The Yes Factor Read online

  “That’s cool. But, yeah, thirteen is rough. Still a kid, but ready to be an adult. Chloe got easier at sixteen. And it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to schlep her around everywhere anymore. That driver’s license has saved my sanity.” Devon gives me a commiserating look and I smile. He really is adorable while also being hot as hell. I cross my legs, attempting to ignore my lady bits hollerin’ at me.

  We spend some time comparing notes about raising teenage daughters and I alternate between nervous babbling and relaxed serenity. I’m on the lookout for Liv since it’s been about fifteen minutes since she left me at Devon’s stall and I know she’ll turn the place upside down to find me. I don’t need a bull running through this china shop. But maybe I’m reading too much into this. I’m not one hundred percent sure that Devon is even into me. I mean, I think he is, but who knows. It’s only been a few minutes and a cup of coffee. He was probably going to take a break anyway. Maybe this is just his way of sealing a deal, thinking I’ll splurge on the mirror at his booth.

  “Hey,” Devon says suddenly under his breath as he puts his hand on my jeans clad knee, “Celebrity sighting, three o’clock.”

  The touch of his hand sends a jolt through me, and I forget how to tell time. Where the hell is three o’clock? I think, my eyes scanning the surroundings.

  “Who? I don’t see anyone,” I say a little too loudly.

  Devon leans in toward me and whispers softly, “Shh…” and I literally shiver. “Look over there, to the right. Diane Keaton. With the tan hat.”

  It’s like my brain can’t compute language anymore. Thinking only of his mouth whispering near my ear, my mouth, my neck. A celebrity sighting, even one as good as Diane Keaton, can’t derail the feeling brewing inside me. I pull back only an inch or two to meet his eyes, hoping he doesn’t notice the electricity he’s sparked, but also kind of hoping he does.

  “Good one,” I whisper, feeling myself melt into his touch.

  Devon and I are jolted back to reality by the voice of an elderly man. “Excuse me.”

  The man is dapperly dressed in gray dress pants and a short-sleeved white button-down shirt. Blue suspenders top off his timeless look. “Sorry to bother you. Looks like you’re having a nice time in this shade. But have either of you two seen that booth that sells records?”

  Still recovering from the surprisingly intimate moment with Devon, I take a moment to unscramble my thoughts. “I passed it on the way in, I think.” I look to Devon, hoping he can give more specific directions.

  “Yes, sir, I know the place you mean. You aren’t far from it. George’s booth. It’s two rows that way.” Devon points west. “And about six or seven booths down toward the parking lot. He’s got a great selection.”

  “Thank you kindly. I’m hoping to find a record by Ella and Louis. Have you heard of them? A lovely duo. My dear Mildred and I danced to one of their songs at our wedding and I plan on singing it to her at our anniversary party next month.”

  My heart glows looking at the joy on his face. Mildred is one lucky woman.

  “I’m hoping to find that recording so I can practice,” he says.

  “That’s very sweet. How long have you been married?” I glance over at Devon who is beaming at the man and seems just as charmed by him as I am. It’s kinda adorable.

  “Sixty wonderful years. I wish I could say we’ll have sixty more, but no one lives forever.” He sighs. “Enjoy every moment.” He looks both of us in the eye and I blush, feeling embarrassed, like he knows something I don’t.

  “What song?” Devon says.

  “‘Our Love Is Here To Stay,’ do you know it? It’s a great tune. All you have to do is hold your lady close and sway. I’m not a very good dancer—two left feet, Mildred always says. What did you two dance to at your wedding?” The man thumbs his suspenders awaiting an answer.

  Devon and I look at each other in surprised amusement, then turn back to the man, not quite knowing how to respond.

  I stumble out the words. “Oh, we’re not—” I hold up my ringless left hand, while Devon laughs and says, “We just met.”

  With a knowing smile the man says, “Well, don’t wait too long, son. I can tell she’s a keeper. Hold your lady close and sway.”

  The man hums that classic Ella and Louis tune and mimes a little dance. I can’t help but wonder if his sixty years of marriage is showing him something I can’t see yet. The man walks away toward the record booth, following Devon’s directions, and I wonder if the whole encounter was even real. I feel so close to Devon, bonded in a way that I can’t quite explain. With the melody of Ella and Louis in my head, and the magical words of that elderly man, I feel like I’ve seen a glimpse of the future.

  Chapter Six

  Churro-mance in the Making

  LIV

  After making my escape from Devon’s stall, I sigh in both frustration and elation, tempted to look over my shoulder to make sure Bex didn’t follow me. Why is she so shy? She should be all over a guy like that. They have the same interests; he is ridiculously handsome, and I can already picture them road tripping for antiques together. Bex better be saying more than just hello!

  I shield my eyes against the beating sun, feeling like a lone figure in the Wild West pondering which way to go. All of a sudden, I want to run back to Bex, give her a hug, and tell her that I just want her to be happy, with or without a guy. I miss her already. We’ve been together almost nonstop since I landed in LA on Friday. I hadn’t realized until now how lonely I really do feel back in London.

  Walking down the little makeshift street of stalls, I see two young women walking side by side in the distance. As I get closer to them I see they’re holding hands, and that they both have wireless ear buds in, each clutching a phone in their free hands. Are they listening to music? Is one of them on the phone to somebody? Could they even be on the phone to each other?

  One of the girls has ripped jeans that look like they’ve been put through a blender. Her tan, taut legs are showing through the denim rips. She can’t be older than nineteen, if that. Her friend is wearing cut-off shorts, suspenders over a faux vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt and knee-high striped socks. I guess this is the cool kid take on the ’70s, a twenty-first century version of Farrah Fawcett. A young guy approaches them. This must be the boyfriend, I think to myself as he slips his hand around the waist of the girl with the ripped jeans and leans in to kiss her, an intense melting of the lips that only teen pheromones can produce. And all the while, the girls are still holding hands. He pulls back and the other girl leans in for a gentle peck on the lips. The whole scene is cozy, almost too cozy, this casual public intimacy something I never did in my youth. When did I get so cynical? Why is this making me feel so uncomfortable, almost jealous? When did I start to feel so old…?

  I envy the freedom of this young trio. Their nonchalant blending of physicality, their openness, their who-gives-a-fuck attitude.

  Bex and I, we’re the last of the analogue Gen-Xers. We grew up with baby boomer parents who thought they were liberal, but at the end of the day, most of them still had the conservative norms of the ’50s in their DNA. Girls didn’t make the first move. It wasn’t polite to kiss in public. You dressed nicely for outings. Ripped denim, public displays of affection—all of that was frowned upon. Especially in the South.

  It’s not even like I was raised in a strict household. I just accepted things the way they were before the Internet gave us a window into a million ways of being, of loving, of fucking.

  If I didn’t have that coding, or if I’d had the courage to ignore it, I’m sure I’d be a happier person now. Deep down, though, I know I’m just looking to blame anybody or anything but myself. Anything to ignore the fact that I seem to be stuck in perpetual quicksand. That I haven’t had the energy, courage, or strength to make a change. That I’d rather spend my time googling Francois and daring myself to see him again. That I’d rather do anything than ask myself—or Ethan—the questions from which I run. An hon
est discussion, instead of denial, doubting, and excuses.

  And to prove my point, I get in line at the churros stall that Bex and I passed earlier. Nothing like indulging in a feast of carbs and denial.

  Balancing a flimsy paper plate, further weakened by the spreading grease stain from three churros, I wind my way back through the stalls looking for Bex. I should probably just give her a call but I want to give our best friend ESP a try. I pass table after table of stuff trying to backtrack to the stall with the mirror, but feel lost in a maze.

  Finally, I see Bex in the distance, about five stalls away. She’s sitting at a table, one of a few that are dotted around a coffee cart. She’s doing that thing she does when she’s flustered, waving her hands around as she’s talking, and every few beats, brushing her hair behind her ears. Is she on the phone or talking to herself? I get closer, duck into the shade of a stall and hide behind a dream catcher that’s dangling from a railing. I peer out and see that she’s seated opposite the man from the antiques stall who’s nodding and smiling at her as she talks. Ha! So this explains the erratic, pseudo sign language. She did manage to say more than a hello back at the stall. I’m proud of her but wonder if talking is all she’ll do. Maybe she needs another nudge. Frozen in indecision, I want to run up and be the wingwoman I’m supposed to be. But I haven’t exactly started out on the right foot with Chandace and the swinger’s party. I laugh to myself, how could I have been so stupid?

  “That’s a beautiful choice.”

  I jump and turn around to see a full-figured woman in a tie-dyed sarong dress who’s seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

  “It sure does bring joy, doesn’t it?” she says.

  I’d been absentmindedly running my hands through the dangling ribbons of the dream catcher, mindlessly stroking trails of faux fur which are now probably coated with churro grease.

  “Oh, um, yes, it’s nice.” I gingerly step away from the dream catcher.

  “It’s twenty-nine ninety-nine but I’ll throw in a crystal for you. I sense you could use amethyst.” She presents a display board of dusty gemstones that remind me of high school geology class.

  “Thanks, but,” I look at the dream catcher, “I’m not sure my energy is matching it.”

  I back away from the stall, deciding that maybe I should go see if Bex and Devon have at least exchanged phone numbers. I came to LA to help her get back out there, after all.

  “Bex. Hey, Bex!” I run up to her, slightly out of breath after inhaling the churros.

  “Oh, hi.” She looks up in surprise, as if she’s startled by my appearance.

  “Are you going to introduce me?” I wink as I extend my hand.

  She sighs, clearly not happy that I’ve interrupted her.

  “Devon, this is Liv. Liv, Devon.” Bex waves her coffee cup from Devon to me then back to Devon.

  I sit down without waiting to be asked.

  “Devon, your stuff is wonderful. I’ve been walking around and it’s definitely the best. It’s so huge, you’ve got, like, three stalls of to-die-for furniture. And the mirror. Bex, that’s the kind you’ve been looking for, right? Eastfield, Eastwood?”

  “Eastlake,” Bex and Devon say in unison as they look at each other. There is a definite spark between them.

  “Well, thank you. That’s really kind of you to say. It’s hard work, but I couldn’t imagine doing anything else,” Devon says with quiet confidence.

  “Well, I salute you, Mr. Antique Man.” I give a tip of an invisible hat. “Don’t you think he’s got great stuff, Bex?”

  Bex gives me a cutting look and I can read her body language. Translation: get the hell outta here.

  “Um, yes,” Bex says. “That mirror is actually what drew me to your stall.”

  “Bex loves old furniture,” I say to Devon. “You should see what she can do. She’s a total magician.” I tell him a shortened version of the Mississippi headboard story and feel proud of my wingwoman skills for once.

  But I wonder if I’ve said too much, especially about us chasing Cajun guys in Louisiana. I didn’t really need to include that in the story. I laugh nervously, aware that I’m lacking in subtle matchmaking skills. I should have stayed at the dream catcher stall and talked crystals with that tie-dyed pajama lady.

  But Devon is gazing at Bex appreciatively. Yes, maybe I should get his number for Bex after all.

  “So Devon, are you dat—” and before I can finish my question, Bex grabs my arm and starts to stand up.

  “We have to go.” Bex smiles in a way that seems to apologize for what I was about to ask.

  Devon looks slightly confused.

  “Oh, okay.” He stands up and extends his hand to Bex, “It was a real pleasure meeting you, Bex”. The veins on his forearm look like one of those raised topographic maps. A landscape of strength built from hard work. But Bex has already turned away from Devon, pushing me along by my elbow.

  “Bex, what’s the matter? Why are we rushing off?” I say to her quietly, even though I know why she is upset, because I probably overstepped boundaries. Again.

  To cover, I look back over my shoulder and give Devon a half wave. He’s holding his coffee and watching us walk away with a bemused look on his face.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Bex snaps. “The traffic is gonna be insane. And it’s too hot to be stuck on the freeway.”

  “Don’t you want to stay and talk to him longer? He seems really nice. I mean like genuinely cool. He has impeccable taste.” Is Bex blind? Why am I pleading the case for what seems like her perfect match?

  “No, let’s just go. I’m tired.” She keeps walking straight ahead, not even looking at me, or back at Devon, a note of irritation creeping in to her voice.

  “Hey, so what were y’all talking about before I got there?”

  “Liv, do you have sun stroke or something? I said we need to go.”

  “Okay, fine.” I decide not to press it any further, doing my best to keep up with her quick pace. I wish I could tell her that I only have her best interests at heart. I guess everyone is allowed to be a bitch every once in a while, I think to myself, perhaps too harshly.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday Kind of Stupid

  BEX

  “You know what?” Liv says just as I put my key into the ignition. “Sorry, but I need to make a quick run to the loo. The churros are starting to rumble.” She cringes.

  I audibly groan. Liv has a finicky stomach and I know that traffic will go from bad to worse because Liv can’t be rushed in the bathroom.

  “First of all, I told you to be careful with this market food. Second of all, it’s called a bathroom, not a ‘loo.’ There were Port-a-Pottys right by the exit. Why didn’t you go when we went by there?” I take the keys out of the ignition.

  “First of all,” Liv says, mocking me, “what’s wrong with market food? It’s Pasadena, for God’s sake. Second of all, no, I’m not using a Port-a-Potty. I’ll be back in five.” She throws her purse over her shoulder and hops out of the car.

  “You’ll be back in twenty, but it’s fine. I’ll wait here. Catch the news on the radio,” I yell as she slams the door a little too hard. She’s always done that, and it’s always gotten on my nerves. Why can’t she close the door gently for once?

  In reality, I’m glad for a few minutes alone with my reeling thoughts. I feel frazzled, frustrated, and intrigued by Devon. I don’t even know how to process what happened there, and I don’t want to talk about it with Liv because she’d probably march me back to ask him out. Plus, I’m not even sure he was really into me. He seemed so friendly and he did do that whole hand-on-the-knee thing…But, am I reading too much into it? Maybe he was angling for a sale.

  Still, I think there was something there. Even that sweet old man saw something between us. And with sixty years of marriage, it’s not like he doesn’t know a thing or two about relationships.

  When Devon talked about uncovering a hidden treasure, I felt it in my soul. Even now, my chest t
ightens just thinking about it. But in the midst of the moment, I acted like a dumbstruck teenager—talking too fast, or not talking at all, trying to impress him with my babbling. I forgot to ask for his business card so I could at least get his last name and Internet stalk him. Did I even say bye? Hashtag F-M-L. At least I know he lives in Sierra Madre, so that narrows it down from the Greater Los Angeles area. I shake my head in irritation. Maybe Maddie and I could drive out there for dinner one night, or every night, just in the off chance we might bump into each other.

  The fact that I got a second chance with Devon and messed it up again is beyond discouraging. I had the opportunity to redeem my mistaken swipe with a real-life encounter, and I still fucked it up! I toss my head back against the headrest and groan. Ugh.

  I don’t know why I got so flustered when Liv joined us. I panicked because I was afraid she’d crank up into crazy matchmaker and ruin the magic. Which she did. She almost asked him if he was dating anyone! I could have died right there. She came to LA guns blazing on a mission for me to find love. She’ll definitely take The Yes Factor to a nuclear level if she gets even a whiff of pheromones in the air.

  In my fear, I bailed…not even bothering to say a decent goodbye to someone who’s probably the coolest, and hottest, man I’ve met since my divorce.

  I could kick myself.

  Instead, I pick up my phone and search for The Pasadena Society Estate Sale just in case there’s one more weekend I don’t know about or maybe a directory of stall merchants. Nope. This is it, the last one of the season. It won’t start up again until next spring.

  “Dammit!” I cry out and slap the steering wheel. Liv’s timing sucks. If she hadn’t come over at that particular moment, maybe I would have harnessed the courage to believe, to be sure of what I was feeling, to make some kind of move to see Devon again. But why didn’t he ask for my number? The old man told him I was “a keeper.” Liv really shattered the moment.