Page 19 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Yas rolls her eyes.

“For the red this evening, I’ve selected a classic favorite of mine: a NorCal cabernet-shiraz. Blackberry, cherry, oak, and spice with a hint of pomegranate. And for the white, a medium-bodied Sauvignon Blanc with luscious flavors of honeysuckle, pear, and grapefruit. What’ll it be, mama?”

Yasmin makes both of them sound too poetic to drink, but I point to the white as my selection.

“Excellent choice,” she says, wearing her sommelier hat well.

As I hear the glug, glug, glug of the liquid pouring into the cup, I soak in my friend Yasmin one last time knowing that I won’t see her again for a while.She’s the definition of a strong, beautiful woman. Her unapologetic, unruly brown hair. The way every outfit—from skin-tight athleisure to baggy mom-jeans to sun goddess apparel—looks like it was made just for her. The fact her purse contains all of life’s essentials at any given moment. Her robust knowledge of just about everything (wine, yoga, business, culture, you name it). It all culminates to this visually-apparent ability to navigate the world. The same world that has knocked me on my ass three times in one day. WillIever achieve Yas Status?

“Let’s drink these on my patio,” I suggest before my existential crisis sets in. “There are actual chairs that haven’t been sold out there.”

It’s a perfect seventy-three degrees and cicadas quietly hum around us as the ocean crashes in the distance. I plug in a string of café lights that I probably should have listed for five bucks, although the full moon above us practically suffices in lighting the entire patio on its own.

“You know, even without furniture, this really is such a great place,” Yas says as she soaks in the surroundings.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“So what exactly happened here?” She gestures toward the house. “Landlord finally realized she could be making double off you?”

“No. She finally realized she could makemillionsoff adeveloper. She sold it. It’s a tear-down. I only had til the end of the month anyway, then I would have had to find another spot. It took about ten minutes of looking online to realize I wouldn’t be able to afford a decent place, especially not without solid proof of income.”

As I explain, I fidget with the string on my black, short sleeve hoodie—a reminder that once again, my fashion is both amateur and monotone when compared to Yasmin

“I’m sort of out of touch with the job market these days, but I feel like you could get a job doing anything, Moonie. You’re charming, young, smart. God, I sound like a Hollywood creep right now, don’t I?”

“That’s just the thing. I don’t want a jobdoing anything. You know how much I loved Joe n’ Flow. There’s nothing else like that here—or anywhere, for that matter. I’m not ready to work forty hours a week as a barista just to put my entire paycheck toward some shitty apartment I share with two stoners and their stray cats from Tijuana. I think it’s a sign my little San Diego experiment was a failure and it’s time to head home and find some other life purpose.”

“I’m all for a good sign,” Yas says. “But I disagree that this was a total failure. After all,wefound each other. Hell, you’ve been a better friend to me in two years than anyone in Los Angeles ever was. I don’t know if you realize this, but I’m really going to miss you, Moonie. You better keep in touch.”

“Ditto, girl,” I say.

“Hey. What did Esther say?”

Sharp pivot.

I take another sip of wine as I contemplate her question. Careful not to pause for too long, I decide that I just can’t get into allthatright now.

“Not much,” I say. “She actually had to cut the session short.”

In a way, thatisthe truth. I’m just leaving out the “I have super powers apparently” part. I’ll come clean to her in time, I promise myself. Once I put San Diego in the rearview mirror.

“Are you serious? She cut the session short? You know, I heard a rumor she was losing her touch. Sorry my gift was a bust, Moons.”

“No worries,” I toss out.

We both take a moment to be quiet, sip our wine, and look up to the crystal-clear night sky. As Yasmin’s eyes return to the patio table, she asks: “Is this a smudge stick?”

“Yeah, actually,” I say completely forgetting I left that out here this whole time.

“Does this mean what I think it means? Is my Moonie Millerfinallyembracing the spiritual side of things on her last night in OB? And on Friday the 13that that. How poetic!”

How do I break it to her that it’s just a weird parting gift from my quirky landlady?

“Bunch of smelly leaves I’m supposed to burn to clear the air or something,” I casually say.

Yasmin sniffs the smudge stick.

“Mmmm, blue sage,” she says, fluent in woo-woo. “Very good for cleansing the home.”

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