Page 21 of The Yes Factor

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 honest 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.

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