Page 95 of Sort of Seeing Someone

My face flushes red.

“Angeline wrote that. You know how she is. It’s a joke.”

“So you have to use this every time we hang out or you’ll know exactly what we’re up to before I ever think of it for myself? Thatisa joke.”

“I don’thaveto use it,” I say. “I choose to, though.”

“Huh,” he sputters out, the way you get stumped on a crossword clue.

“Please say more than that,” I request.

“I really like you, Moonie. I like you in that…buy-her-flowers, surprise-her-with-ice-cream, plan-a-special-day-in-the-city kind of a way. How can I ever be something special to you if you already know what’s in store from me? Or worse, what happens if your vision of us isn’t so…lovely…down the road? What if we don’t—”

“That’s why I use the smudge spray. For all the reasons you just said. And one more.”

“There’s more?”

“I saw this psychic.”

“Here we go,” Ollie mutters.

“No, listen. Really. I saw this psychic. She’s renowned. She told me I had already met the one. At the time, I thought she was talking about this guy I was sort of seeing in OB. But then I realized it might actually be you. I had met you at Joe n’ Flow—briefly, but I think it still counted. And then she said—”

“I really don’t want to hear ‘what the psychic said’.”

“She said I’d have another chance. That’s what this is. My second chance is happening right now. At least that’s what I believe. Trust me, I want to be the girl you surprise with a cookie-dough Blizzard or a walk through Lincoln Park Zoo or with a dozen orange-colored roses. I don’t want to know how this movie ends either. Look, I think you know this by now—I’m different, Ollie. I’m not tooting my own horn, but I just don’t belong in any neat little category. And I’m sorry about that. But I can’t be sorryforthat. This is who I am. That spray is the closest I get to normal.”

“It’s almost empty,” he points out.

“I’ll get the ingredients to make more.”

“What if they’re out of the ingredients?”

“They won’t be.”

“I read the news. Californians are deforesting natural habitats in search of some weirdly popular sage. You don’t know if you’ll always be able to getwhatever is in this mixture. And then what? We don’t touch anymore because no one wants to ruin the fun?”

He sets the smudge spray down on the bathroom sink and lets out another deep breath. I thought he would be relieved to know there’s a remedy for this. Instead, he’s finding all the ways to poke holes in a solution that I thought was not only bomb-proof, but romantic, too. The things I am willing to do for love are apparently a giant turn-off.

We both sit silently on the floor and stare into space.

“So what are you thinking?” I finally ask, slicing through the silence.

“I’m thinking…I don’t want to be with someone who hasto take medicine every day for the rest of her life just to hang out with me. You’re going to get tired of that,Moonie. Or one day, you’ll be too busy fulfilling other people’s orders that you’ll put your own potion needs on hold and I won’t know you’re off the sauce.”

“Off the sauce? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll just say ‘fuck it’ about the smudge spray, and I’ll be holding your hand while we walk to get adonut, and you’ll be staring off into the distance visualizing how many kids we’ll have. Or what fight we’ll get into about the laundry later that day. Or if I’ll get diagnosed with skin cancer on my fortieth birthday. Meanwhile, I’ll be none the wiser about any of it. I work so hard to understand how the world works,Moonie. It’s a hobby of mine, a passion of mine, and I’ve dedicated my career to it. It’s not fair that life will continue to be one big surprise, but only to me. You know I’m in constant pursuit of stability.Thisis notthat.”

“I think you’re getting way ahead of yourself, Ollie.”

“Says the person who just told me she thinks I’mthe onebecause some psychic said so. Regardless, thinking ahead is howmybrain works. I think about things rationally; logically; analyze and extrapolate them. Speaking of rational and logical, it probably makes sense that I get going. There’s a lot to sort out here.”

“Don’t go, please. This isn’t that big of deal,” I plead once more, grabbing onto his arm before he can propel himself up and out.

“I disagree, Moonie. I’m sorry. Maybe you should have skipped the hand spray tonight. If I were you, I would have wanted to know the night was going to end like this before inviting me over.”

Ollie exits the bathroom and I can hear him take heavy steps down my sister’s reclaimed wood stairwell. A few moments later, the front door closes—slams—behind him. He really does know his way around a space.

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