Page 98 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“Wait. Before you go, this came for you,” Nora says, handing me a flat, overnight express FedEx envelope that I didn’t even notice was sitting on the coffee table in front of us the entire time we were talking.

I quickly glance at the return address, but don’t see a name. All I can tell is that it was postmarked from San Diego. I tuck it under my armpit and march back to the coach house.

“Let me know about taking the kids to soccer!” my sister hurls, the unintentional micro-insult burns my eardrums.

By the time I barrel through the door to my bedroom, I can already see my phone is back to life and the screen is lighting up like fireworks. Messages and alerts are pouring in steadily as I rip the phone from the cord. Upon initial glance,Shereé’s announcement has been reposted somewhere in the hundreds of times and I’m pretty sure BuzzFeed is actively chronically the saga as we speak. I quickly scroll through my DMs, which are exploding with hate messages from her loyal followers chastising me for not predicting this, not warning her, and worst of all, using her. Usingher?!I think to myself. I was the pawn here! But my story on social media will never amount to anything more than a whisper when up against someone like Shereé Jackson’s mega-voice.

On top of that, almost everyone who ordered a bottle of Love Potion has written me—half to request a cancellation and half to ask if they are going to be hexed, too. I have four missed calls from Angeline accompanied by the same number of frantic texts from her.

Have you seen Shereé’s post?

What the hell is going on?

How can I help?

Call me back, I’m worried about you.

When I read through them, I quickly deduce that there’s no way Angeline spilled the Exexveei beans to Shereé.

So itwasOllie.

My fingers freeze as I come to that realization, but I eventually find the muscle memory to punch back a reply and assure her that I’ve got everything under control, even though I most certainly do not.

I know my sister told me Shereé probably doesn’t want to speak to me right now, and frankly, I don’t want to speak to her either. But I do have one question that only she can answer:How could you do this to me?

Sent.

Mere seconds later, she fires back her reply, as if she has been waiting for me to go to battle with her since her post.

How could you do this to ME?

The DM is accompanied by an image of my mom’s S&S journal sitting on the seat of my chair at the Holiday Market. It’s open to a page with my findings and observations about Exexveei.

Shouldn’t have left it out,she writes. I thought it was the new DIORnotebook.

Wow. Just, wow.

Who cares, Moonie. All that matters is that you kept your most powerful tool from me during a time I needed it most, if it even exists at all. What kind of spiritual HEALER does that? You gave me no choice but to warn my followers. I have to keep people away from you…myself included.

Suddenly, when I click on Shereé’s profile, I see nothing. No pictures. Follower/Following counts are at zero. And a big icon in the middle of the screen that says that this user has no posts yet. Since I know none of that is true, it can only mean one thing. Shereé Jackson has blocked me. Not sure about Bryson’s, but at leastmytorridaffair is officially over.

Just then, a text notification drops down from the top of my screen. It’s from Ollie, he’s asking to talk in person later. He is to blame for what is happening to Moon Batch Apothecary, which is crumbling like a sand castle caught up by a wave, so unless he’s a crisis PR guru, I don’t care what he has to say and I don’t want to talk to him.

That’s when it hits me. Crisis PR guru.Yasmin.

If there’s one person who can steer me in the right direction right now, it’s Yas. I trust her. I respect her. She was my visions before I had visions. And now—she’s my Hail Mary.

She answers myFaceTimeon the second ring and her beautiful face takes over the screen of my phone.

The ocean is in the background. Her ginormous sunglasses fill the frame. There is a guy riding a skateboard being pulled by his dog in the background. I miss it all. Instantly, I recognize that place as home and I calm down. I hear the phraseno worrieswhisper in my brain. It is somehow louder than the swirling mess around me.

“How’s everybody’s favorite woo-woo woman?”

“Dethroned,” I say.

“Whaaa? Last time I checked, you were killing it.”

“Well, you must not have checked this morning.”

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