Page 23

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I’m next in line at the Roscoe Village post office, a branch notorious for having some of the most cutthroat clerks in all of Chicago.

Things I’ve learned since doing my monthly shipments here?

No, they will not let you borrow a marker; your boxes better not come in with duct tape on them; never try to claim a crystal as “media mail;” and when they call “Next!” you better be at that open station faster than the speed of a sneeze.

That’s why they hung a sign that says “No Cell Phone Use.” But when the lines are twenty minutes deep, it’s hard to resist a little doom scrolling as you wait for your turn be aghast at the price of stamps these days.

I hide my phone in the crook of my oversized black sweatshirt that has a little Diet Coke can embroidered on the chest. This was one of those delightfully weird thrift store finds I couldn’t resist, and a nod to my guiltiest pleasure.

While perusing Instagram, Brody’s latest post pops up on my feed.

It’s him at the San Diego airport with his feet kicked up on his luggage.

And I’m off. Any guesses where to next? Here’s a hint…

The caption ends with the emoji of a pizza slice and immediately I’m struck. Whether it’s deep dish or tavern style, Chicago is indisputably known for its pizza (and its corrupt politicians, and the wind, and the crime, and…I’m really selling it, aren’t I?).

Brody is on his way to Chicago , I think to myself as I remember Esther not-so-loosely indicating that I’d get a second chance with the one.

I know he was giving Tweedle-Dee (okay, maybe Dum b ) vibes, but I’m almost positive he only broke up with me because his agent told him a single Brody is a more marketable Brody—which is just as ridiculous as telling him to ditch the name “Kevin.” Regardless, as much as he tried to play our breakup cool via text,Brody appears to be ready for round two.

I flick my ringer to “on” so as not to miss a call or text and slide my phone back into my leggings side pocket.

As soon as I do, it rings and my heart skips several beats as I whip out my phone quicker than a TikTok teenager.

Alas, the caller ID says it’s The Brockmeier Hotel calling.

I’ve already been paid in full—plus a bonus transfer of $180 as someone did in fact buy the peridot lava bracelet.

Perhaps I left something of mine in the room (other than my ability to ever stay the night in anything but a presidential suite ever again)?

I answer the phone with a hushed Hello , expecting to hear Mr. Macnider’s deep voice or perhaps the sound of his peppy executive assistant on the other end.

“Did the Lady in Red give you any trouble?”

“Oh. Ollie. Hi.”

I keep my voice to a whisper, trying to avoid death stares from the people around me who are actually obeying the no-phone rule.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Caller ID? Swedish accent? Not exactly a hard code to crack.”

“Speaking of codes to crack…remember the pop-up escape room at the party?”

“No,” I answer. “I was working.”

“Right. Well, they left some free entry coupons behind for the staff. I thought since you didn’t get to experience it the other night while you were working , you should get first dibs on checking it out. What do you think?”

I don’t intend to answer his question with a question, but here we go.

“How’d you get my number?”

“From Mr. Macnider’s assistant.”

Of course he comes locked and loaded with a logical response. However, getting my number from the general manager’s assistant seems like a lot of effort for some coupons, I mentally note as he carries on.

“If you’ve never been to one, they are super fun. There’s a little bit of math, some science, and of course problem-solving.”

All of the things I love!

“Honestly, the escape room was one of the cooler things at the party this year,” he says, complete with a micro-dig and all.

“Anyway, they’ve got some availability tonight around seven. You should go.”

Tempted to borrow his line and claim that escape rooms aren’t really my thing , I instead decide to go with the truth as I nudge one spot closer in the line.

“While it’s incredibly kind of you to think of me in the same sentence as math, science, and problem solving, I’m sort of busy right now getting full-moon orders out.

Plus, I don’t really think this is something my sisters would want to go to and I’m pretty sure you need a bunch ofwilling and able people to do an escape room. ”

“The voucher is actually just for two people. And don’t worry. They’ll pair us with four others to make a group of six.”

Us?

“Wait,” I say. “Are you inviting me to do an escape room... with you ?”

“I am,” he says, debunking my interpretation that he was simply offering me a coupon I’d never use.

“I thought I told you small spaces make me nervous.”

“Yeah, but I’ll get us out,” he assures me.

After the person in front of me pays for her book of stamps, I’m officially next. Panicked they’ll send me to the back of line if they catch me breaking the cardinal cell phone rule, I have no choice but to take the path of least resistance to get off the phone ASAP.

“Fine. I’ll meet you there at seven.”

“How’d it go?” Liv asks when I slide back into the passenger seat of her car.

Neither of my sisters were willing to loan me their wheels to do my post-office run today, but Olivia offered to drive me. Considering her perfect-for-kids, three-row Honda Pilot basically sits dormant in her deeded garage spot, she figured her errands could include me today.

“Great. Where to now?” I ask, knowing that I’m her hostage while Nora’s kids are in school. “Trader Joe’s for some cookie butter?”

“I was thinking a manicure,” she says.

“Self-care,” I comment. “I love that for you.”

“This isn’t for me,” she says, peeling out onto a busy street called Ashland. “This is for you. You need a warm body that’s willing to hold your hand.”

“Is that some sort of dig about me being single? Because I probably won’t be for long.”

I’m not really in the mood to discuss it right now, but it feels good to say this out loud. Brody is on his way to Chicago, which means I’m basically one text or call away from getting my love life back on track.

“I could care less about who you’re seeing these days.

It’s more about what you’re seeing. And as your favorite older sister, I can’t in good faith let you walk around with the ability to flex your Exexveei muscle and have no clue what you’re doing with it.

So, you’re getting a mani and I’ll walk you through everything. ”

I hate to admit she’s right, but Liv has a point. I need palm-reading practice and a mani seems like an easy way to do this inconspicuously. A few minutes later, she parks the car in front of a nondescript nail place. Before we get out, she makes me swear I won’t mention any of this to Nora.

“Is she really going to be jealous we’re going to a manicure place without her?”

“It’s not about getting your nails done,” Liv explains. “She can’t know that I’m peripherally dabbling in this shit. We promised each other we’d swear it off. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

Liv holds out a pinky and forces me to hook mine with hers and seal the promise with a kiss.

“Can I help you?” a lady asks as we walk through the door. The smell of nail polish and acetone tickles my nostrils.

“She’d like a manicure,” Liv says, pointing to me.

“What kind?”

The lady gestures to a service menu on the wall.

Regular manicure, French manicure, Spa manicure, Russian manicure…the list goes on and on.

“What’s the Spa manicure ?” Liv asks about the most expensive option.

“It has an extra-long hand massage,” she says.

“Perfect. She’ll do that.”

I flash big eyes to Liv. Does she plan on paying for that upgrade?

“Pick a color,” the tech directs me. There must be two hundred color options on a wall lined with the little bottles of lacquer.

My eyes scan over all the shades of pinks and reds looking for something darker; black to be exact.

I find one that’s close—a dark gray with some sparkle in it, flip it over, and read the color name to myself: Every Little Thing She Does is Magic. That’ll do.

I have a seat across from the technician—whose name tag says “Lily”—and Liv sits in an empty chair next to me.

Lily starts by putting my nails in a shallow dish of warm soapy water. She assembles her tools on a white towel—a nail clipper, filer, buffer, cuticle scissor, etc.

“Could we just cut to the massage and polish?” Liv asks Lily.

“No file?”

“No file.”

“No cut?”

“No cut.”

“Just massage?”

“And polish,” I butt in. Liv may be hijacking this manicure, but I want to at least walk out of here with fancy-looking nails.

Lily excuses herself to fetch a bottle of hand lotion and I take this opportunity to remind Liv that perfectly trimmed cuticles and square shaped nails never hurt anyone.

“That’s not the reason you’re here,” she in turn reminds me. “This is about taking your twenty-sixth birthday present out for a test drive. And we need to get the car in gear. Got it?”

Lily sits back down and pumps some lotion into her hands, warming it first between her fingers.

“Just relax and focus,” instructs Liv . Ironically, that’sthe same thing I tell Nora’s kids when they have a stuck poop onthe toilet.

Lily grabs the tips of my fingers with her left hand, and uses her right hand to apply a glob of lotion to the top of mine.

“Anything?” Liv whispers.

“Nope.”

“Do your palms itch?

“Nah.”

“How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Okay, that means it’s fully hatched then.”

At that, I realize how bizarre this must all sound to Lily.

But then I remember that nail techs have to be sworn to some kind of secrecy with all of the tea a day-time housewife client probably spills.

Affairs, money issues, delinquent kids—those things are way more salacious and interesting than a little hocus-pocus . Right?

Lily goes on to work each finger. Then, she interlaces her fingers with mine and our palms connect as she squeezes down. My hand gets warm, but not itchy. My eyes shoot closed as a reflex.

“It’s happening,” Liv excitedly whisper-yells. “Keep your eyes closed.”

I want to explain to her how it feels like I couldn’t open them if I tried, but I’m sure she already knows how this goes.

I follow my sister’s direction and I see it. It’s a vision of Lily in her nail shop. She is opening a piece of mail. It’s a letter of some sort. She’s quiet as she reads it, but then tears up. I can’t tell if whatever is inside is happy news or sad news.

I try to stay tuned, but Lily moves on from my hand and works her way up my arm, massaging just below my elbow. The vision is gone. I open my eyes, resisting the urge to say out loud, “Hey, I was watching that!”

Instead, I ask—or rather, insist —“Can you do my left hand now?”

Liv smiles. I’m her little grasshopper.

Lily squeezes another pump of lotion. I hold out my left hand ready to pick up where I left off. As she grabs my hand, there’s a quick tingle as we touch and I close my eyes again.

To Lily, I look like I’m taking my relaxation to another level—zoning out and leaving all my worries aside. But to me, it’s quite the opposite. I’m using my full focus and the entirety of my brain power to concentrate. Hard.

“Zero in,” Liv coaches from the sideline.

I try to make sense of what I see now, which is an ecstatic Lily jumping up and down. She keeps looking at the letter in disbelief as happy tears stream down her face. Finally, she sets the letter down and picks up her cell phone.

“Mom? Good news,” I can hear her say into the phone.

But before I can find out what the scoop is, Lily moves on to my left arm, just below the elbow and the vision dissipates.

“It’s all good,” I say to Liv, resting back in my chair with a sense of relief.

She smiles and nods.

Confirming that I can see into the not-so-distant future when my palm touches another person’s palm (holy shit!), Liv excuses herself to take a call from Ted.

Lily eventually finishes up and moves me over to a UV drying station.

As I wait for the polish to set, I hear the chime on the front door of the nail salon ding.

For Lily’s sake, I hope it’s another customer—a more normal customer.

But it’s just the mail carrier. He walks in and places a stack of letters on top of the drying table that I’m sitting at and tells us to have a nice day.

The letter that’s on the top of the stack is level to my eyes. I don’t mean to spy, but I can see it’s from the University of Illinois Admissions Department. I marry the vision I had of her with the letter on the table.

Lily is sitting back in a chair looking bored and scrolling through her phone. She lifts her head up and catches me staring at her.

“You’re dry,” she says, eager to dismiss me.

I pull my hands out from under the UV light and take my time walking to the door, hoping Lily gets up to ravish the mail pile behind me but she doesn’t.

The suspense gets to me. I double back to the dryer, grab the letters myself, and march them over to Lily who can’t be bothered to look up from watching TikTok dances made from sound bites of presidential candidate gaffes.

“I think you should open the one on top,” I say, handing her the mail.

Lily looks down at the return address, then up at me. I smile at her and leave, allowing the moment I saw coming to play out.

“That. Was. Exhilarating,” I exclaim to Liv as I shut the passenger side door behind me.

“It’s kind of fun, isn’t it? What did you see?”

“It’s a letter from U of I. She got into college. That’s her mom she’s on the phone with now. See?”

We both peep through the windshield into the storefront and see an elated Lily jumping up and down with her cell phone pressed against her ear.

“Good work, Moonie,” Liv tells me as she puts a hand on my shoulder. It feels nice to have my perfectionist sister’sExexveei approval.

“But also, a little constructive feedback.”

I sigh. I guess it is Liv, after all.

“Next time, resist the urge to squeeze the other person’s hand back once you start to see the future. Contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t make the vision come in any clearer. It just makes the other person think you’re having trouble passing a fart.”

“Noted,” I say before asking: “Liv, is there really not one small part of you that wants to see if you still got it?”

She shrugs and says nothing.

“I have a question,” I say, picking back up the conversation. “What about us?”

“What do you mean?” Liv asks.

“Do we ever see ourselves as the star of the show? For instance, I touch Lily’s palm, and I see her open the envelope-of-her-dreams. How come when I rub my palms together, I don’t see shit?”

“It’s never about us, unfortunately.”

“Well why not?”

Liv shrugs again.

“Just one of those Exexveei things. Now remember, say nothing about this to Nora.”