Page 4

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I had been out of college for almost two years and had done nothing with my teaching degree—unless you count pulling a macaroni noodle out of my nephew’s nose for the fourth time in a month as furthering the youth of America.

That’s when an unquenchable thirst to move as far away as possible suddenly hit me the way puberty clobbers a pre-teen seemingly overnight.

Not well-versed enough in art for the east coast, but not carb-averse enough for Los Angeles, I came across an article about San Diego.

It’s not really known for anything—not tech, not fashion, not entertainment.

Just…tacos and surfing. That was, and still is, my speed: tacos and surfing.

And once I found out OB’s unofficial slogan was No Bad Days , I knew this was the neighborhood for me.

Nora and Olivia were sad when I told them I was moving.

Probably because Nora was losing affordable childcare and Olivia hadn’t yet recovered from our mom, June, also heading westward.

When I was twenty, my mom retired from her job as a teacher and sold her longtime Lincoln Park condo for a spot in sunny Sedona , Arizona where she could work on her art among other retirees.

I don’t see or hear from her as much as I would like, but my sisters and I agree she deserves to be tied up in her hobbies during this time of her life.

As for my dad? Like I said, I don’t really keep up with him. My parents divorced when I was three, after he left my mom for another woman and married her. I hope his life in affluent suburbia being married to a contract attorney with no kids is absolutely wonderful.

So the same day I pulled my U-Haul into the driveway of Gerda’s beach house, I walked up and down the main road, Newport Avenue, looking for a place I could submit a job application.

My savings were only going to go so far—I needed to get a job.

Sure, I had bachelor’s degree in elementary education but I didn’t move to the ocean and perpetual warmth to be stuck inside a classroom all day.

That’s when I stumbled across Joe n’ Flow—an open-air yoga studio on the second floor of a coffee shop facing the pier—and the sign in the window they had posted for a full-time studio attendant.

Someone to check people in when they arrived for class, and disinfect blocks when they left. I could do that, I thought to myself.

The shop owner, a well-known yogi named Gavin who looks like Matthew McConaughey’s younger brother, found my Midwestern accent and penchant for thick-crust pizza endearing and hired me on the spot.

He agreed to pay me above minimum wage and give me as many hours as the busy studio could legally provide.

I’ve been here ever since, holding down the most Zen fort that ever was.

The best part? Well, there’s a lot of best parts, actually.

The fact that I can constantly hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore like a metronome—that’s one.

The fact that any combination of leggings and a sports bra is my work uniform—that’s another.

“Good morning, Moonie .”

If Yasmin wasn’t a regular yogi here, I would have done a double take and mistaken her for Jessica Alba.

I don’t know how someone in athleisure can be a vision of beauty, but she looks like a goddess every time she walks through the door.

Today, she’s in a tangerine-colored tank top and matching biker shorts—the color emphasizes her perfect, pore-less skin.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I say with a detectable level of sarcasm. “I like your ensemble. Flashy.”

“It’s called color . You should try it some time,” she says back with her own detectable level of sarcasm. I look down at my outfit—it’s the moody teenager version of hers—black bike shorts and oversized black t-shirt. Then I think to myself: I’m good.

Yasmin takes the 11:30am Vinyasa II every day and routinely arrives about a half hour before class starts.

Most people arrive with five minutes to spare, but not Yas.

She needs more time to settle in—“To absorb the vibe of the day and the space,” as she once explained.

I observe this as the mere act of chatting with me.

However, her interpretation of it is becoming one with the energy of her surroundings.

Nonetheless, we’ve accumulated hundreds of hours over the last two years just shooting the shit and getting to know one other.

I’ll forever be impressed that she made her money being a crisis public relations guru for some of Hollywood’s biggest stars and now spends her days practicing yoga in the mornings and being a floating sommelier across many of San Diego’s nicest restaurants at night.

It’s a career path unlike any other, but when you’re semi-retired by the age of forty, why not flex your hand as a Jill-of-All-Trades?

What this queen sees in a friendship with me—the twenty-something yoga studio attendant with a nasally accent that sometimes makes an appearance when I say the word ‘sausage’?

I’ll never know. But I like her, I trust her, and I’m grateful such a badass is my best friend here.

“One for me, one for you,” she says, setting a coffee cup from the shop downstairs on the counter and sliding it my way. “Happy birthday.”

“You remembered,” I say.

“I tend not to forget when my best friends complete another lap around the sun.”

Only Yas would turn a simple birthday into something celestial.

“Twenty-six, right? Ugh, such a great age. You don’t even need a night-time serum yet,” she explains.

“Just a place to live!” I exclaim.

“What are you talking about?”

“My landlord is ending my lease. It’s a whole thing. I don’t really want to get into it right now. Matcha latte?” I ask, bringing the coffee cup closer to my nose for a sniff.

“Café con leche. Well, oat leche, if we’re being honest. Take a sip.”

It tastes like holiday cheer in a biodegradable cup. How have I never heard of this before?

“It’s so good,” I say.

“I know, right? But if my Abuelita Sarita knew I ordered these with oat milk, there’d be hell to pay.

I can just hear it now—the screen door slamming behind her followed by the shrill of her voice as she frantically waves a pot of warm cow’s milk in front of my face like she’s got a time sensitive organ transplant in tow.

Too bad lactose intolerance is a concept lost on my Abuelita.

Oh well. At least I got the ‘extra cinnamon’ part right. ”

Just then, my phone chimes on the counter—a nice reminder I forgot to put it on silent. I quickly switch the sound off, as I read the text.

“Who’s that from?” Yas asks.

“Brody. He’s just wishing me a—”

I pause as I stare at the screen.

“A happy birthday? What a sweetie.”

“More like a happy breakup , I think. Can you translate this?”

I hand Yas my phone. She sets down her large, circular, turquoise blue-framed sunglasses on the counter for a better read.

“ Moons. Been fun. But can’t jam solo with you anymore. No hard feelings, ” Yas spouts off slowly before sliding me back my phone.

“Been fun?” I paraphrase in utter disbelief.

“Sorry, mama.”

I like that Yas calls me mama—even though the only thing I’ve ever been a mother to was my three-legged foster dog from the San Diego Humane Society.

“Well that’s fucking great,” I say with the enthusiasm of a high schooler finding out they have pop quiz in chemistry.

“Were you guys serious?” she asks.

Good question.

The first time we shared a platter of fish tacos (okay, maybe it was the bucket of Coronas), I accidentally confessed that “dating a guy named Brody” was on my unofficial California Bucket List. He then burst my bubble, confessing something equally as cringe: that his agent said he’d be much more marketable as a semi-pro surfer with a cooler name than what he was born with: Kevin .

I asked him if he wanted me to call him “Kevin”—even just in private—since that might introduce a level of authenticity to the burgeoning relationship.

He declined, saying he’d appreciate it if I could just keep the Brody-schtick going.

The next day, his agent emailed me an NDA.

That’s when I knew things with Brody/Kevin were probably going nowhere, but couldn’t bear to admit it.

“I guess not,” I say, unable to recall if I ever sent the NDA back. “But a part of me wanted to see what a surfer boy would get a Chicago girl for her birthday.”

“Sand fleas,” says Yas. “But if you want to see what a Cali boss gets a Chi-town babe for her birthday, it’s this…”

Yas takes out an envelope from her purse—a modest black leather Burberry, because this is San Diego, where people still have money but don’t need the Chanel Cs tattooed on their foreheads—and pushes it my way. It says For Moonie on the front in black marker.

I slide my finger under the seal as Yas narrates “A little something-something for the birthday girl.”

I was expecting an overpriced Papyrus card—the kind you feel guilty throwing away a week after your birthday has passed—but instead, inside is a single piece of white cardstock. I slip it out and give it a read.

This card entitles MOONIE MILLER to ONE PALM READING SESSION with Esther Higgins.

Appointment is required. No cancellations. Gratuity expected.

Late Policy: DON’T BE.

I look up and see a wide-eyed Yas. I wonder if “Thanks, but no thanks,” is an appropriate reaction.

“Oh. A palm reader,” I say in that same unsure tone as when you open a pair of socks for Christmas in front of your extended family.

“Not just any palm reader. Esther Higgins . She’s renowned.”

Renowned is good. Renowned means busy. Renowned means I won’t be able to get that required appointment any time soon. So, I can just file this away on the shelf in my closet where all the other non-returnable bad presents go to die.

“But the real gift is that I was able to get you an appointment with her tonight at 8pm,” she adds.