by Ruby Lang
He would be fine after it was over—well, it was over now mostly, and it was not fine. But he’d live.
Her face had closed and although it hurt to see it shut to him, it’s what they both wanted. She said, “You don’t have to tell me you’re giving me a gift. It’s not some favor. You’re right, okay? I can’t do anything about any feelings I may have for you or for anyone. But relieved isn’t how I feel.”
“Me neither,” he said.
He stepped closer to her, close so that he could take one last look, touch her hair one last time. She looked up and he kissed her cheek quickly. Then he slung his backpack over his shoulder and took the garbage bag—the rest of the evidence he’d been there—and he left, into the night, into the near darkness, and he went back to his empty apartment.
Chapter Eleven
Labor Day Monday
It was a perfect day for a block party. The sun shone, but a blast of rainy weather over Saturday had eased the rest of the weekend into cooler but still sunny and bright days. White tents lined the block. A bouncy castle stood at one end, ready for an influx of kids eager to get in some screaming and jumping before school started later in the week. On the other side, a small stage had been erected for the speeches and performances scheduled. Only the space in front of the garden was kept open so that people could wander in and admire it.
Early September had favored the gardens with a burst of stunningly vivid dahlias. A few students were stationed at the plots to show people the crops growing but Mrs. Freeman chose to guard her own tomatoes.
Mrs. Espinosa had an iPad and a lanyard. She strode through the street, Ty hurrying beside her.
“Did you check on the licenses? Are the vendors ready? Has the photographer shown up for the photo booth? Can we ask the sound man to turn down the bass? I always feel like I’m going to have a heart attack when the bass is too loud.”
To every question, Ty answered an affirmative. They’d been through everything at least three times, but Mrs. E was nervous. And so was Ty. It wasn’t as if he’d ever helped plan an event before. He didn’t have parties.
He could probably throw one now, a really great one, considering how much he now knew about the ins and outs of renting bouncy castles.
At least when the fundraiser opened he would be too busy to think much about Magda. That was the theory.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were pining,” Jenny said, during a slower moment at the Dumplings of the World booth.
“Pining is for trees.”
Jenny wrapped a samosa in a paper napkin and handed it to a waiting kid. “What you are doing,” his sister said, “is the very definition. Sometimes you’re alert, you’re looking around. Then suddenly you see something—someone—and you get this dreamy far-off look that I remember from high school, and then your eyes get sad and hungry, and I get an overwhelming urge to feed you another pastelillo. You’ve had five already this morning.”
“I’ll stuff more money in the till.”
“I’m paying, and you’re changing the subject. This whole time have you been doing this whole garden thing because of a girl? To think I’m modeling my life on you, looking out for my own purpose, and it turns out this whole time you’ve thrown yourself into this because you’re mooning.”
“I’m not mooning. I’m not pining. It’s pretty much the opposite from what you think. I’m definitely not pleasing a certain woman because of my involvement. But even if I were doing this because I was enthralled, what would be wrong with that?”
“It would be wrong if she didn’t support your excellent work and was being a jerk about you spending time on it. Too bad I hate her, because one of us Yangs needs some action.”
“Don’t hate her.”
“Too late,” Jenny sang, handing three pastelillos to a harried-looking man. “Can you message Mr. S and tell him we’re running out of the beef?”
Ty pulled out his phone and tapped out a text. Without looking at his sister, he said, “It’s complicated and I’d try to explain, but this isn’t the time and place.”
“The time and place was a couple of weeks ago when you had a scrape on your leg and scratches on your arms, and a huge hickey on your neck.”
“Oh, my God.”
“But I didn’t ask about them because gross and also”—she did a gruff imitation of a dad-voice, even though it sounded nothing like their own dad—“I was really hoping you’d tell me on your own.”
It was at this very moment Magda walked up to the booth.
God, she looked beautiful.
He should treat her politely, but coolly. This was awkward. It should be awkward. But he was so glad, so overwhelmingly happy to see her, to look at her. Of course, he’d spied her in the garden and had called her once or twice to ask technical questions about real estate, questions he probably could have Googled.
He was pining.
They’d kept the conversations short. They talked in daylight hours. Because a longer talk at night would mean silence and breathing and memories.
But as they stared soft-eyed at each other, his sister sprang out from behind the booth, wiping her hands on her apron, and said, “Hi, I’m Tyson’s sister, Jenny. And judging by the way Ty is gazing at you, I’d say you were the person we were just talking about. Maybe you can give me some of the lowdown on what’s happening here.”
Jenny smiled wide, showing all her bright, white teeth, and Tyson had a sudden recollection that his baby sister was very good with knives.
* * *
She shouldn’t have come.
A couple of gardeners nodded at her as she made her way down the block in sunglasses and a hat. A set of speakers blasted reggaeton while a band seemed to be setting up to play. Some of the local businesses and familiar street vendors had put up tents: a few people had taken out folding chairs and sat fanning themselves and chatting, others sold earrings and used books and records, clothing and bags pulled out of the backs of closets. And there was the food from all over: tostones, Jamaican meat patties, grilled corn smeared with cotija cheese and cayenne, coco helado.
But Ty was here, and despite the fact she told herself to chill, she was happy to see him, to be near him; she couldn’t stop her legs from carrying her right to him. Instead of looking hurt, or awkward, or confused, that damn man beamed at her, his whole face glowed for her, or maybe she glowed for him. She couldn’t stop the warmth, the longing, the happiness. No matter how much she reminded herself that he was not for her, that he was moving thousands of miles away, that she had not one single justification for spending her time with him, she wanted.
So much for playing it cool.
Then Ty’s sister, the chef, had stepped out front, despite the line of curious, hungry onlookers.
Ty moved between them swiftly. He was always moving between her and danger. “Magda,” he murmured, before turning to his sister. “Jenny, I’d like you to meet Magda Ferrer. She’s a real estate broker in the neighborhood.”
She felt a surge of affection at Ty’s tone. Play nice, was the stern warning behind Ty’s words to his sister. Magda and Ty had parted awkwardly, yet he still wanted to protect her. But as a sometimes bratty younger sister herself, Magda knew that wouldn’t be effective at all, and for some reason, the fact that he wouldn’t win this small sibling skirmish made her like him more.
She was really far gone.
Ty was standing so close to her, closer than he’d been in a long while. He smelled good, like fried foods, and his lips looked soft with the sheen of oil.
Do not take a bite out of Ty in front of everyone, especially his sister.
Magda summoned up all of her willpower and said to Jenny, “I’ve heard so much about you, but I shouldn’t keep you because I think you’re starting to get backed up.”
Jenny opened her mouth to say something sassy no doubt, but Magda’s words reg
istered a beat later, and Jenny scrambled quickly back to the other side of the table.
Ty gave a brief laugh at Jenny’s quick retreat. “You are a talented woman to know exactly what to say to my sister to get her to back off.”
She was blushing all over, even her heels tingled, not just at his words, but at his breath as he leaned down to speak quietly in her ear.
“It’s only temporary,” she said. “She’s a pro. She’ll have it back under control in a minute. Then she’ll be back to question me.”
“She’s too smart,” he said with some pride. “But I didn’t say anything about you—I know you don’t want...”
Well, she did want. Despite all they’d said, she still wanted. And he’d been standing too close, talking with her too intimately for too long already.
He’s leaving.
She stepped away. “I’m going to go help her.”
“Is that a good idea? It might get messy and you’re wearing a sundress.”
“At least I’m not wearing the suit.”
His eyes were warm as his gaze took her in, lingering over the shadows and curves of her.
“I like the dress,” he said.
She couldn’t imagine why he did, because to her it felt overly constricting at this moment. She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, Ty was still staring at her, and behind him, Jenny glared.
Magda sighed. “Go help Mrs. Espinosa. I think she’s arguing with the band. I’m going in.”
“I’m not going to leave you to deal with my sister alone.”
“At least she doesn’t have any tomatoes.”
Ty laughed softly. “Fine. Whistle if you need backup.”
She watched him walk away. She liked his walk, the way he aimed his head right at a problem and the rest of him followed. But she shouldn’t be his worry right now. She squared her shoulders, wishing she had the suit right at this moment—it would have been some armor, some authority—and strode toward Jenny’s booth.
“You can’t be here.”
“I’ll take the cash, you heat and serve. It’s easier with two people.”
“Should I trust you around money?”
“Probably not.”
At Jenny’s expression, Magda decided she probably shouldn’t make too many cracks, not when the woman didn’t want to joke with her. Magda cleared her throat and started handing people their change. “I’m not conning your brother into looking the other way while I steal the garden’s fundraising money. Give Ty some credit. He’s too—too good to want that or trust that.”
“He is. At one point I might’ve even said he was a pure, straight arrow, but lately, he’s been showing me that good can have a lot of shadings and dimensions.”
Magda continued to work with her for a while, greeting customers and handing out change.
“So what is your story? What is my brother not telling me?”
Magda cleared her throat. No point in hiding the truth. “I’m the broker who’s trying to sell the lot.”
“The lot. What lot? Oh, the garden. That’s you. You’re the one showing it to developers.”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“But Ty likes you anyway.”
“Yeah. And I like him.”
Jenny shoved a selection of dumplings into a wax bag for a waiting woman. When she turned again, some curiosity had diluted Jenny’s fierce expression. “But he’s leaving, and you aren’t about to give up trying to sell the garden.”
“If I don’t sell it, my boss will. At least maybe I can help field the gardeners’ offer. I can make sure they get a chance.”
“But you can’t do anything else? Plead their case?”
“You know, it isn’t really their land. People seem to keep forgetting that part. I have to represent the actual owner. I have to do what’s in their best interests.”
“And what’s in their best interests is making as much money as possible off the sale.”
The line was getting longer and Jenny’s movements were getting quicker and, if possible, defter. Magda could imagine what Ty’s sister would be like in a professional kitchen. For a while, they were busy enough that they only exchanged terse sentences. It wasn’t exactly the kind of situation in which she could endear herself to her—what? Boyfriend’s sister? Not exactly. Her nemesis’s sibling? That wasn’t right either.
It was clear Jenny had been considering it the whole time, too. Because when the line cleared, she turned to Magda and said, “I don’t want you to hurt him.”
“I don’t want to either.”
“Then why are you here? Doing this? Guilt?”
She gestured around her at the booth.
Yes? No? Maybe? It was the chance to see Ty again.
That and her appointments had all canceled on her. No one really wanted to see an apartment on Labor Day and she didn’t want to show one. She could have spent her time combing through the database or editing her listings.
But the truth was she wanted a couple of hours to herself. She wanted to wear a pretty summer dress she’d bought a lifetime ago. She wanted Ty to see her in it.
“I don’t care about your guilt—”
“It’s not—”
“But I do care about my brother. I’m sure the bouncy castle’s doing big business, but you and I both know that our It’s a Small World dumpling stall here isn’t going to sell near enough. Ty knows it, too. Of course, he does. I’m sure he’s already run the numbers and understands within a dollar how much we’re going to make here. It’s going to take something more to keep this garden. And the more is usually more money.”
“They could raise enough.”
“You’re only going to hurt him. You’re going to sell to some richy-rich person or company because that’s who has the cash, that’s who always wins, and when it happens, the garden is gone. You can have the best intentions to keep up with these people you care about on this project, but they won’t keep it up. He’s going to lose the friends he’s made here, this entire community of people who like him and enjoy him, and get to see an entire other huge part of him that I—I didn’t know existed. My brother who I’ve known all my life.
“He’s leaving, you know. Because I don’t think he wants to watch something he loves be destroyed again. Slowly. It’s on his street. He won’t be able to avoid walking past it. And you’ll have helped it.”
Magda found she’d been holding her breath. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought that way before. But Jenny saying it out loud scraped her wide open.
Ty’s sister had already turned to straighten up her work area. She looked cool and composed because this was what she did daily: cut right through the meat and tendon, right to the bone in the most efficient ways possible.
Magda thought of abandoning the stall. It was easier than letting Jenny see her cry, letting Jenny see that she’d put into words everything that Magda had been afraid of—not that the other woman seemed to be paying attention after she’d delivered her opinion.
The fair was getting louder. A youth choir had gone onstage and they were singing to an enthusiastic, clapping crowd. In the distance, children screeched in the bouncy castle, and the roar of generators and the crackle of grills filled the air. But in the five square feet of tent occupied by Magda and Jenny, the silence stayed thick.
She straightened. She was going to tell Jenny that the reason his sister had never known Ty was so good was because she’d taken all of Ty’s truth and kindness and generosity for granted. Magda was going to argue that Ty wouldn’t lose his friends or his community—that what was making Ty lose it was the fact that he was leaving.
But that wasn’t really what she wanted to say either. Before Magda could sort out the arguments in her head, a familiar voice piped up. “Magda, what are you doing in this booth?”
Magda tur
ned slowly. This day was only getting worse.
It was her sister.
* * *
Ty had come very close to having to put out a literal fire. One of the men handling the grills had opened the hatch to a wall of flame. And Mrs. E, being Mrs. E, had rushed forward, waving her iPad, and only Ty’s hand on her arm prevented her from slamming the tablet down on the barbecue.
Apart from that near-disaster, the rest of the fundraiser seemed to be going well. The food and craft vendors were doing brisk business, the youth choir trilled lovingly in the distance, the Museum of Harlem History and Heritage was handing out vouchers for free visits, and had set up a small exhibit of photographs, one in particular of which Ty planned to show Magda. He got to the garden’s own booth, where some of the high schoolers were handing out free vegetables—mostly zucchini. The gardeners were willing to part with time and money to support the garden—but not their precious tomatoes.
Feeling relieved that things were running more or less smoothly and that they’d managed to avoid one conflagration, Ty moved back toward the dumpling tent only to encounter another potential disaster.
A woman was leaning over the table to hiss at Jenny. As he hurried up, the woman shout-whispered, “Why are you upsetting my sister?”
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
But Magda was talking in low tones to the woman—a woman who looked a lot like her.
He slipped inside the tent. “I told you not to give Magda a hard time,” he said to Jenny.
“She’s a big girl, she can take what I dish out—and what I dish out is a hard serving of truth.”
“Great. Put it on the menu in Portland, then. I’m sure some people will be interested in your version. But right now, you’re operating a dumpling booth for charity.”
“Are you saying you’re eager for me to move?”
“No. I’m saying I want you to stop being an asshole right here.”