Page 87 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“You gasped.”
“It’s…” I point. “It’s just so cute.”
“The mirror?”
I nod.
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
Butnicedoesn’t explain it. The mirror is making me see things. I see, instantly, where I would put it. It would go in the entryway of Pebble Cottage, and I would find the perfect curved-back, Shaker-style bench to go under it. Shoes would go underneath the bench. A colorful rag rug inside the front door.
“Earth to Mallory.” Daniel waves a hand in front of my face, making me realize I’ve been staring, spaced out, at the mirror all this time.
I blink. It’s a strange feeling—wishing I could make my vision come to life but knowing that I can’t. Would I even be thinking about this if I didn’t have a ticking clock? Is the fact that I’m leaving making me cling to improbable fantasies?
Still, even if it’s just my brain rebelling, I have to have it. I literally can’t imagine leaving this market without that mirror.
“Where would you put it?” he asks.
“Pebble Cottage,” I say instantly. “Can we get that home on a bike?” As soon as I ask the question, I regret it, because I can predict how he’ll react. He will scoff and try to talk me down. He’ll tell me it’s impossible and that we’ll look ridiculous.
I have experience in these matters. Like the time Alex and I were walking back to his place from the grocery store, bundled up against the chilly November air, him carrying a paper bag of kale, garlic, chicken breasts, and spaghetti. On a street corner not too far from his apartment, there was a dresser with aFREEsign taped to it. It wassmall, more of an accent cabinet than a dresser, with three drawers and a cabinet. It had turned legs and sweet little dragonfly knobs. The paint was badly chipped, but the possibilities grabbed me, and I was already imagining what color I would paint it.
“I need that,” I gasped to Alex. He gave a little snort laugh.
“What?” he asked, like he didn’t see the gorgeous piece of furniture right in front of us.
“The dresser. I have the perfect spot for it in my living room. I’ve been looking for something for linens.”
“Linens? Don’t you have a towel closet?”
I looked up at his skeptical, annoyingly handsome face. “Will you help me carry it?”
He shifted the grocery bag from one arm to the other. “Carry it?”
“We could bring it back to your place. And then I could borrow my sister’s car later to come pick it up.”
“Um.” I could tell he was about to laugh, and I saw the moment he adjusted his expression to one of pacifying good sense. “Mal. How would we get it up the stairs? I live on the second floor.” He puts an arm around my shoulder. “You’ll find a better—”
“It’s not big,” I press. “We could definitely do it.”
He just stared at me, his mouth a straight, emotionless line. I couldn’t find the words for what I was trying to say: that people do this, carry furniture up two flights of stairs. Ideally not often, but when they have to. That it’s not a crazy idea. That I’m not one of his students with a harebrained scheme. That he could at least humor me, give me a little respect. After all, I hardly ever asked him for anything.
But his face wasn’t budging, and neither was his decision. Feeling stupid and frustrated, I shook my head and said, “Yeah, it’s dumb. Never mind.”
“And she sees sense,” Alex said, ruffling my hair.
Now I shudder slightly at the rankling memory. I’m about to tell Daniel to forget about it, that I obviously know we can’t carry a large mirror home on a bike. But before I can say a word, he’s walking up to the vendor, an older woman with curly white hair. He asks her something, gesturing with one hand from the mirror to our bikes over by the tree. She listens, holds up one finger, and rummages around in a clear plastic bin.
I hurry over to them just as the woman produces a roll of paper and some bubble wrap.
“That should work perfectly,” Daniel says. “How much do we owe you?”
“I got this,” I say, dying with curiosity about his plan as I tap my credit card. He and the saleswoman wrap the mirror carefully. We thank her and head back to our bikes.
“Um,” I say. “So, how are we going to carry it? Are we walking? Because I can hold it if you—”
“’Course not.” Daniel leans the mirror against the tree and rummages around in his panniers. He extracts a bright-orange bungee cord. Before I know what’s happening, he straps it around his back and then instructs me to slip the mirror inside the cords.
