I put my hands on my hips. “That’s about cheating, not buying woven baskets at the market in the Bahamas.”
“Same principle.”
“It’s not the same at all.”
He taps his phone on the card reader and hands me my new basket. “Here you go, beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
I tuck the basket under my arm and try not to smile too hard.
“You know buying me things isn’t going to make me like you more.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looks down at the basket, then back at me. “I didn’t buy it because I wanted credit. I bought it because you smiled when you touched it.”
Well.
That is much harder to argue with.
I turn away before my face tells on me and keep walking through the market. The whole place feels alive without being too busy. Music plays from somewhere nearby, and vendors call out to people passing by, offering jewelry, prints, bags, carved animals, little bottles of hot sauce, and soaps wrapped in brown paper.
I stop at a booth full of small paintings, all bright colors and bold lines. Some are beach scenes, some are women in big hats, some are little houses lined up in colors I would never think to put together but somehow work.
One catches my eye immediately.
It’s small, maybe eight by ten, with two women sitting near the water, their backs turned, heads tilted toward each other like they’re telling secrets. The brushstrokes are loose and confident, the edges soft enough to make the whole thing feel private. Something about it makes me want to look longer.
Javonte stops beside me. “You like that one?”
“I do.”
He reaches for it, and I put my hand on his wrist.
“No.”
He freezes immediately. “No?”
“No,” I say, softer this time. “Don’t just buy it.”
His brow creases, and for half a second, I can tell he doesn’t understand.
“It’s okay to let me want something for a minute,” I tell him. “You don’t have to fix the wanting.”
His face changes, like the words reached a part of him he wasn’t expecting me to touch.
He lowers his hand. “Okay.”
I wait for him to say something else, to defend himself or explain that he was just trying to be nice, but he doesn’t. He just steps back a little and lets me look.
That should not feel as big as it does.
But it does.
I turn back to the painting and study it again. “I like how unfinished it feels.”
