Page 2 of Sort of Seeing Someone

I gesture to my French press and confirm: “I’m all good over here.”

“Hey, I’m thinking I’ll do the 2 o’clock Vinyasa today depending on the surf. If the waves keep going like they have been these past few days, I’ll have to skip class again and paddle out.”

“No worries. I totally get it. Say hi to Brody for me if you see him out there.”

Cassie flashes me the shaka sign, a friendly surf-culture hand motion that essentially means “hang loose,homie.” as I wonder for the umpteenth time what Cassie does to afford her rent.

Brody—no relation to Jenner—is a semi-pro surfer who I met at Joe n’ Flow after his trainer recommended that he take a core power class to improve his ab strength while up on the board. The guys who typically practice at Joe n’ Flow donotlook like Brody. They have more henna tattoos on their bodies and less hair on their heads. So when I noticed someone who looked like he was once a shirtless greeter at a Hollister store, I couldn’t help but ask if he needed a block. And when he didn’t know what one was for, I couldn’t help but demonstrate. We exchanged numbers and have been ordering fish tacos, giving each other one-armed side hugs, and sloppily making out after a few too many Coronasever since. It may not be the next Netflix breakout, but theMoonie in San Diegostoryline really does come together by dating a trendy-named surfer with hair that’s blonder than blonde. If that’s not “being twenty-five in California,” I don’t know what is.

I tap the screen of my phone. It’s 9:56 local time. Make that “Twenty-sixin California.”

Right on cue, a text from my Type-A older sister, Olivia, comes in.

HBD, Moonie. Did Nora text you already?

No, you’re first,I assure her. I know it’s commonplace to text HBD for Happy Birthday, but I’m positive Liv did it to save the .293 seconds it would have taken to type out the full text just to make sure hers came through before Nora’s.

Another ping comes in. A text from my—we’ll call her: type-A minus—oldest sister, Nora.

Hi Moons. Happy Birthday. Hope it’s a great day. Did Liv text you yet?

No, you’re first,I assure her, too.

Always a few beats behind, my mom’s message comes through next.

Happy OFFICIAL birthday, Moonie! 26…

My mom’s relationship with her cell phone is touch-and-go. She’s a busy lady, wrapped up in what I call the ThreePs of Retired-in-Arizona Living: Pottery, Pickleball, and Places with Mister Fans. While I wish “Phone” was on that list, it doesn’t make the cut very often. She raised three girls primarily on her own, plus taught hundreds of kids in her classrooms over the years. I can see why she’s chosen to disconnect a bit from the youth of America. So I heart the text and accept her communication style for what it is: distant, but sweet.

Thanks Mom. Love you too! We need to get a visit on the books…AZ isn’t that far from CA, I say back—a nice balance of a geographical absolute with touch of guilt.

Noticeably absent is any acknowledgment from my dad. But such is life when you haven’t spoken to your father for the better part of decade. Still, though, I never lose hope that when he checks his phone and realizes the date, he’ll put aside all the time and distance that has separated us, and just shoot me a damn HBD text.

For now, I allow the three messages that have rolled in so far to soothe my soul as I set my phone down wondering when the women in my family will lean into group texting. I may live a slower pace here in Southern California, but efficiency is not lost on me.

“I’ve got your mail, Moonie.”

Speaking of slower paces, there’s a noticeable tiredness to Gerda’s voice as she sluggishly makes her way up the long, cement front pathway. She reminds me of a veteran lunch lady who’s slapped her ten-thousandth serving of mashed potatoes on a hard plastic tray, just without the hairnet. All of my grandparents passed away before I was born, so I have no idea what their voices sounded like. To me, Gerda has a universal “grandma voice” and while I wouldn’t want to listen to her narrate an audiobook, I do find it comforting in small doses.

Unlike the other houses in Ocean Beach, my little (350 square feet little) beach shack is set back—way back—from the road on a street called Narragansett. While I love that my front yard gives me a buffer between the surfers and the skaters who coast down my street all day to get to the Pacific Ocean, I’m sure the extra fifty feet are tough on my seventy-something-year-old landlady, Gerda Germaine, who makes this trek every Wednesday when myPeoplemagazine, a housewarming gift from Nora (note: Liv got me a trivet I’ve never used), gets delivered.

“Thanks, GG,” I say. After renting from her for almost two years, I want to believe we’ve reached the point where nicknames are kosher. Especially because my name—Moonie—feels like it’s in a perpetual state of nicknamehood. Sometimes with a name like mine, I feel like a woman with big, perky, perfect breasts having to swear they’re real all the time. In fact, my version of “Go ahead, touch ’em,” is showing off my name on my driver’s license.

“Coffee?” I ask, even though I know the answer will be no. It’s always been no. Maybe she’s a tea girl. We haven’t covered that yet but thankfully there are at least another twenty-five issues left in my subscription so frankly, we have time.

She sits down on a patio chair and scoots closer to the table. The sound of the metal legs dragging against the cement hurts my teeth like nails on a chalkboard, and sends another lizard scrambling for cover.

A lot of women my age wouldn’t really like it if their landlord came over as frequently as Gerda does. Moreover, they wouldn’t like her settling into a chair like she’s gathering around a campfire to tell a story with no end. But Gerda’s company is okay with me because I know what she wants isn’t necessarily to stay and chat awhile. She wants to do the crossword puzzle that’s in the back of the magazine with me.

For the first three months of living here, when my magazine got delivered, I found it rather odd that by the time I’d make to the puzzle section in the back, the crossword was already filled out. Always the same jagged handwriting. Always in pencil.

When Gerda came by to water the plants and trim the fig tree, which was—and still is— about every other day, I couldn’t help but notice she kept a Dixon-Ticonderoga tucked behind her ear most of the time. The bright yellow-painted pencil stuck out against her silver hair like a piece of costume jewelry. I compared the shaky handwriting of the filled in clues such as, “JENNIFERGARNER” or “EMMYAWARD”, with her signature on the lease—also in pencil—and quickly put two-and-two together.

I confronted her.

She confessed.

We compromised.

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