Page 65 of Pining for You

“For your research,” Diya adds.

“And for love, actually.” Audra winks at me.

I use their words to steady myself, inhale the cold Brooklyn air, and take a step forward.

20

I had the best Halloween costume of my life when I was eight. My mom made our getups from scratch, always, to save money, which meant they were usually the most original in the neighborhood too. And that year, I made a special request: I wanted to be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

The costume was perfect—right down to the skeletal hands—but with the black cloak and hood and obscured visage, everyone assumed I was supposed to be the grim reaper.

It was also the first year Naomi had to work on Halloween—she was a newly single mother—and Michelle was twelve, so my mom trusted her to be in charge on our street. But even then, I was a stickler for tradition, and everything was so different from other Halloweens. I was struggling with the changes, and was teased at school. Kids thought I was so weird since all the other girls were dressed up as fairy princesses and pop stars. The whole thing made me scared and shy about trick-or-treating, which had once been so much fun.

I started crying before Michelle and I got to the first house that night. She held my hand and pulled me aside as other kids skipped past us—tiny Disney princesses and Iron Men carrying plastic pumpkins and giggling at me.

“How about this—why don’t you let me go first?” she said, and reached out to straighten my hood. “I’ll give you a signal that it’s safe. And make sure they’re giving the good stuff too. No raisins or anything like that.”

I smiled at her, my first smile all night, but I was still so queasy.

She walked up to the door, and I stayed a few paces behind her. She rang the bell. An older woman answered and smiled, genuinely delighted by Michelle’s costume—which was Naomi’s high school cheerleading uniform. (We made quite the pair.) Then they both beamed back in my direction, and Michelle tugged on her ear—the signal we’d agreed upon for me to approach.

“My goodness, what a delight!” the woman said, stuffing a fistful of Sour Patch Kids packets into my pumpkin (definitely good stuff). “The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come here on my doorstep. A literary legend!”

I was so happy this neighbor understood me. Only later did it occur to me that Michelle must’ve explained my costume to her. But the part of the memory that stuck is the feeling of safety. Even doing this thing that felt so scary to me, I was so… protected. So not alone.

I have tried so hard not to feel my feelings about Michelle, and especially to keep the happier memories out of my mind. It’s too confusing to hold it all at once. But right now, standing in this tree lot, I suddenly wish more than anything I could have my big sister here with me, so I could hide behind her, let her test the waters—give me a signal that it’s safe.

I can’t help wanting that. But I also can’t have it. So I have to face the line to the taco truck by myself. My only shield now is my anonymity, and that’s temporary.

“Come on up!” the guy on the truck says when it’s my turn to order. Fortunately, even though Eve is just a few feet away, she’s preoccupied with her work and doesn’t see me yet.

He’s got kind eyes and short black hair. It’s mostly covered by his beanie, but a few free-flowing wisps float softly above his forehead. He’s wearing a heavy gray-and-white flannel jacket with fingerless gloves. A small birthmark sits on his right cheek just under his eye, and it climbs up a tick as he smiles to greet me. This guy looks like he could be Eve’s brother, but I figure it must be her cousin, Carlos. Eve mentioned him yesterday at the farm, but now he’s a real person, talking right to me. “What can we get you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I stumble, sounding like the out-of-towner I am and holding up the line. “Uh, what are my options again?”

I try to ask this with some authority, but Eve is so close, and I am so nervous. If I lean over, I could almost reach out and touch her hair, the way she touched mine yesterday. Has she thought about me at all since then?

“Well, for the tamales, we’re out of pork, but we’ve still got chicken, or vegetarian, which is squash and cheese. And asada if you’re looking for tacos,” I-assume-Carlos says. I’m painfully aware that all that information is on a sign to the left of his head, and I probably look like an idiot for asking, but I keep stalling, trying to figure out what I’m going to do once I make my way to her.

“Uh, and the hot chocolate? What’s in that?” This seems like a reasonable ask since it’s listed simply as Tía’s Famous Hot Chocolate, without additional information.

“That’s proprietary.” The woman I assume to be Eve’s tía Antonia (and, by extension, I’m guessing Carlos’s mother) seems to appear out of nowhere in the window beside him, as if she has a radar for exactly this outrageous question. The resemblance to Eve and Carlos is clear, especially in the eyes, even though hers are behind glasses that sit on the tip of her nose.

I’m about to apologize, terrified she’ll turn me away for having the audacity to ask this question, when Eve jerks a head in my direction. Worse, she looks for the source of this obviously reckless question, and her eyes land on me.

“You,” Eve says in disbelief, stepping closer to where Carlos is leaning out.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” Carlos says to me, then glowers down at Eve. “That’s not how we usually greet our customers, is it, cuz?”

“Sorry, right,” she says to Carlos, but then she turns back to me, still with a look of shock in her eyes. Eve definitely has home field advantage here, but at least I have the element of surprise. It takes her a moment, but she finally asks, “Strudel, what are you doing here?”

Her eyebrows have crept up her forehead, but she is otherwise frozen to the spot, which officially makes two of us. We’re like living ice sculptures in a pop-up Christmas tree parking lot. My brain is too paralyzed to answer right away. First, because she remembers me. Also, because of this nickname, which I almost forgot. Eve must feel like she’s come off a little harsh, because her next question is a stammer. “I mean, sorry. I just… What are you doing here?”

It’s a repeat of the question, but I guess she’s realized there’s actually no better way to ask it.

I’m scanning her face for clues as to how she feels. Yesterday, there were moments when she seemed to soften, and even laugh, but it took time. Now she’s caught off guard, and it’s tougher to get a clean read. What finally snaps me out of my own stupor is the guy behind me grumbling about the long wait, because right now I am at the front of the line, the only thing between the hungry snow-ravaged revelers behind me and their hot tamales. I can practically feel the pitchforks. I step aside and out of line so Carlos can keep the operation moving, and my heart skips when Eve steps aside with me.

I run through a few responses in my head, but instead of picking one, they sort of all come flying out of my mouth at once.