Page 43 of Spicy Ever After
Have they met me?
The guard arm lifts for the car in front of me, and that’s when I realize that another car has left, and I’m next in line.
It’s now 10:06, and I’ve emerged from a pretty crappy thought spiral.
Just in time to see a little family of four—a mom pushing a stroller and a dad with a little girl sitting on his shoulders—stride into the parking lot, headed for their car.
“Thank you, God!”
Admittedly, it takes the family a while to get settled into car seats and child seats and the stroller folded up, and the mom and dad strapped in.
But at 10:12, I tap my card on the scanner, watch the guard arm lift, and finally pull into the parking lot.
And nosing—very slowly, very carefully—into my hard-won parking spot is an easy call to make since I left my house more than thirty minutes ago, and I’m dreadfully late for my Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date.
It occurs to me as I make my way through the rows of the Farmer’s Market that Beck is a wonderful person.
In my book, clear, non-vague instructions are the sign of strong, moral character.
The text he sent last night is a prime example:
My booth will be in the middle row, four down from Johnston Street, two up from the coulee, and it’ll have the Olivier Family Farms sign on top of the canopy.
See? No ambiguity. No chance of confusion or getting lost.
He is a paragon of virtue.
This is my exact thought when I spot the stall precisely where I expect it to be. No problem at all, despite the clogged walkways and lines three-deep at nearly every stall.
Two people are ahead of me in line for Beck’s booth, and I will myself to wait patiently. I’m watching him, but he hasn’t looked up from the Square reader he’s using to ring up his customer.
Which is fine, because from this angle, his hair looks different from what I remember. Darker? More browns than the golden palette that dazzled me.
I shake my head because that doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s because the canopy is casting shade on him.
But, honestly, it’s a little shorter than I remember, too.
Of course, he could’ve gotten a haircut.
That must be it.
Only, it’s not quite as cute.
But it’s hair. I tell myself. And hair is hair.
The customer in front of me is a guy with a man bun, ripped jeans, and flip flops. When he moves to the front of the line, Beck’s gaze sweeps from him to me, back to him again…
With… nothing.
My stomach’s freefall is really inconsiderate.
Almost ableist.
Because I’d expected him to lock eyes with me and see a spark of…
Well, something.
Joy. Relief. Interest.
