Page 48 of Pining for You

I know it’s not easy for Izaac and Audra, especially with their parents’ issues in the mix, but my thing with Michelle feels so much more complicated.

I clutch Naomi’s camcorder now—the same one Michelle and I used to use to film our sled rides in the neighborhood—and try to refocus on what’s happening in front of me, thankful that the lens can help me cover up the tears I suddenly feel gathering in the corners of my eyes.

“Great, it’ll be a good chance for us to catch up anyway,” Audra says to Izaac, then turns to the rest of us. “Z, you’ll come with me. And I have an idea for the rest of you…” She looks at Cash, Diya, and me. “Anyone in the market for some last-minute gifts?”

“Literally always,” I say, the idea lifting my spirits.

“Thought that might be the case.” Audra smiles. “We’ll drop you off on the way. You’re going to love this place, Bosley.”

14

Generally speaking, my gifting philosophy is to avoid purchasing new material things. My preferences are for homemade, thrifted, upcycled, or experiential. I like to give people gifts that already have a story, or the potential to become one.

So where Audra takes us is my gifter’s wonderland.

From the outside, Artists & Fleas looks like a warehouse. It’s a brick building on 7th Avenue, but the door reads Makers, Creators, Collectors, and I feel a rush. These are my people.

“Trusting you two will prevent him from spending his life savings in there,” Izaac says to Diya and me before heading off.

“No promises,” I say, at the same time that Diya says, “You have my word.”

Cash salutes Audra, then kisses Izaac. “ThankyouI’msorryIloveyou,” he says, all as a single word.

“You’d better,” Izaac says. “All that.”

I try to read whether he’s joking or actually annoyed with Cash. But I’m getting very mixed signals.

When they head off, Cash pushes open the door and lets Diya and me go in ahead of him. We’re greeted by a whoosh of warm air and a buzzing hive of hip, young humans. The building itself is an airy, sprawling labyrinth of vendors, with high ceilings and exposed beams and brick walls painted different colors. There are booths with original art and ones with thrifted or handmade clothes. There are screen-printed umbrellas and all kinds of jewelry. Handmade neckties that I can imagine myself learning to tie someday (probably with Izaac’s help) and pairing with a tailored suit (probably with Cash’s help). It feels like there’s something for everyone in here, like the Cooper Bazaar if the Cooper Bazaar were indoors and cool. I could make a documentary just about this place.

And I’m not the only one enchanted by the selection. Cash and Diya immediately begin perusing the merchandise, striking up conversations with vendors. I trail and catch it all on camera.

I pause as Diya combs through a selection of winter hats, which are definitely not her size or style.

“Something for Seichi, perhaps?” I ask. “To keep him warm on those lonely mornings when he’s out plowing the cold streets?”

She jumps. “Bosley! You scared the shit out of me,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. These are very versatile hats for… hat enthusiasts.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Cash is at the next booth over, admiring handmade leather wallets.

“I bet you could have a booth here someday,” I tell him as the vision appears right in front of my eyes. “Cash’s Custom Costumes.”

“Oh, I love that for me!” He winks.

We meander around together while I record, and after a few minutes, Cash and I stop at a hand-poured soy candle stand while Diya chats with another maker about eyeglasses made from upcycled Christmas ornaments.

“Hmm, do you think Aunt Bev is more of a buttery chardonnay, or a marshmallow fireside?” Cash asks, holding up two handmade soy candles.

“Nothing for Bev yet?” I ask.

At least I’m not the only one struggling to find the right gifts this season.

“She’s not been doing great.” He sighs. “It’s hard to know what’ll cheer her up these days.”

My stomach sinks. Aunt Bev took Cash in freshman year, after his mom died. We all love her, in part because she stocks the best Trader Joe’s snacks (which Izaac gladly delivers) but mostly because she shares Cash’s love of live theater. On nights when Cash gets home early enough from work, they stay up together watching VHS tapes of Pavarotti—an old Italian dude who Bev swears can break glass with his voice. Maybe Cash has been on his phone so much because he’s checking on her. If that’s the case, I feel guilty for making such a thing of it.

“I think I see Bev as more of a gingerbread doughnut,” I say, handing over a third candle that smells like clove and molasses.