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People called them seers back in the day. Seers graduated to fortune tellers, which in turn graduated to psychics. I don’t claim to be any of these things. I like to call my gift something along the déjà vu effect. I don’t see future events through spiritual powers or cards or a clear ominous ball.

I dream them, but I don’t remember the dreams until they’re playing out in real life, and then there’s that weird moment where I can tell you what someone is going to do or say before they do it. It’s almost like watching a car wreck, as I can’t do anything to stop it. This apparently includes falling in love.

Aside from knowing the immediate future via these déjà vu dream sequences, I live a relatively normal life. I’m in my third year of college, working as a barista at a small trendy coffee shop that the pretentious people call a café and the artsy people call home. I can play beer pong like a champ and still stumble into work at five in the morning, shooting back espressos until I feel the haze ebb away. I fight back the hangover with stale croissants (that are supposed to be thrown away but I find a better home for them in my belly) and interchanging intervals of chugging water and throwing back more coffee.

We have regulars and newbies who either become regulars or never step foot back inside. We have a guitar player during the day and poetry reads at night, and sometimes we even host a speakeasy night where you have to know the password in order to come in and enjoy an adult beverage. All this is to say that coffee sometimes enhances my déjà vu abilities, and working at a coffee shop might have been asking for trouble.

Tonight, we’ve forgone any sense of decorum, and closed the shop to celebrate my twenty first birthday. The speakeasy rules still apply, but only to weed out potential customers and ensure our true guests make it through. I recognize most everybody, save a few small clusters here and there that I figure must have been invited by someone else.

Not that it bothers me because I’m finally twenty one, and I can legally play beer pong. We push four of our two seater tables together to create one big table and line the solo cups on either side. Someone thought to get a keg, so the beer fills up nice and frothy.

I’m a rather small girl, and I think because of this, people underestimate my true talent at the game. I start off with my friend, Savannah, on my team and we play against two guys I sort of recognize. There’s smack talk of course, and a lot of “little girl” thrown my way. They promptly shut it after I land my third consecutive cup without even having to bounce the ball. The guys get their game faces on after this, their brows furrowed together in deep concentration, and I make some snotty comment asking if they can hurry it up because I’m getting thirsty.

A taller guy chuckles at my remark, sauntering up to the table, and the second my eyes lock on his, I see it. One of the guys is about to miss the shot, and the tall guy is going to push him aside to “show him how it’s done”. He’s going to make the cup directly in front of me and I’m going to say, “Finally!” all exasperated like, but in a show to impress him, I’m going to chug my beer down and dribble beer all over myself midchug.

I watch in mortification as everything starts to play out just as I saw it. The ball misses, tall guys pushes him aside, and makes it. I grab the cup with shaky hands, glancing back at tall guy, and I really don’t want to embarrass myself in front of someone so cute. Just his gaze on me flusters me, and my heart pounds in my ears as I bring the cup to my lips.

I decide against chugging it, hoping to change my fate. If I can stop from spilling beer all over myself, then I can keep up with the game, and maybe lure tall guy into a conversation. I’ve never seen him before, but something about him makes me want to see him again and again.

I sip at the beer, keeping my eyes locked on his, and as I drink the beer, he is in turn drinking me in. My eyes lower to the white inside of my cup, and I’m relieved that I can see part of the bottom. Almost done and no embarrassing dribble in sight.

A lot of movies claim that the future is everchanging and that no one can truly know the future because it constantly changes due to our actions. And while this may be true, there are some things that are going to happen no matter what you do.

For instance, though I am cautiously sipping my beer, looking like a complete ninny I might add, someone backs into Savannah and Savannah stumbles back into my arm and that arm just happens to be holding my beer. The last gulp of beer in the cup runs up my nose, and I sputter, spraying and coughing beer all over the place. And that last gulp in my cup winds up all down my chest, seeping into the front of my shirt. This might have been more embarrassing.

The guys laugh, this includes cute, mesmerizing tall guy, and with a mortified yelp, I race away towards the bathroom, pushing through the oblivious crowd. The bathroom has one toilet, and I’m happy for the quiet sanctuary. My reflection in the mirror isn’t as pathetic as I imagined, but not my best. Thankfully not my worst either. I grab a fistful of paper towels and dab at my chest, squeezing my shirt in the wetter places in an ill attempt to soak up as much beer as possible.

A knock on the door startles me and I roll my eyes at my reflection. Savannah has finally come to console me and hopefully save me from this literal mess. I open the door with a flourish, opening my mouth to scold her for taking so long, but a long groan escapes me instead as tall guy smirks down at me.

He pushes his way in and closes the door, and it’s so hot in here. Was it this hot before? He asks if I’m okay, if I need help. I don’t know what to say. He takes my silence in stride, holding out his hand and saying, “My name is Art, by the way.” I think how the name is weird and slightly bougie, but it also fits him, and I run his name through my head, placing it in various sentences.

I’m in the mood for Chinese, Art. Should I wear the red or black sweater, Art? I’d love to meet your mother, Art. Hey, Art, remember when we met and I totally embarrassed myself? I shake my head and introduce myself back. He says my name as if he’s flavoring wine. “Chloe. I like it.”

He sits me up on the sink, and grabs more paper towels before fisting chunks of my hair in the stiff paper and squeezing the strands dry. We talk as he helps clean me up, and the more he talks, the more I forget about why we’re locked inside a sweltering bathroom with crumpled paper towels littered at his feet.

When I reveal that it’s my birthday, he says, “So, you’re the birthday girl.” He smiles down at me, moving my hair behind my ears. “I didn’t bring a present, but I can think of something to give you.”

He leans forward, as if to measure my reaction. I give a little nod, and close my eyes the moment his lips press against mine. It’s like a revelation, his kiss. I get another wave of déjà vu, but it’s unlike any that I’ve ever had.

I see little scenes of us play against the insides of my closed eyelids. Me, passing out on the sofa out front, in Art’s arms. I see us at dinner, him leaning forward to give me a taste of his shrimp. We’re kissing at my door, and I pull him inside. He gives me flowers at my graduation before dropping down on one knee.

He starts to pull away, but I shake my head and thread my fingers through his hair, urging him to kiss me longer. I have to see more of this. I want to see more. He doesn’t fight it, and instead wraps his arms around me to hold me closer.

I see our beach wedding, and two blonde headed kids, and a dog that makes a mess of our house. I see the fights, the bills balled up in his fists as he shakes them in the air. I see our make ups, and this makes me blush. Our kids grow. The dog dies. Graduations, weddings, baby showers, grand kids. I see Art, an aged man, holding my hand as we sit side by side on a porch swing.

The door knob rattles, and I pull away with a gasp. Art works to catch his breath, and he runs a hand through his blonde hair, hair our children will have. I touch my lips as he opens the door, unable to make sense of everything I just saw. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I’ve only relived the immediate future, not the entire rest of my life.

Someone on the other side complains she has to pee, and Art reaches back for my hand. I stare down at it for a minute. The future changes with our actions. Some things happen no matter what we do, but others happen by choice. Art glances back at me, and says my name with a bright smile.

“You coming?”

I look back down at his hand and lick my lips. They still taste like him and beer, and I can’t help but remember how fate brought me here despite myself. I jump off the sink and rub my hands on my jeans, hoping they aren’t too clammy with my nerves. It’s not every day that you knowingly step into your forever.