Page 16 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

I have to swallow a lump in my throat along with the delicious fudge. All of my adult life (like, fifteen and up), I dreamed of being a music teacher, of making money doing what I loved, without the stress of performances and auditions. I dreamed of having the same impact on a community that my music teacher had on me when she first gave me an outlet, first told me I could take this big black-and-white instrument and not just bang on the keys, but make music that reflected every mood.

“You okay?” Gordon asks, suddenly squinting at me.

“In the school, it’s nice, being part of the community. The kids know me. The parents who volunteer know me. The rest of the town, not so much, and why should they? But tonight, whenever you introduce me, people suddenly know me. ‘I’m the music teacher.’” I let out a happy, wet-sounding laugh.

Gordon looks confused. “But you are the music teacher.”

“It’s something I wanted for a long time, but it’s also... It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

Geez, this guy. But I smile, and I try. “Being a teacher can make you feel invisible and seen at the same time. Your kids rely on you, but then you’re on your own at night, or in the community, unless a child or parent recognizes you. You feel important and lonely, or possibly overworked and underappreciated at the same time.” I look at him thoughtfully and break off half of the massive slab of fudge he bought for me, handing it to him. “I bet first responders feel the same. You’re always there when people need you, but out of the uniform? Just an ordinary guy.” I look around the bustling little Night Market with fresher eyes. People all seem to know each other, or at least be friendly and willing to get to know you. Gordon has gotten nonstop waves, which he just answers with a returned swat of his hand and a grunt.

“I feel very welcome here. More than I did in my own home,” he says slowly, “but that is because this place is special. The people make it special. People like you. Who could stay, if they wanted.”

“Oh, not the guilt trip,” I moan, only half-joking.

“No guilt. Just knowing.” Gordon moves us on to a section of beautifully carved stone items. “Genesis,” he says.

“The Bible?” I ask, puzzled.

“No. Me.”

The tall, dark, and handsome guy running the stand is apparently also on the syllable conservation plan.

“These are beautiful.” I gently run a finger over two candlestick holders made of a smooth, finely grained stone that almost shimmers.

“Wrap them,” Gordon says, money on the little wooden counter.

“What? No!”

“I already paid. Too late.”

In less time than I would think possible, the stoneware is wrapped in paper, and we’re on our way, walking along the darker section of the Night Market, the very back row of the large lot that’s backed by rows of pines and is somehow more shadowy than the rows of stalls and tables before it.

“You don’t have to do that. I can pay for things, too,” I chide.

“You’re my guest. I asked you.”

“Then next time, if I ask you, you have to let me pay?” I counter.

Gordon looks annoyed. “I suppose. I don’t like that, though.”

I soften a little, because he genuinely looks distressed at the thought of my paying for a date. “You could come over for dinner. Have you ever had Filipino food?”

What the hell am I promising? I usually rely on my mom and titas for that kind of thing.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Well, you should.”

“Okay. I will.”

“Tomorrow night?”

There’s an audible swallow. I think it came from both of us. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. You’re welcome.”