Read A Second Bite at the Apple for Free Online Page B

this. “I’m sure they’ll be fine without you,” I say. “They’ll understand.”
    â€œNot Rick the Prick. Someone needs to show up, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”
    â€œBut maybe if you called him and explained the situation . . .”
    Heidi lets out a burp and a long whimper. “Seven thirty, Wild Yeast Bakery,” she says. “And don’t be late.”
    Â 
    Unfortunately, between the waist-high snowdrifts and my utter lack of motivation, I don’t make it to the market until 7:45, and by the time I get there, I am out of breath from trundling through the snow for a mile. The weekly market operates next to a small park with public tennis courts and playing fields, just west of Dupont Circle. Shapeless piles of snow cover the grass and dirt paths where the market usually runs, so today the vendors set up along the sidewalk, just beside the parking meters, which poke their heads through the snow mounds like little meerkats.
    I trudge along the sidewalk past a series of tents and scan the vendors for Wild Yeast Bakery. There are no signs, and I have no idea where I am going.
    â€œExcuse me,” I say, approaching a man about my age standing beneath a green-and-white striped tent. He whirls around and smiles, and my stomach flutters as his eyes land on mine. A red knit hat covers the bulk of his dark, wavy hair, and a few stray bits peek out above his round eyes, which are the color of black coffee. His chiseled jaw is covered by a smattering of stubble, and with his red-and-black plaid jacket, he looks a bit like a lumberjack, if lumberjacks also looked like Abercrombie and Fitch models. “Are you Rick?”
    The man smirks. Definitely more model than lumberjack. “I’m Drew,” he says. “Are you looking for Wild Yeast? They’re all the way at the end, with the red checkered tent.”
    I spot it. “Great, thanks.”
    Drew nods, studying me with his eyes. I am suddenly very aware that I am not wearing makeup and, in related news, also look like death.
    â€œGood luck,” he says. From his tone, I’m guessing I’ll need all the luck I can get.
    I make my way over to Wild Yeast’s tent, where I find a plump man wearing a black down parka and furry brown Ushanka unloading a stack of bread-filled crates from his truck. It’s parked across from one of the meters, in the middle of what normally serves as Twenty-third Street.
    â€œRick?”
    He throws two crates onto one of the cloth-lined tables. “Who the hell are you?”
    â€œI’m Heidi’s friend, Sydney. I’m filling in for her today?”
    He lets out a sarcastic laugh, revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. “Is that so?”
    â€œShe got food poisoning last night. She’s really sick.” I wait for him to reply, but he says nothing and instead stares at me, the wrinkled skin around his eyes drooping like melting wax. “I thought maybe she called you about it?”
    Rick shuffles back to the truck and grabs another stack of crates. “And what if she did? Doesn’t change the fact that it’s seven-freaking-fifty, and you’re just getting here.”
    I clutch my bag closer to my body. “Sorry—the snow slowed me down.”
    â€œLike I care? Maybe Heidi didn’t tell you, but I’m a real son of a bitch when it comes to being on time.”
    No, Heidi never told me that specifically, but I’m guessing the epithet “Rick the Prick” didn’t come from nowhere.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say.
    â€œI’ll give you a pass this time. But in the future, show up late and I will make your life hell.”
    I am about to inform Rick there will be no future for him and me, that today is a one-time favor for a friend, but I decide my survival over the next four and a half hours depends on my keeping my mouth shut.
    Rick grabs another stack of crates from the back