Page 34

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I’ve been steadily seeing Ollie for a few months now—seeing all parts of him, except for our future, thank god.

That’s right. So long as I have my smudge spray on, I’ve remained vision-free, even when our fingers are interlaced and he’s pinning down my hands while rounding third base.

Even though there has been a deliberate pause on my future visions with him, my new favorite hobby is replaying the past moments of him making his way between my legs on loop.

Suffice to say, dating an engineer might be my biggest lifehack to date.

He, himself, said that engineers have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

I have to believe that every time we intertwine bodies, it’s his version of studying the inner workings of my…

inner workings. And let’s just say, he is acing the test.

There’s a secret meet-up today for people like you, an incoming text from Angeline says as I’m just barely out of bed for the day. I rub the sleepy junk out of my eyes and read it again before replying.

What do you mean ‘people like me’?

People who have a little something extra going on. I promised that I’d keep my feelers out for someone else who was special like you. Well, I finally found him.

Him? I ask. Up until now, I assumed only females experienced Exexveei.

Yes. His name is Nate. He came through the shop this morning to get some supplies and mentioned the meet-up. Nice German guy, if you’re considering collecting stamps…

I press send on an eye-roll emoji and let the face speak for itself.

Either way…might be nice to meet a fellow Exexveei’er.

I don’t know about that. True, on one hand, it’d be nice to know I’m not alone—especially since neither of my sisters practice anymore.

If I find someone else with the same gift, I could compare notes, ask questions, bring up concerns.

But on the other hand, I’ve made it this far being a one woman show and have developed a bit of notoriety along with it, thanks to social media.

The last thing I want is for people at this meet-up to see me, put two-and-two together, realize I have palm reading/future-seeing abilities, and out my secret abilities to the world.

Or worse, try to join forces. Nate and I don’t need to be the Donny & Marie of the woo-woo world.

Still, the desire to feel less alone in all this wins over.

Where is it? I ask back.

Bohemian National Cemetery. 2pm.

Why, oh why, does this have to be at a cemetery?

Thanks. I’ll think about it, I type back.

I set my phone back down on the nightstand.

It isn’t lost on me that besides Angeline, Ollie, and my sisters, nobody really texts me these days.

Yas was my best friend in San Diego, but with time and distance, our digital chats are slowing down.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to roll-up at the cemetery with no expectations and walk away with a few new friends?

After all, there could come a time when an apprentice is needed at Moon Batch Apothecary.

Someone to roll up their sleeves, literally, and make a batch of potion.

After all, Angeline recently told me her days of bending over a tub are over, unless George Clooney is involved, of course.

I quickly google how to get to Bohemian National, knowing that both of my sisters aren’t likely to loan me their cars to go hang out in a cemetery with some strangers for the afternoon.

The route shows quite the combination of trains and buses and a bit of walking, but if I leave now, and dress warmly enough, I can make it just in time for the start of the meet up.

Donning a slouchy black beanie, a puffy coat, and big sunglasses, I arrive at the massive limestone gatehouse of the Bohemian National Cemetery shortly after 2pm.

For the end of January, it’s actually a crisp, sunny day in the mid-forties.

Apocalyptic for Southern California, but patio weather for Chicago.

I double check that location-services are off on my phone before heading in. I don’t need my followers to check my Snapchat geolocation and see that I’m spending my downtime roaming a haunted graveyard.

Yes, I said haunted. In googling how to get here, I came across a cheeky little article saying many people have reported feeling like someone was near them here, but then turned to see no one at all.

It could be that the victims of the greatest maritime disaster of Chicago are all buried here and their spirits haunt the grounds, but instead of repeatedly checking over my shoulder, I choose to look straight ahead where a giant Cubs-themed burial site catches my eye.

Apparently, some super-fan splurged on decking out this section of the cemetery, complete with a row of original seats from Wrigley Field.

If it wasn’t so morbid, I’d say this would be a great place for a picnic.

But, instead it’s the perfect spot for a woo-woo weirdo meet-up.

“Hi! Are you here for the secret meet-up?” a guy about my age in a cute maroon shacket cheerfully asks the closer I get to the memorial.

“Ummm, maybe?” I say. “Are you Nate by chance?”

“I am.”

I breathe a little easier knowing I’ve found the right person and the right place.

Speaking of the person, I’m a little peeved Angeline left out the fact that Nate is quite the looker.

A little shorter than Ollie, with dark hair and eyes, Nate gives off serious Penn Badgley vibes.

Here’s to hoping he’s nothing like his serial killer character on YOU.

“So youknow Angeline?” I ask, figuring it doesn’t hurt to add one more layer of verification, given the circumstances.

“I met her this morning. She’s great. Her shop is awesome. She has quite the crystal collection. It was hard not to bag one of everything.”

As Nate adds some color as to how he knows our mutual friend, I realize how nice it is to connect with someone—especially a man—who just immediately gets it.

So far, the closest I’ve come is Mr. Macnider, who is a nice guy, but I probably wouldn’t hang out in a cemetery with him.

Otherwise, my experiences with Chicago men have essentially just been with slow-burn Ollie and off-his-rocker Antonio—neither of whom were the definition of “readily accepting.”

“So this secret meet up…it’s for special people?”

“We prefer the term magical ,” he says.

I look beyond Nate and count ten people.

Ten people who are just like me. Ten people who have a gift.

This is, by all accounts, an MPA meet-up: Magical People Anonymous.

I’m delighted to be here, but definitely feel like I should have brought a box of donuts and a jug of coffee for my fellow counterparts.

“Forgive me,” Nate says. “But who are you?”

“Moonie Miller.”

“I know your name, silly. We all follow you on social media. My girlfriend has one of your candles. I meant: who are you being today? Are you Bella from Twilight ?” Nate’s brown eyes get big in anticipation of my answer.

“No…”

“Lara Croft?”

I shake my head, no.

“Someone from X-Men ?”

Before I have a chance to decline yet again, Nate’s girlfriend comes into frame.

“Ready, babe? It’s time to suit up. The games are about to begin.”

“Have fun today, Moonie . I look forward to seeing your costume, whatever it may be.”

At that, Nate tosses a thick black cape over his shoulders and ties it around his neck before trotting away.

Distracted by Nate’s impromptu outfit change, I fail to realize the people behind him have also suited up.

The girls are in full-blown renaissance attire—puffy ornate frocks with big, colorful hats.

The boys are wearing everything from chainmail shirts to full-face medieval knight armor.

They have shields and what I hope are just prop swords.

“Hello, M’lady. I’m Sir Wellington Gables. Welcome to Ambrosia,” a guy says to me as he takes a seat on the ground to lace up a pair of tattered black boots.

“I thought this was…Bohemian National Cemetery?”

“Shhh,” he says, holding his pointer finger up to his lips. “The clock has started. This is now the mythical land of Ambrosia for the next two hours. Are you getting into character, or what?”

“I…I don’t think I’m following.”

“Is this your first time or something?”

Before I have a chance to ask “first time doing what ?”, Sir Wellington Gables grabs his nearby shield and sword and hops to his feet. He yells “Tally-ho!” and charges toward Nate and the other guys.

The only thing more difficult to escape right now would be getting out of a stuck elevator. Except in that situation, I could call Ollie for an out. Here, I’m alone. Or am I…

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” an out-of-breath Angeline asks as she emerges from between two giant headstones.

“It never rang,” I say, taking it out of my purse to investigate. Turns out when I went to shut off location services, I accidentally put the whole thing on airplane mode. Whoops.

“I was trying to warn you,” she says, clutching her hand to her chest. “This isn’t the secret meet-up I was thinking it was going to be.”

“You don’t say.”

I gesture toward the graveyard where Nate is now “playing dead” while his girlfriend sobs, tending to his fake abdominal stab wound.

“Nate and I started following each other on social media after he left my shop this morning. Then I saw he posted a picture of him and his girlfriend’s costumes and tagged it with the caption, ‘Excited for an afternoon full of LARPing.’”

“What is LARPing?”

“Live Action Role Playing. It’s like acting out a video game in real life.

You see, I realized him purchasing a goblet from me wasn’t for potion like my intuition thought.

Turns out, it was for his girlfriend’s costume.

See her over there drinking from it? She’s supposed to be an heiress to a fictional vineyard called Ambrosia.

Per Nate’s post, the story is, Ambrosia is under attack by rival villains who want the land to build luxury castles. ”

“So, this isn’t a meet-up for people with Exexveei?”

“Not at all. This is a hardcore LARP sesh.”

“Next question: how the hell do we get out of here?”

“It won’t be easy,” she confesses. “But pretending we’re elves is probably going to be part of it. And unfortunately, that’s not the only slightly-uncomfortable thing I’m going to have to ask of you this fine afternoon.”

“I cannot do a Scottish accent, Angeline.”

“This is a favor outside of Ambrosia. Back in the real world, I’m trying to enhance my Reiki certifications—take things to the next level. But I need to practice on a very specific subject.”

After that, she grabs my arm and we dart behind another headstone—playing Frogger as we inconspicuously excuse ourselves from the medieval times.

“Meaning?” I keep my voice hushed, so as not to give up our location.

“A male.”

“Well, I’m sure your new best friend Nate is available.”

“A male skeptic ,” she further clarifies.

Instantly, I know she’s talking about Ollie.

“I don’t know. I mean…”

“Please, Moonie. I need him at my shop tomorrow morning, 10am. All the men I know are full-fledged woo-woo. Don’t make me take out Craigslist ad. I have a feeling it’ll end up with me being chopped up into pieces and you being interviewed by Dateline as the last person who saw me alive.”

With that visual in mind, I agree to ask Ollie but make no promises.