Deadly Little Lessons by Laurie Faria Stolarz

the park. Three days in a row now. This is obviously his routine. He likes to come here on his coffee breaks, have a bite and get a smoke, and then go back to work two streets over.
    It feels weird keeping tabs on someone I don’t even know, some guy I’ve never met before, but psychometry does that to you. It gets you up close and personal in other people’s business whether you want it to or not.
    So far, I know what this guy drives (a Ford pickup with a dented fender); where he likes to hang out (here, Tidy’s Bar, and Village Billiards); and that he works in construction doing odd jobs.
    I almost wish that I didn’t know any of it, almost wish that I’d never made a pit stop here as I was passing through town, that I’d never accidentally brushed up against him in line that day and gotten that sudden shock. For the record, I haven’t sensed something that intense in months.
    We’d been standing in line at the pretzel cart. He stumbled back as he fished in his pocket. In doing so, he bumped into me, which isn’t easy. I always keep a good distance from people; I like my personal space and then some. But he managed to collide with me anyway, stepping right on my feet.
    That’s when I got dizzy. It’s also when I sensed his plans for later that day and found myself struggling to stay upright.
    He was going to head home, drink some more, and then smack his girlfriend across the face. I could see his finger marks on her skin. The image was fleeting, but I was able to see that she had blond hair, brown eyes, and a tattoo of a cross on her neck. Quite a bit of detail, but still not nearly enough to know who she was, or where to find her.
    A
fter the guy stumbled, he looked at me and slurred out a “Sorry,” but an apology was the last thing on my mind, because there was so much more going on than what I’d sensed about his girlfriend.
    It’s hard to explain. I mean, I sense stuff all the time. As much as I try to avoid colliding with people, it happens. And every time I do, I see stuff that I’d rather not know about.
    But this was different—like a bolt of lightning striking inside my head, nearly knocking me to the ground. My pulse started racing and I felt my face flash hot, and in that moment, as screwed-up as it may sound, I almost felt as if we were supposed to bump into each other, as if it might somehow impact my life.
    “Don’t do it,” I told him, referring to his afternoon plans for his girlfriend. The response was more impulsive than smart.
    “Huh?” he asked. A goofy grin crossed his face.
    I didn’t know what to say, so I walked away, which got me a night full of restless sleep, unable to blot out those finger marks, and unable to stop myself from guessing the reason his touch had made me feel like that.
    I sink back in my seat, feeling chills run over my skin. The author of this blog seems to know exactly how I feel—haunted, confused, alone, responsible. I search the page, curious about Neal’s contact info—if there might be a link to e-mail him or post a comment. But I don’t see either option.
    “Hey, there,” Dad says, poking his head into my room. “Do you have a minute?”
    I go offline just as he walks in.
    “Kimmie phoned while you were out,” he says, without waiting for my response. “She said she’d tried to get you on your cell, but that you didn’t pick up.”
    “Oh, right.” I nod, remembering the missed call at the studio. “I need to call her back.” As well as Adam and Wes. “Did she happen to also mention her internship in New York this summer?” I ask, wondering if I should broach the topic about going away.
    Dad barely shakes his head before taking a seat on my bed. “How did your appointment with Dr. Tylyn go?” he asks.
    “Fine. I mean, helpful. But, she didn’t seem at all surprised by the news.”
    “A good therapist never shows surprise.”
    “I guess,” I say, still suspecting there may be more to it than just a good poker face.
    “So,