Page 22 of The Yes Factor

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.

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