Page 29 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“Are you here by yourself? Is there someone I should go get for you?” I gesture my neck toward Smitten. Perhaps her mom, sister, or fiancé is inside?

“I’m alone,” she wails.

“Not anymore,” I say. “I’m here for you. My name is Moonie. Moonie Miller.”

At that, the blubbering mess stops crying. She looks at me with big brown eyes, sniffles, and says: “Shereé Jackson.”

“Can I ask what’s wrong, Shereé? Surely, there’s got to be something that I can do to help you?”

“No. There’s nothing you—or anyone else—can do. Not unless you can secure our dream wedding date at our dream venue.”

Yeah, I’m far too single to play in that arena, I think to myself as I struggle to pick up on what exactly the issue is.

Just then I spy some Lincoln Park brats trying to look inconspicuous as they clearly are zooming in on their phones and filming her on social media. I don’t know who this woman is, but I do know that no one deserves to have their public meltdowns filmed. Have we not learnedanythingfrom the Britney Spears documentary?

“Hey, do you like cookies?” I ask. “Or cupcakes, or brownies, or cheesecake? Looks like there’s a table open at Sweet Baby’s if you want to dart across the street with me and have a quick chat. My sister is a baker. She says that place is legit.”

Though I’ve never been to this sweets shop before, I say what I need to in order to change not only the subject, but the location—forShereé’ssake. If we don’t relocate, fast, her sob-fest is going to be all over the internet and I can promise that will make whatever she’s going through even worse.

“I’m supposed to be watching my carbs if I’m going to fit into my gown. But fuck it. Doesn’t look like I’m getting married any time soon. Let’s go.”

We look both ways before sprinting across a rare break in traffic on Clark Street. As I hold the door open for Shereé, I check back behind me to make sure the girls have put their cameras away. I feel like her body guard.

“A frosted sugar cookie for me,” I say to the apron-donned worker behind the counter as my mouth waters for the blue icing and rainbow sprinkle mashup I see on social media all the time. “And whatever she wants.”

I figure that it would be nice to treat the stranger on what seems like an off day for her. Plus, breaking her no-carb diet was my idea, so I feel guilty.

“I’ll have the cookie dough brownie,” orders Shereé.

Oof.

I saw the cookie dough brownie when I walked in as well. You can’t miss it. It’s their dessert-of-the-month: a huge, dense, fudgy brownie on the bottom with cookie dough buttercream frosting on top. Then, little pieces of their signature chocolate chip cookie broken up and sticking out like sweet stalagmites. The thing clocks in at a whopping $12 per bar and god-only-knows how many calories.

As the worker bags up our confections, we slide over to the register where the cashier gives us our total.

“That’ll be seventeen even,” the girl says as I take out my wallet.

Whether she means to or not, Shereé hip checks me to talk to the cashier.

“Do you want a tag?”

Shereé tips her sunglasses down and holds up the screen of her phone, which is set to her Instagram profile. According to what I can see, she is @Sheree_in_the_City and her jaw dropping follower stats are on full display. The cashier blushes once she realizes that someone who is apparently bonafide Insta-famous is standing in front of her.

“Oh my god. It’s you. It’s really you. Yes, wedefinitelywant a tag.”

“Okay, then you know the drill. It’s a comp order plus a hundred dollars, cash—and make it two fifties if you’ve got them.”

“Absolutely.”

The girl presses a few buttons on the register and the drawer pops open. She takes out two crisp fifty-dollar bills and hands them toShereé.

“Thank you. So much. Like, wow. Seriously,” she says, stuttering her words.

The moment Shereé turns her back, the workers combust in a sea of whispers as they feverishly retrieve their phones, seemingly to tell everyone they know about their brush with thisShereé Jacksongirl.

Shereé and I take a seat at an open two-top. It’s as private as it gets in the small shop. I’m just glad we have something to duck under in case Shereé breaks out in another crying episode.

I unbox my frosted cookie and pick it up. I can’t get it to my mouth fast enough before Shereé puts her hand across my wrist and stops me from inhaling it.

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