T

he sun is sinking as I walk.

There are times when sunset seems to be the low point of the day; that singular moment when all the light evaporates. But not today. By the time I reach Main Street, a few tendrils of pink still streak the sky and Elmway looks postcard perfect.

I stop in front of Sterling Inc. and ring the buzzer. I rub my hands together for warmth and look around. People keep referring to Elmway as the new Lakewood, but I disagree. Despite its growth, this place has clearly retained its small-town charm.

I ring the buzzer again. There were a few short flurries on the way over. Warm puddles of light mark the ground, the glow from the shops spilling out onto the sidewalk. It’s all simply adorable, from the quaint little stores with their delightful awnings to the old-fashioned lampposts to the large oaks stretching their branches. I turn to see if I can catch a glimpse of Josh, and notice how the drops of moisture glitter on the bare branches. A lot of things look glittery these days.

“You seem weird,” my brother Ari had said flatly before my trip up here. He’s 16 and going through a blunt stage.

“It’s called Happy. Far more pleasant than Gloomy,” I’d retorted. “Try it sometime.”

I ring the buzzer a third time. Peering into the window front, I notice a girl behind the cash register. I glance up into the security camera, give a wave, then turn back to watch the girl’s reaction. She looks frazzled and reaches for her phone. I back away quickly.

Bitterness wells up, hot and metallic in my mouth. A big drop of water falls from the awning, wetting my cheek. I want to walk away, but Josh’s tall figure approaches, his stride telling the world he isn’t afraid. I put on a smile and cling to Happy.

“You didn’t have to wait outside, it’s freezing!” he says, slightly breathless from the cold. For a split second I wonder if I should tell him about the girl behind the glass who won’t buzz me in. I decide against it. Josh sees the world from inside an iridescent bubble — a bubble I don’t have the energy or desire to pop right now.

He tries the door handle.

I nod toward the white button. “You have to ring the bell.” Josh, in his hat and jacket, his blonde beard cut close to his face, blue eyes smiling, is buzzed in right away.

The chashier is clearly shocked when I, the black girl who had so terrified her only moments before, enter the store with Josh. I bite my lip and let Josh do the talking.

“We’re looking for candlesticks.”

It takes her a moment to respond. “Like, um, Shabbos-licht type?” she asks.

Josh nods. I want to leave. Leave the store and the girl and her round green eyes and the questions splayed across her forehead.

The girl leads us into a large back room, lined with beautiful silver. Josh scans the shelves, then turns to me. “Pick something you really love.”

I pretend to look through the sets for a minute, though I see nothing but a blur of silver.

“I don’t really see anything here.” Which isn’t a lie, after all.

“Really?”

I look around for another minute. “I think I should bring my sister Tali along, she has an eye for quality. Anyway, they might have more options back in Brooklyn.”

Josh shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

We pass the girl on our way out.

“Thanks,” Josh says, always the gentlemen.

“Oh, you didn’t find anything?” She perks up. “We have more stuff, catalogs, let me show—”

I cut her off. “That’s okay.”

Our eyes meet.

Maybe some part of her wants to say sorry, but the word is stuck so far down her throat that if I stood here for another thousand years she still wouldn’t be able to bring it up. Maybe someone else would say something, but confrontation has never been my style.

When I was six, the girls in my class called me Yucky Yochi. I came home and my mother wrapped me in her arms, hugged me until the tears subsided. Then she told me to put on my raincoat. We stepped outside into the drizzly afternoon and she traced the raindrops dripping down my polka dot jacket.

“Do you see how the drops can’t touch you, Yochi? Do you see how warm and dry you are inside? The next time someone says something that hurts you, I want you to slip on an imaginary raincoat, let the words drip off of you. They can’t hurt you. You’re a delicious girl and nothing anyone says can change that.”

And that’s been my strategy ever since. Protect myself, let the words drip off, let the looks slide away, don’t engage.

We step outside, walk in comfortable silence, winter’s last stand swirling around us. As we pass the rows of apartment buildings near the Elmway Yeshivah, Josh points out a small balcony that belongs to the apartment we signed on yesterday. I force a smile in return. We turn onto a side street filled with large, beautiful homes.

“You seem quiet,” Josh says, his brow slightly furrowed. “Anything on your mind?”

“Just tired, I guess.” I’d come up from Brooklyn to take care of a bunch of pre-wedding errands — it had been a busy few days.

Josh nods, though I’m not sure he believes me. The green-eyed girl from Sterling Inc. keeps popping up in front of me. Just one more face to add to my story, one more stitch of hurt sewn tightly around my heart.

I’m distinctly aware of the fact that Josh and I are living two different moments right now, and the distance between us suddenly frightens me. I wonder how much I should be sharing with him.

Of course, we discussed the challenges I faced growing up black and frum. Twelve years of Bais Yaakov, seminary in Eretz Yisrael, shidduchim. I explained some of the finer points I thought might be lost on him, a baal teshuvah who grew up in ultra-liberal Portland. Like how I learned from an early age to differentiate between the rampant ignorance I encounter daily and the actual racism that hides like a fault line just beneath the surface.

But there are things he doesn’t see, hasn’t lived, can’t understand. He didn’t realize how embarrassing I found my friends’ display of exaggerated excitement at our vort. They meant well, I’m sure, but their ebullience seemed to reveal how little faith they had that I would ever find someone who would marry me.