CHAPTER 1
PUMPKIN SPICE SHOULD BE A LOVE LANGUAGE
ABBY
“Hey guys,BayAreaAbbychecking in at the Downtown Campbell Farmers Market this morning. I’ll be here from 10:00 a.m. until noon near the Main Street entrance for anyone that would like to bring your items for December's community donation. Firefighters often work back-to-back days without being able to go home to their families, and it’s especially hard during the holidays. Those that are interested in donating, please bring goodies, games, new appliances, and your appreciation items here. I’m gathering them now through the rest of this month and will deliver them on Christmas Eve to our local fire station to show our support. Come by and show your appreciation for all that they do. Can’t wait to meet you guys!”
Lowering my phone from the selfie position, I tap the red recording button to end the video and clickPublish, then slip my phone in the back pocket of my high waisted denim jeans.
Glancing around the market today, it’s thriving, and I love seeing that. There are so many small businesses and local farmers that spend so much time unloading their products or produce out of their trucks, setting everything up for just a fewhours of sellable time. But for some, it’s the only way they get in-person exposure to sell their items.
“Abby!” Sarah, from one of the vendor stands, is power walking toward me with a beaming smile.
“Hey, how are you?” I respond with a smile and a wave. But she doesn’t stop and barrels straight into me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a tight hug.
“Well, it’s nice to see you, too.” I can’t help but giggle.
“The post you made about my handmade soaps last week. I sold out, Abby. Completely sold out! I’m working double time trying to keep up with the demand. I’ve never been busier, more stressed, or happier. Thank you!” She pulls me in for another tight hug.
Moments like these are exactly why I spend so much time doing this.
“I’m so happy for you! You deserve it; your hand soaps are truly the best!” I reply, genuinely excited for her.
“I gotta get back to my station but I’m making you a basket, and I’ll drop it off to you next week. Thank you so much, Abby”—she gives me a grateful look—“really.”
She gives me one final squeeze then releases me before running back to her booth.
I can’t help but smile at her excitement and how much my little post helped her so tremendously.
I’m just a couple weeks shy of the one year anniversary of myBayAreaAbbySocial Share account, which has somehow blown up into something so unbelievable, I can hardly believe it myself some days.
Leaving my corporate job wasn’t the smartest decision I had ever made but with the inheritance my parents left me, coupled with the massive burn out that was challenging my mental health, I decided to quit on January 1st and haven’t looked back since.
With this change, I’ve been able to focus on some volunteer work and most importantly supporting the local small businesses. It wasn’t lucrative in the beginning, something to just fill my heart, but after a few viral videos and a couple paid sponsors—for companies I actually love to promote—now it gets me by.
Silicon Valley is a hard place for smaller companies to thrive and an even more difficult place to connect with people. With the sheer population you’d think it would be easy to meet people, connect, and socialize, but I’ve found the bigger the city, the weaker the community.
My Social Share page helps me feel whole with that missing piece.
Maybe I’m just trying to fill a void. Either way, it makes me happy.
“Abby,” another familiar voice calls my name but this one makes me cringe. On instinct, I drop and duck behind a random booth table to hide without looking in that direction.
Shit.
Why did I just do that? He called my name, he clearly saw me. My eyes scan the ground and I catch a glimmer of something shiny.
“I hope you dropped something and you’re not actually trying to hide.”
“Ah, ha!” Jumping up with a penny pinched between my thumb and pointer finger, I say, “found it.”
Sam’s brows squeeze together “You dropped to the ground like there was a grenade thrown at you, for a penny?”
“Every little bit counts, right?” I place the penny in my pocket and dodge his gaze, as I attempt to organize the produce on a table I don’t even work at.
Whose table is this anyway?
“I miss you, Abby. Please stop avoiding me.” He reaches over the table and grabs my hand. There was so little intimacy in our relationship that I would crave him to touch me, so much that I would melt into him when he would. Now, it just feels like acid on my skin.
