Define Reality: Psychic [Part One]

The psychic had confidence. Even when the morning talk show hosts accused her of scamming fans, Priscilla Kenzie never lost her dignified composure. She looked about mid-thirties, long brown hair tied back, her frame slender in her long skirt and tunic blouse. No one in the studio audience dared make a sound while she politely defended herself against her hosts, and presumably, the thousands of skeptics watching from home.

"Contrary to what you insinuated, I'm not here to deceive your viewing audience. I do these interviews for the fans who encourage me to share my gift. Many find hope because of it. I do not wish to offend, or feel offended by, those who reject it. Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs."

Her eloquent rationale defied the theatrical psychic stereotype. Ms. Kenzie didn't act like a whacked-out wannabe hippie, and the audience bought it.

Fiona Samuels wrote these observations down on her tablet computer using a stylus pen. Keeping her attention on the hotel room's television, she could take notes in her personal shorthand, then print copies from the rented wireless printer. After that it would be hole-punched and filed in a binder with dozens of similar notes. She'd researched this story for over a month.

The commercial break caught her by surprise. Ms. Kenzie would do an audience reading when the show returned, but the first half of the interview was over.

Wrapping up her current sentence, Fiona gritted her teeth and saved her work before putting the tablet back down on the edge of the bed. She shouldn't let him bother her like this. If he wanted to sleep all day and skip preparing for their interview, she should let him suffer his own consequences. Let him show up late to their interview with Ms. Kenzie.

They'd both been exhausted when they eventually fell asleep. Why was she the only one capable of waking up for the talk show appearance they'd both wanted to watch?

Feeling bad about her inner rant, Fiona grinned when the snooze alarm on his phone beeped two minutes later. She gave him some credit for setting at the loudest volume level. Glancing back over her shoulder, she watched Connor McAllen groan with annoyance as he reached for the phone he left on the nightstand. "Good morning. You missed half the segment."

Switching off the phone's blaring alarm, Connor ran his hands through his scruffy dark brown hair while he squinted at the time displayed on the screen. "How about that, I did." He yawned, putting the phone back down and smiling at her. "Let's miss the second half together."

Fiona laughed, but she purposely picked up her tablet again. "We don't have time. After this show, we'll have to get ready and review the questions we want to ask Ms. Kenzie."

"But we went over those questions back in our office, and during the five-hour drive here." Connor sighed when she turned her attention back to the TV. The talk show had returned. His argument lost, he pulled on the t-shirt he'd tossed aside. "How is it you're dressed already and focused while I'm still worn out?"

Smirking though she was facing the television, Fiona pointed to the room's tiny dining table with her stylus pen. "Coffee's still warm. That's yours, I chugged mine in the elevator up here."

"Bless you." Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Connor peeled himself off the bed and grabbed the disposable travel cup. He took a few sips before he ventured to Fiona's side. Pausing in thought for a second, he kissed the top of her pale caramel blond hair. "Next 'vacation'?"

Leaning into him as he stood next to her, Fiona nodded. "Next 'vacation.'"

They needed this rule. Their college love crashed and burned before graduation. They couldn't conquer their individual demons as a team, so they would have to settle for these moments. This career they'd created for themselves often served as an excuse to keep each other in their lives.

When they broke apart, the tension dissolved. They'd switched into Work Mode despite Connor's boxers and faded University of North Atlantic Florida tee.

Connor sat down beside her on the foot of the bed, his interest finally on the talk show that had returned from commercial break. The segment shifted to Ms. Kenzie "reading" the audience. Fiona noted that Ms. Kenzie's calm demeanor carried over, remaining quiet while she scanned the hopeful yet nervous people before her. She chose an attendee in the back row and called to the shocked middle-aged man by his unique first name. The following reading, supposedly connecting him with the soul of a sister he lost years ago, moved the audience to tears. No one could believe the specific details Ms. Kenzie obtained, from the deceased's precise birth date to a description of the last birthday present the man bought for his sister.

Though she'd seen videos of other readings on the celebrity's website, Fiona still couldn't figure out how Ms. Kenzie always knew people's names before readings began. Had this been set up by her entourage earlier? Were all the website's videos fake too? Fiona liked to think she was more open-minded than most, but she never discounted the possibility of fraud.

The paranormal news website she and Connor built, DefineReality.com, operated on this exact philosophy. Their articles appealed to those who wanted to believe along with professed believers.

Fiona and Connor would form opinions on Ms. Kenzie's supposed ability during the meeting later. The live broadcast on the television was being filmed less than ten minutes away from their hotel, and today's special guest had booked a room in the VIP suite five floors above their room. After only graduating college two years ago, Fiona and Connor's website could now support local business trips like this one. They even rented a minuscule office in a shopping center back home. A growing budget also allowed for a team of rookie reporters, but only the co-creators traveled to meet with more prominent interviewees.

"We're really lucky this all worked out," Connor said, not for the first time. "Website views will crash the server when we post this interview. Mainstream media might even pick it up." He scribbled down his own notes now with a plain old notebook and throwaway pen. While he'd rather be sleeping at eight-thirty in the morning, Connor did his share of the work.

Fiona's deep hazel eyes alternated between the television and her tablet. "I wouldn't call it luck, Connor. We used every contact we had to get this interview." This wasn't an exaggeration. When Ms. Kenzie's non-fiction book skyrocketed to the top of the New York Times' best seller list, loyal subscribers to their website petitioned for a feature on the then-unknown psychic. Fiona understood why "Channeling Your Inner Spirit" gained such a following. The account of Ms. Kenzie's psychic experiences was part self-help book, part astrological calendar. Each chapter "spoke" to the reader with the same allure of a catchy pop song.

Noting her cynical thoughts, Fiona dialed them back. Why should famous psychics automatically hold less credibility than non-famous psychics? Ms. Kenzie must have some ability to get where she did, didn't she? If nothing else, Fiona hoped the woman proved to be a little more intuitive than the fans who bought her book.

Connor then replied, "True, can't discount all those 'friends' from college we haven't talked to in months. We'll have to spend an entire paycheck on drinks at our next reunion." She chuckled, knowing he was right. "Anyway, what I meant is, we're lucky to get here."

Considering this, Fiona rested her pen on her tablet while she appreciated the moment. "That is a good point. Ms. Kenzie didn't reschedule, there was no natural disaster...now stop before you jinx it."

Laughing, Connor replied, "The interview's only a few hours away, but yeah, we should just to be safe." They both glanced at the television when Ms. Kenzie's segment ended. Tossing aside his notebook and pen, Connor stretched as he ambled over to the adjoining bathroom. "Speaking of which, when's check-in for the room next door? I'll move my stuff after breakfast."

"Eleven," she answered before pausing. "I thought it was my turn." Paying for two rooms the night they arrived at the hotel always seemed excessive, but bunking the whole weekend felt too "couple-y" for their tastes. Eventually they came up with a compromise.

He left the bathroom door open between them while he searched the counter top for the travel bag he left there when they brought their luggage in. Rummaging through it for his toothbrush and toothpaste, he started brushing as he replied to her. "You've already got your makeup and hair crap on here. It'll be easier for me."

Resisting an eye-roll, Fiona retorted, "None of that stuff is glued to the counter. Really, I'm the one who should move because I'm wearing more than boxers and a t-shirt."

"That's a damn shame, by the way." He grinned when she glared at him, then did a double-take at the outfit she'd changed into before he woke up. She'd paired ankle-length orange slacks with a flowy white blouse - appropriate business wear for spring in Florida. He knew her well enough to know she'd prefer one of her many casual dresses and a comfortable pair of flip flops. Never insecure about her shorter-than-average height, the sandals she'd chosen didn't have heels either. "You're ready for the meeting? Seriously Fi, you don't have to wake up at the crack of dawn when we're on vacation."

"It's not a vacation. And not all of us go to a restaurant in old sweatpants, even if it is a cafe in the hotel lobby." As she spoke, she picked up the sweatpants he'd thrown on the floor the night before and held them out to him. They'd developed a routine in their year of traveling. "So I'll move then?"

The toothbrush slowed while he tried to think of an argument against it. In her mind there was none, but in his, a battle waged between his version of chivalry and the rules set for their complex non-relationship. Connor had this warped idea that her feelings would be hurt if he "kicked her out," even though she'd volunteered to leave. "Fine," he grumbled, spitting toothpaste out into the sink. "But I'm carrying your bags."

"We reserved the connecting room."

"Doesn't matter, they still need to get from Point A to Point B." Shaking his head, he moved to close the bathroom door so he could finish freshening up. "You going ahead to pick a table?" he called through the closed door.

"We can go downstairs together. I'll pack up a bag of notes for us to review over breakfast." She laughed when he only responded with grunts to express his complaint.