I receive immediate replies: some asking for more information on the tea, some calling me out for MLM scheming, some asking for nudes. Even when the interaction isn’t positive, at least people are responding. People remember me. Right at this very moment, while they type their comments, they’re thinking about me.

“There.” I toss my phone aside. “Now I can spend the rest of the night hating my life.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

I jump off the couch, entire body vibrating with a bloodcurdling shriek. A man wearing a sweater with blinking red and green lights sewn into it is standing in Eileen’s living room. “Get out!” I yell. “Get out of my house! How’d you sneak through my alarm system?” I really could not explain why this is one of the first things I shout. I don’t even have an alarm system.

He flinches. Holds up a tentative finger. “But you . . .”

“What are you, a stalker? One of my fans?” Maybe I’m still drunk, and right now I’m yelling at some guy on my television screen.

But he looks real. He could be a detective, or a real estate agent. No! Anything but a real estate agent! I start throwing things. My G. Label x Tabitha Simmons Heli Sandals. My Alexis Steelwood Charcuterie Board. Even my Stinson Studios Natural Oak Serving Bowl, 14”. The charcuterie board cracks him over the knee, and he jerks to gape at it, then me. When the serving bowl goes flying, he’s prepared for it, and with a twist of his hand, the bowl rebounds seconds before making contact with his chest. It lands on the floor at my feet, cracking into three pieces.

I shriek again. “My bowl!”

“I’m sorry—I—”

I hurl the pieces at him and he does that thing again, waving his hand to halt their travel in midair without physically touching them. I stare at his hand, beginning to reexamine this situation from a different angle than “but what about my bowl.”

“Please don’t do that,” he entreats politely.

“Was that . . .” I sputter. “Are you . . .”

“Telekinetic, yes,” he replies as I say, “Jesus.”

He pauses, eyebrows lifting. “Ah, no, I am not Jesus. I am Hall!” He smiles broadly, which forces me to take proper notice of his brilliant smile, deep smile lines bracketing his mouth. Then I notice other details, like his mop of chestnut brown hair, olive skin with a dash of freckles, and long lashes framing green eyes. Arrestingly green, like my fake posts for verdIgRIS Tea results. They’re the clearest jade I’ve ever seen. I’d peg him as in his midtwenties, with boyish good looks and good humor that I find suspicious.

“Do you not remember me?” His face falls, hand landing squarely over his heart. All of the blinking red and green lights on his sweater start flickering. “Oh, no! But that makes me so sad! I remember absolutely, wonderfully everything about how we met. I put it all down here! For posterity!” He plucks a large red book from somewhere behind him and flips to the first page. It features a Polaroid of the two of us, me sprawled on the couch unconscious, eyeliner and mascara smudged. He’s giving the camera a thumbs-up and a happy, lopsided grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s a tight race, but I think the most alarming aspect here is that I can see both of his hands in the picture.