Page 23 of Between Love and War
Magnolia Heights is already gearing up for Christmas, even though it’s barely October. Fairy lights hang lazily frombalconies. Parol lanterns dangle over the main street, glowing faintly even in daylight.
Today is also the first day of the pop-up market. It stretches down the road, white tents lined like dominoes.
I remember when I was a kid, and Tricia and I lived in Seoul. We only lived there until I was seven, so the memory is grainy. But there are markets just like this one. But while both places exude a certain warmth and homey feel, there’s nothing that compares tothis.
Each stall looks homemade: candles poured into old coffee jars, hand-painted mugs, trays of warm pan de sal in baskets. Someone’s handing out free sampaloc candy at the end of the row. There’s even a karaoke machine set up near the food trucks, and the feedback squeals every few seconds while someone tries to set it up.
For once, nobody’s staring. So I figure that it’s safe to roam around and snack a little. I approach one stall selling puto bumbong.
And then I hear it.
Laughter.
Sharp and familiar.
I glance behind me and see Kate. She’s at a vegetable stall a few tents away, hair falling loose from her ponytail, tote bag already stuffed with leafy greens and fresh bread. She’s arguing with the vendor—playfully, not seriously—holding up a tomato.
I should walk away. Pay for my puto bumbong and leave in silence.
But I don’t wanna go back to that quiet house, and Kate isright there.
I pay for my food and cut across the row of stalls, passing between tables of woven baskets and rows of bottled honey. She’s mid-negotiation with the tomato guy when she glances up,and the look on her face when she spots me is priceless—like she just discovered mold on her bread.
“Oh, great,” she mutters, immediately defensive. “What areyoudoing here?”
I hold up my bag of puto bumbong. “Shopping.” I also take a tomato from where she’s buying. “Isn’t that what this place is for?”
“This is my thing,” she says, clutching her tote tighter like I’m about to steal it. “I do this every year—buy one item per stall to support the locals.”
I blink at her. “Every single stall?”
“Yes.”
“That’s… aggressive.”
“It’s supportive,” she corrects. “Thanks, Kuya Mark!” She smiles at the man behind the stall, then she steps to the next booth.
I follow. “Wow, local hero.”
She ignores me and buys a jar of peanut brittle. I wait until she thanks the vendor—then buy the same jar. Her head snaps toward me. “What are you doing?”
“Supporting the locals,” I say, dead serious. “It’s my new thing.”
She narrows her eyes. “Stop copying me.”
“I’m not copying. I’m matching.” I hold up my jar next to hers like we’re taking a photo. “See? Team spirit.”
Kate pauses mid-aisle, juggling two overflowing tote bags. With a resigned sigh, she sets one bag on the ground, digs out another folded tote from inside it, and starts transferring her haul.
Before she can pick the first one back up, I grab it.
“So, anyway,” I say, casually slinging it over my shoulder and ignoring her shocked expression, “what’s next?”
“Give me my bag.”
“Nope.” I smile. “You’ll just slow yourself down if you’re carrying both. And by slow, I mean… slower than you already are.”
She glares and moves to the next stall of hand-painted mugs. She picks up one with uneven lettering saying ‘World’s Okayest Human.’
