Page 50 of Pining for You

“Sorry, I’m a vegetarian,” I blurt.

She gives me a WTF look and says, “It’s jam,” and I wait for her to bestow a Dumbest Ever award upon me.

I wriggle past her and manage to escape without causing a whole scene again. I make myself as small as possible to squeeze through the crowd, which seems to have gotten a lot more intense in the short time we’ve been here.

“Hey!” a bearded clothing vendor in a blue flannel button-up calls to me as I pass his stand, and I duck because what did I do now? But then he says, “Great jacket,” and the compliment lifts my spirits a little.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, looking down. I almost forgot what I was wearing. “It was my mom’s.”

“An heirloom… Respect that!” he says. “We’ve got some boots over there that would go great.”

“Oh, cool,” I say, and head over to the rack, in part just to get away from the current of people trying to move through the aisle. “So these are all thrifted?” I ask as I scan tweed skirts and wool cardigans that smell like mothballs and weed.

“Thrifted?” he asks, incredulous. He corrects me as he snatches back a blazer I’ve just pulled off the rack. “No, dear. Nothing here is thrifted. This is all vintage. Big difference.”

“Oh,” I say, though I still don’t know the difference (beyond the eye-popping price tags). “Sorry.”

I duck back into the aisle again. I’m running out of apologies the way a video game character depletes their stash of lifesaving coins. But the disorientation sets in big time. In my rush to escape, I’ve lost track of where I’m going.

All I do know is that I’ve got to get out of here. I thought this place would be filled with my people, but every spot of magic seems to sour when I reach it. So far, all I’ve learned at this market is that despite my confidence earlier today, I’m not even remotely ready for Brooklyn. Maybe I’m not ready for Eve, either. She’s probably used to this kind of thing—these crowds, these prices, these people, these rules… She probably knows the difference between thrifted and vintage, or even why an alpaca sock costs twenty-seven dollars. I need to find my friends. I can feel myself spiraling to a dark place, but the layout is more complicated than the Cooper corn maze at Halloween time.

I check my phone to see if Cash or Diya have texted and come on, how can there be zero service in this place?! What felt like a wonderland has become a hellscape of informational isolation, and also some of the people walking around now look wet. I’m too deep into the market to see outside. If it’s started snowing, that would be way ahead of schedule. And bad. So very, very bad.

After realizing I’ve circled the same vendor for the third time, I bang my fist against my forehead. That sudden anger sneaks up on me again. With the market itself for being so totally overwhelming, then with the customers who are in my way, then the vendors who seem to have set up the most complicated floor plan. But mostly, I’m angry with myself. Why do I always have to be such a tornado of chaos? Why can’t I ever just keep my head in the game?

But then, how have my friends not found me? Are they even looking? Maybe they’re off eating hojarascas with Eve and having a good laugh that I’m still wandering around Williamsburg, cold and alone like Bean Bunny in The Muppet Christmas Carol. A flash of irritation strikes—maybe they’re not as concerned about me as I am about them, just like they haven’t been concerned about all our traditions. Is that what next year will be like? Out of sight, out of mind until we all start drifting apart? This is the problem with having an active imagination—sometimes the feelings are so real, even if the story is hypothetical.

Just when I’m about to run myself straight into a brick wall and hope I come out the other side, my phone buzzes. I must be close enough to the exit now to get a few bars. I’m relieved, assuming it’s Cash or Izaac or Diya, but when I pull it from my pocket, I frown. Naomi again. This time I read both unread messages.

From earlier:

Hey, Pop-Tart! Got your note. Hope you’re having fun with the gang.

And just now:

Any more thoughts on Friday? I really have to let the facility know.

I’m standing to the side of the aisle, getting jostled and bumped as I read the messages, when I hear, “Hey, aren’t you the girl with the camera?”

I look up, and it’s the jewelry vendor who pushed my camera away. The knot in my stomach becomes a gnarly rock.

I almost shout in her face, I’m sorry! I’m trying to get out of here!!

But I manage to keep it together and just say, “Um.”

“It’s cool. I’m not here to yell at you or anything,” she says, clearly sensing my anxiety. Her tone does seem to suggest that she’s also calmed down, at least. “I’m on my break and recognized your hair—which is fire by the way.”

“Oh, thanks…?” I say, now confused.

“I just want to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude before.”

“Oh,” I repeat, because that is even more unexpected.

“It’s just, I have been trying to get my business off the ground and I’ve had so many people filming who just post it on social for their brand, without tagging or buying anything,” she explains, and she wrings her hand as she continues. “But that doesn’t give me a right to be so rude, or touch your property.”

“It’s really okay,” I say, because I do appreciate it, and I can see she has her own anxieties to contend with. But also because I really need to keep moving.

“Well, I’m glad I found you. I wanted to give you this.” She hands me a small stone. It’s a brilliant blue that reminds me of Gonzo. It’s a little cloudy, like an iced over pond, and looking into its smooth surface has the strangest calming effect.