burst my bubble, confessing something equally as cringe: that his agent said he’d be much more marketable as a semi-pro surfer with a cooler name than what he was born with:Kevin. I asked him if he wanted me to call him “Kevin”—even just in private—since that might introduce a level of authenticity to the burgeoning relationship. He declined, saying he’d appreciate it if I could just keep the Brody-schtick going. The next day, his agent emailed me an NDA. That’s when I knew things with Brody/Kevin wereprobablygoing nowhere, but couldn’t bear to admit it.

“I guess not,” I say, unable to recall if I ever sent the NDA back. “But a part of me wanted to see what a surfer boy would get a Chicago girl for her birthday.”

“Sand fleas,” says Yas. “But if you want to see what a Cali boss gets a Chi-town babe for her birthday, it’s this…”

Yas takes out an envelope from her purse—a modest black leather Burberry, because this is San Diego, where people still have money but don’t need the Chanel Cs tattooed on their foreheads—and pushes it my way. It saysFor Moonieon the front in black marker.

I slide my finger under the seal as Yas narrates “A little something-something for the birthday girl.”

I was expecting an overpriced Papyrus card—the kind you feel guilty throwing away a week after your birthday has passed—but instead, inside is a single piece of white cardstock. I slip it out and give it a read.

This card entitlesMOONIE MILLERtoONE PALM READING SESSIONwith Esther Higgins.

Appointment is required. No cancellations. Gratuity expected.

Late Policy: DON’T BE.

---