Page 40

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

“It’s too quiet in here,” I say the next morning, surprised to see Nora already sitting on her behemoth couch watching Ina Garten make an arrabiata sauce on TV. “Where are the boys?”

With that intel, I am even more grateful Nora passed on my suggestion to stay at TheBrockmeier.

“What about you? You’re up early,” Nora notices.

“I just got back from the post office. I had a ton of Valentine’s orders to ship,” I say, semi-wondering if my sister is the least bit jealous that I’ve managed to make a legitimate business out of a skill she has, too.

“Did you have a guy over last night?” she abruptly changes the subject and suddenly my stomach hurts. Her tone of voice is omniscient. This house is wired with smart-this and smart-that. I cringe at the thought of what hidden cameras might have picked up what footage—not to mention, sound. Oof.

“Tell me more about your journey of becoming a stay-at-home-mom-turned-private-investigator, why don’t you?” I disguise my fear in a thick layer of sarcasm and wait for her to show her cards and admit what she thinks she knows.

“Well, there’s a large Lou Malnati’s pizza box in the recycle bin. Along with a bottle of wine. That’s the work of two people, not one.”

“You’re half right,” I say, breathing a bit easier. “I had help with the pizza. Not the wine, though. That one was all me. And before you say anything, I’ll replace it, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, her tone genuine for once. “I’d want to drink a whole bottle of pinot grigio myself too if I had the kind of night you did. Oh,Moonie. Just know, these things happen. Call it the downside of being a special woman in a normal girl’s world.”

Wait. How does she know what happened with Ollie?

I know she has one of those motion detecting doorbells, so the most she could have seen was him leave fairly abruptly and on his own—there was no romantic goodbye kiss between the two of us on her doorstep to play back on her phone.

Our break up, or break down—whatever you want to call it—happened in her bathroom for the most part.

She would have to have been a fly on the wall in there to see the Ollie-Moonie demise.

Cameras— with sound —in her bathroom is my only guess, but that seems like a bit much, even for Nora’s neurotic personality.

“Thanks,” I say, too tired to dig any deeper. As long as she isn’t scolding me for having sex in her guestroom, then I decide to leave well enough alone for now.

“The good news is, the boys are starting indoor soccer, so if you’re needing money, I could pay you to pick them up from school, take them there, and sit around for a few hours. Lord knows I don’t have the mental bandwidth to make small talk with soccer moms three nights a week.”

“What are you talking about if I’m needing money? I’m busier than I’ve ever been, Nora. Did you not hear me say I just shipped a ton of MBA orders this morning?”

“Isn’t that the reason you hit the bottle?” she asks. “All that witchy-woman work drama?”

As much as I am relieved to not be talking about boy-problems with my sister, I still have no idea what we’re actually talking about. For the sake of clarity, I concede first.

“I chugged the wine to numb the fact that a guy I was really into apparently decided to skip the weird-girl fetish after all. Am I missing something else?”

Nora turns off the TV and sits up straight.

“Yes. You are. Where’s your phone?”

“On the charger in my bedroom.”

“When was the last time you checked it?” There’s a seriousness in her voice that scares me.

“Last night. Maybe 10pm? It died and I was too tipsy to plug it in before bed. Why, what’s going on? Nora, you’re freaking me out.”

“Come. Sit down.”

I make my way over to the pristine, cream-colored couch that I’m sure costs as much as Matteo’s first year of college.

I’ve got a full cup of freshly-ejected K-cup coffee in my hand and a hint of the shakes from a hangover starting to sneak up on me.

If she’s actually inviting me to sit next to her, without telling me to ditch my cup, then she’s taking pity on me.

Whatever she’s about to share must be pretty bad.

I watch over her shoulder as she navigates on her phone to Windy City Today’s homepage and holds up her screen. I read the headline out loud slowly: “ Shereé Jackson and Bryson Porter Announce Split .”

Nora scrolls down, I continue reading the subhead.

After dream wedding, couple seeks annulment.

“What?!”

“Yup. He had an affair with a Luvabull.”

“A what?”

“Some cheerleader for the Chicago Bulls.”

“Oh my god. I have to message her. I have to check on her. She must be devastated.”

“Well, she is. But I don’t think she wants to hear from you . No offense.”

Nora taps her screen a couple more times to pull up Instagram—Shereé’s account to be exact—then hands me her phone. This time, I look at the post—a picture of my company logo with a big red X through it—and read the caption to myself in silence.

SCAM ALERT: As you all know, I allowed a stranger to perform something called crystal therapy on me last fall.

This stranger ended up being@MoonieMiller and the so-called “crystal therapy” ended up being bogus.

See, after she worked her FAUX-CUS POCUS on me, my dream wedding date and venue opened up.

I was quick to give Moonie all the credit and tell the world to support her as I signed a contract for a million-dollar wedding.

Later I discovered thatMoonie Miller has a so-called secret power to see the future by touching other people’s palms. Friends, she NEVER touched MY palm.

If she did, she would have knownBryson and I were not going to work out.

She would have told me about his ongoing secret affair.

She would have advised me to break off the engagement the very day I met her.

Instead, she did nothing but bamboozle me with some colored rocks, pushing me into this heartbreaking, embarrassing fate.

Why wouldn’t she just read my palm? Was I not worthy?

Was she jealous of my relationship? My social media fame?

The only logical explanation is that she has no special powers, whatsoever, at all.

So to you all—my beloved, loyal fans and followers—I say this: stay far, far away from Moon Batch Apothecary products and unfollow @MoonieMiller NOW.

In her bio, she has the audacity to claim she’s “Chicago’s Favorite Witch.

” But in reality, she’s just “Chicago’s Most Conniving Bitch. ”

“Most. Conniving. Bitch,” I say, utterly dumbfounded by my new Shereé-assigned title. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“I didn’t realize you were telling people about your Exexveei,” Nora says. “Let alone someone with as much social media power as @sheree_in_the_city. Seems a little reckless, Moonie.”

“I haven’t told anyone! Just you guys, Angeline, and Ollie are the only ones who know about it.”

“Ollie? I’m assuming that’s your lover boy. And I’m also assuming that you told him about Exexveei last night and it didn’t go so well.”

I nod, thinking maybe her detective skills are actually somewhat legit.

“Shocking. Have you not learned anything from Mom, Liv, and I? Boys can’t handle this kind of a thing.”

“Nora, now is not the time for this told-you-so bullshit.”

She pauses.

“So was it Angeline or Ollie that snitched on you to Shereé?”

“I don’t think either. They wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes…no…I don’t know. God, I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Is that why you wrote that you were a witch in your Instagram bio? Because that shit is bonkers.”

Nora has never been shy about sharing her two cents.

“Fucking Shereé, man. She damn-near strong-armed me into changing my bio at the Bucktown Holiday Market. Some bullshit about it being what her followers were expecting to see. Plus, she said it would be good for my business. I figured with what she had done to launch Moon Batch Apothecary into the throes of success, I better just do what she said.I think I’m going to call Mom,” I announce.

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not? She’d know what to do. She’s been here before.”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t call her. She’s been there…and she doesn’t want to go back.Seriously, Moonie. It would be very triggering to her if you burden her with all this.”

I’ve never wanted to be more of a “normal girl” than I do right now. A normal girl who doesn’t have ‘witchy drama.’ A normal girl who can actually speed dial her mom with her problems. A normal girl whose life isn’t imploding one Instagram (un)follower at a time.

“I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ve got to turn my phone on and deal with all this.”

The golf-ball sized lump in my throat puts a tone of dread in my voice that even I’ve never heard before.

“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.