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I repeat that to myself as I meander through the crowds. I start taking pictures of the local fashion, street style to post on my blog, and of course I seek out our own Jimi Hendrix and get a selfie with the market legend. It’s tradition.
I’m standing outside a Korean taco stand, trying to figure out if I want a bibimbap wrap (honestly I just like saying “bibimbap”), when I feel a presence beside me.
I look over to see Jacob standing right there.
“Hello,” he says in his thick accent. “Bloody brilliant weather we’re having.”
I blink at him for a moment, taking him in. He’s not wearing a baseball cap this time and has a thick mop of red hair for someone his age, though his sunglasses are covering up his eyes. I remember their amber color quite well. Just like yesterday he’s wearing an ugly shirt, this time a burnt orange short-sleeved shirt that matches his hair.
“Jacob,” he supplies when I don’t say anything. “We met yesterday. You’re Dawn and Sage’s neighbor. Ada, isn’t it?”
I swallow, trying to find my voice. I’m not sure what it is about this man that makes me feel off-kilter. Not necessarily in a bad way, it’s just . . . something.
“Yeah, Ada,” I manage to say.
“Well, Ada,” he says smoothly, looking around, “I have to tell you it feels good to see a familiar face in this crowd. I don’t know Portland at all. First time here.”
We shuffle forward in the line as it gets shorter. “Where are you from?”
“Aside from England?” He asks. “Oh, I’ve been all over the place. You name it, I’ve been there.”
“But Dawn and Sage, they moved from Washington?”
He nods. “They’re a nice couple. I think you’d like them.”
I give him a wry smile. “To be fair, you don’t know me so you can’t know what I like.”
He tilts his head back and I can feel his eyes on me despite the sunglasses reflecting back my own face. My dark circles stand out more than anything and my blonde hair is thwarted by fly-aways. I look like absolute shit.
“No I suppose I don’t know you at all,” he says finally, his attention back to the menu on the side of the stand. “Bibimbap,” he repeats. “Fun word, isn’t it?”
“So how do you know them?” I ask. “The Knightlys.” I pause. “Is it true that Sage was in the band Hybrid, that Dawn was a journalist?”
“Who told you that, love?”
“My dad. He’s not a fan or anything. He was just talking to them earlier.”
“Well if they told him that, it must be true.”
“And so . . .”
“I’m a family friend,” he supplies. “Here to help them settle in. I’ve always been a helper of sorts for them. Anything they need, they know they can count on old Jacob.” He adds sympathetically, “They’re getting older, you know. Their minds still run like it’s the ‘70s, but bodies don’t keep up so easily. Such a shame, really. How unfair life is in that regard. They say you’re only as old as you feel but try telling that to a ninety-year-old on their deathbed, just wishing he could do all the bloody things he wants to do.”
Jeez. Second Debbie Downer conversation in the last half hour.
“You have youth, love,” Jacob says, nudging me to move forward when the man behind the counter beckons me forward. “A young body, a young heart, and endless courage. That last part is the most important. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently. Why do you think we used to send so many kids your age off to war?”
I’m trying to absorb what he’s saying while placing my order for the bibimbap wrap. When I’m done paying, I turn around to face Jacob.
But he’s gone.
There’s only a pair of teenage girls with obnoxious neon sunglasses, staring down at their phones.
I step away from the line and look around but Jacob is nowhere to be found.
Now I’m wondering if I’m going crazy. If he was really there at all.
The girls can’t tell me since they’ve been on Facebook this whole time and when I get my food and ask the guy behind the counter if he remembers the man behind me, he says he’s not paying attention to who’s in line and goes back to handling a myriad of orders.
Despite being confused, I still manage to shovel the food in my face and head back to Dex and Perry. Thankfully they’re just leaving as I’m coming over.
“I think I’m ready to go,” I tell them quickly.
They exchange one of their glances. It either means moody Ada or crazy Ada.
I’m not sure which one I am these days.
As we’re heading back to the car, I blurt out, “I think I’m seeing ghosts.”
They stop walking.
“What?” Perry asks, pulling me to a stop.
