Page 49 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Just then, the bartender puts down two plates in front of me. One with a burrito that’s about the size of my head and the other with a pile of steaming hot French fries. I undo my silverware roll, placing the napkin across my lap and grab hold of the fork and knife. Instead of cutting into the burrito, I use my utensils to open it up delicately like I’m performing heart surgery.

Once the inside—smoked brisket, fancy!—is exposed, I grab a few French fries, place them atop the meat, and cover the burrito back up with the flap of the flour tortilla. I ditch the silverware completely and airlift the messy concoction straight to my face, taking a bite way bigger than I should in a public setting.

“What the heck was that?” Ollie asks while I chew. I hold up the ‘one-moment’ finger and cover my mouth in case any black beans want to make an appearance on his oatmeal-colored sweater.

“This, my friend,” I say. “Is what we call a Cali Burrito. Did you not have one when you were in San Diego?”

“I was only there for a couple of weeks.”

“What a shame. Go on. Try it.”

I push my plate toward him.

“No thank you.”

“Oh, come on. I didn’t put a curse on it. It’s just a freaking burrito with French fries in it.”

He stares at me. The beginnings of a smile that I can’t quite tie to any one specific emotion faintly crosses his lips. He takes the bait—and at that, a bite.

“What do you think? Good, right?”

“It’s actually quite good,” he says, washing it down with a sip of his Manhattan.

And there it is: something we both agree on.

I know that he’s a skeptic, he’s made that loud and clear. But like any good spiritual healer, I hope I can change his mind just a bit. It’s what Yas and Angeline did for me, and look how much it opened up my life. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll have the same effect on him in some way. The fact that he liked the burrito is step-one in getting Ollie to trust my recommendations.

Just then, his phone screen lights up on the bar top.

“Oh, great,” he says sarcastically as he reads the text. “A few housekeepers are stuck in the elevator and the staff engineer can’t figure out how to get them out.”

“I sure hope that doesn’t happen to me when I head on up. I’m not really a fan of small, enclosed spaces.”

“Getting out of a stuck elevator is child’s play. You have my card still, right?”

“In my purse,” I say.

“My cell is on there. If there are any issues, just call or text me. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say back, extending my hand to meet his.

In a moment of weakness—call it the makings of wine buzz, the food coma settling in, or the dizzying effect of the first cute guy I’ve seen since being back in Chicago, I accidentally allow myself to touch palms with Ollie Zetterlind—and he doesn’t let go.

“Bartender, no tab for her.”

Shake.

“Whatever she wants, just back-charge it to the Engineering department.”

Shake

“Or wait. Charge it to Sales & Marketing instead.”

Shake.

“Actually, put it to Mr. Macnider’s house account. Okay?”

As Ollie gives orders to the server regarding the arrangements for my bill, he misses the exact moment I close my eyes and squeeze just a little tighter. I concentrate hard on the vision that immediately floods my brain, but don’t really need to. It’s crystal clear like I’m watching my favorite show.

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