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My response is too quick, and I know it. She doesn’t call me out though, just nods and continues driving, leaving me to my own thoughts. We are just friends. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But I can’t help the fact that recently I’ve been feeling the inkling of more, the stirring of feelings I’m not sure I want to feel.
I stare out the window, looking at the fall foliage that has finally taken a true hold of our forests. The oranges and browns and reds and yellows all blend together to create the magic of autumn in the mountains.
It’s foolish. I know that. Anything that might happen with Bishop would need to end at some point. He’s going to leave eventually, move back to Oregon and pursue his dream, like Nicole and I talked about. But…maybe that’s what makes it feel slightly easier to manage emotionally. When things end—when he leaves—it won’t be a surprise. I would be able to see it coming. Maybe we are just friends, but maybe…there’s room for more, even if it’s only temporary.
When we get to Main Street, Leah drops me off with all our stuff then tells me and Bishop to start setting up while she parks her truck.
As we start arranging everything, I can see Bishop struggling a bit while using his left hand, the frustration obvious in his face. He smiles when he sees me watching, so I don’t make a big thing about it. Though it does highlight to me that we haven’t really talked much about his injury since he’s been home.
Once the tent is done, we pop up our table then begin to organize our goods. Leah’s macrame wall art gets hung from the tent frame, the beautiful designs just a sample of my aunt’s incredible talent. The pieces she brings to markets like this are small in comparison to the ones she sells to make a living, but they’re just as beautiful. I like to think I got some of my artistic drive from her, though who knows if that’s even a real thing.
I have learned plenty from her about selling the things I create, though. The only reason I know how important it is to charge what I’m worth when it comes to commissioned pieces is because of Leah. She’s made some huge, incredibly intricate pieces for clients, and there have been plenty of times she’s been told she’s too expensive.
“I’m not for everyone,” she used to tell me. “I’m not for every budget or every style or every vision. And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you should value yourself and your talent any less.”
It was a valuable lesson, in more ways than one.
“How was PT yesterday?” I ask once we’ve finished hanging Leah’s items.
Bishop and I are standing side by side, trying to decide how to organize my pottery on the table. I’ve never sold my stuff at a market before, and I didn’t fully think through how I want it set out. I should have brought wooden boxes or cute decorations…something to make it a bit more dynamic. Clearly I still have a lot to learn.
“Yeah…it sucked,” he jokes, rounding to the other side of the table to eye how it looks to a customer. “Maybe move the big plate to the middle?”
I nod, taking his suggestion and centering the plate, moving the set of vases to the side instead.
“How often are you supposed to go?”
“Twice a week for a month.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, I also have to do exercises on my own.”
“Every day?”
He sighs but keeps that same smile. “Every damn day.”
“If you want help,” I tell him, rounding the table to stand next to him so I can get the customer view as well, “I could probably find some exercises for you to do with your hands.”
The minute I say it, my cheeks heat. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Or, maybe I just didn’t mean to actually say it out loud. A big part of me hopes he’ll think I’m just joking, but I can’t deny the pleasure I get when I look at him and see the shock on his face. My lips tilt up at the sides, but I return my gaze to the table, moving to swap two other pieces.
“There.” I step back again. “What do you think?”
“Looks perfect!”
I turn at the sound of Leah’s voice, thankful she didn’t overhear my innuendo just a moment ago.
“You guys got it all set up without me. Great job.”
She steps under the tent and reaches up, messing with one of her pieces, adjusting the way some of the loose strings hang from the bottom.
“I’ll let you two enjoy yourselves,” Bishop says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “Get out of your hair.”
“You just want to go grab a beer from the beer tent,” I joke, poking him in the stomach.
“Hey, I didn’t claim otherwise,” he replies, grinning. “But I also need to go help my parents. They’re hosting the candy swap booth down the street, and I’ve been voluntold to take a shift.”
I laugh. “See you later, then.”
