23. Adrian

"And here we are," Jamie says, excitement plain in his voice as he turns into a massive gated parking lot. He glances over at me, lifting his sunglasses onto the top of his head, before chuckling. "What's that face, darlin'?"

"This is huge," I say as I take in the number of parked cars, tables, and tents we pass on our way deeper into the lot. When he said he was taking me to a flea market, I imagined something smaller—much smaller. Something more like a glorified yard sale.

"I told you it was at the fairgrounds," he points out.

"Yeah, but they do this every weekend?"

"Yup. Sometimes the flea market part of it is smaller, especially when there's another event going on—like the Christmas artisan fair—but rain or shine, the flea market is open Saturday and Sunday every week," he explains. "This is the busiest I've seen it in a while, though. So help me keep an eye out for a parking spot."

I nod and turn my attention out the window. "So you and your parents really do come here a lot? The Montgomery Saturday morning tradition thing wasn't an exaggeration?"

"Yeah, we do—well, more me and my mom than the whole family. It started mostly because my mom likes to shop at the local artisan market in the building we passed on the way in. You've seen their house now and can see how much she loves crafts," he says. Then he perks up and exclaims, "Oh, spot! Score."

He's right about that. His parent's house reminded me a lot of his two apartments—full of life and color. Except in his parent's house, at least half the art, blankets, or throw pillows were handmade by Shelia, and spare craft supplies sat on surfaces instead of the newspapers and books that cover Jamie's places.

"So when did the flea market part come in?" I ask as he pulls into the parking space.

"I don't quite remember, but apparently as a kid, I was always fascinated with antiques or vintage things. And now, it's just sort of stuck." He puts the car in park and cuts the ignition. "Can you reach behind my seat and get the windshield sun reflector?"

"Sure," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt to better be able to reach it. "And why vintage things?"

"I think it's because they have a story. I may not know what it is, but they've seen things, been places, meant something to someone at some point or another." He unfurls the reflector and puts it in place. "Ready?"

I nod, and we climb out of the car, meeting around the trunk.

"That probably sounds a little weird, but I don't know. I guess I just think old stuff is cooler than new stuff." He shrugs.

"I don't think it sounds weird at all," I say, taking his hand.

"Really?" He laces our fingers together and swings our hands between us a little as we walk.

"No, I kind of get it, actually. I never really thought about it until now, but I think I enjoy buying used books or records for a similar reason." I hesitate for a moment, wondering how much I should give away, but press on. He's giving a peek into a side of his life close to his heart by bringing me to his home. I can at least attempt to do the same.

"I like reading the notes people left behind in the margins and seeing how well-worn the vinyl sleeve is. It makes me feel connected to whoever had it before me, even though I don't know the person. I didn't have a lot of that growing up."

He squeezes my hand then lifts it to his mouth to press a kiss to my knuckle—a silent acknowledgement without asking for me to say anymore, which I appreciate. "So, then what sort of weird, unnecessary thing for your apartment should we be on the lookout for?"

"I don't remember actually agreeing to this quest," I say.

"You didn't disagree, either, though," he counters.

"True, but that's because you jumped my bones before I had the chance."

"I had my gorgeous veterinarian boyfriend in my hometown apartment. Can you blame me?" He flashes me a grin. "Besides, you didn't seem to mind."

"That I did not," I admit.

"So, weird flea market find?" he asks again as we pass a table full of antique arrowheads and cannonball fragments. "Come on, it's just like a used book—a connection, just one that doesn't serve a purpose."

"What's wrong with something serving a purpose? Without a purpose, it's just something that sits on a shelf and wastes space," I argue.

"Takes up space, not wastes it," he says pointedly. "Things are allowed to take up space. You're allowed to take up space."

Well, fuck. I didn't wake up this morning expecting my boyfriend to drop deep character assessments on me, but here we are. I feel a sudden lump in my throat that I quickly swallow past. Then I stop and pull him out of the way of the main foot traffic pattern. I move so I'm facing him and stare at him for a moment.

"Everything alright? Was that too much for me to say?" he asks tentatively.

I shake my head. "No, it wasn't too much. Although, everything is not alright because I really want to kiss you in a way that is probably not suitable for the public. Or for the South."

He laughs, a little breathlessly. "No, probably not."

I smile softly and nod. "Thank you, though."

"You're welcome."

Taking a deep breath, I turn and scan the parking lot full of tables and tents.

"Would you like to start with looking at vinyls?" he asks. "There are a few booths that are usually here and have—well, I was going to say good collections, but I don't actually know that since I know nothing about vinyl. But they have a lot."

"Yeah, that sounds good," I say and let him lead me toward a tent with at least six tables of boxes full of vinyls.

Although I could probably spend hours sorting through records, just like I do at almost any bookstore, I try to be quick. We spend about forty minutes looking through boxes at a few different booths, and I manage to find three albums I remember listening to a lot as a kid but don't have yet.

"Now what?" he asks as I tuck my last purchase in the reusable bag he'd tucked into his pocket ‘just in case.'

"I don't know. This was your idea, not mine," I say.

He rolls his eyes and takes my hand again. "Fine, we're just going to walk around until something catches your eye then."

We weave our way through a few rows, and while a lot catches my eye, it's mostly because there are some truly bizarre things on these tables. Creepy dolls, unidentifiable paintings, and weird lamps. But then we turn to go down the next row, and I spot a small metal object on the corner of a table filled with mostly dishes and serving ware.

Almost immediately, Jamie picks up on it. "Find something?"

"Maybe," I admit, taking a step closer.

He lets go of my hand, and I pick the object up. It looks vaguely like a candlestick, which explains why it's on this table. But as I turn it over, and notice the bell shape of one end, I realize it's exactly what I suspected.

"What is it?" he asks, hooking his chin on my shoulder to look at it with me.

"An antique stethoscope—maybe from the fifties," I say, smiling. "I remember seeing one like it at the Walter Reed medical museum."

"Walter Reed has a museum?"

"Yeah. I went with my mom and dad when we first moved to DC. It's what got me interested in medicine, actually—well, sort of. I figured out pretty quickly that human medicine would not be the place for me."

"Yeah, you don't like people," he teases.

"That I do not." I take another moment to inspect the stethoscope, then go to set it down.

"You should get it," he says before taking a step back.

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeats. "It's literally the perfect flea market find for you. It reminds you of something you saw in a museum that inspired your career."

"Yeah, but I don't need it."

"I disagree," he says brightly before plucking the stethoscope off the table.

"What are you—"

"Excuse me, how much for this?" he asks the person sitting in front of a cash box behind the table.

"Since it doesn't have a mate, twenty bucks," the seller says.

I open my mouth to say that it doesn't have a mate because it's an antique medical instrument, not a candlestick, but Jamie cuts me off before I can.

"Sold," he says, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He fishes out a twenty-dollar bill and hands it to the seller with a smile. "Thank you. Have a nice day."

"Jamie, you didn't have to do that," I say once we're out of earshot of the table.

"Shh," he says, leaning over to press a kiss to my cheek as he places the stethoscope in my hands. "You clearly wanted it. Besides, I feel like we just got a crazy deal because that person didn't know what this actually was. I'd guess antique medical equipment probably goes for hundreds on places like eBay."

He's right. It usually does go for a lot more than twenty dollars. He's also right that something about it called to me. I'm just so used to that voice saying "but think about having to pack it later" being louder than any desire for something that will just sit on a shelf, unused.

But clearly, Jamie is even louder than that voice, and I think I really need that.

With a small smile, I tuck the stethoscope in the bag with my records. "Thank you," I say before kissing him quickly on the cheek.

He grins. "Okay, well, with that mission accomplished, now it's barbecue time," he says, holding out his hand.

"It's barely eleven," I protest.

"It's never too early for the world's best barbecue," he says, holding out his hand.

I fondly roll my eyes, but take his hand anyway to let him lead me to the car.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up in front of a small, almost hole in the wall restaurant in a strip mall.

"This is the world's best barbecue?" I ask skeptically.

"No, that's McCall's, but that's in Goldsboro and takes an hour to get to on a good day. This is my go-to place, though." He goes to get out of the car, but stops. "Oh, wait, before I forget and become miserable later..."

I furrow my brow as he fiddles with a keychain on his keyring. When he unscrews some sort of cap and shakes a tablet into his hand, I can't stop my frown. I'm not certain, but it's safe to assume it's an antacid. I've never realized he carries on his keychain before, but it's concerning. It means his reflux is bad enough that he has to keep it on-hand at all times, and if it's that bad, it may be causing long-lasting damage.

"Okay, good to go," he says, screwing the cap back on his pill keychain.

"Are you sure you're okay to eat barbecue? Couldn't it trigger your reflux?" I ask carefully, not wanting to overstep or seem controlling.

"I'm usually fine, but that's why I took an antacid. Now come on!"

He climbs out of the car, and I sigh before following suit. That wasn't exactly the answer I was hoping for, but I don't want to push it and make him mad at me. I'll just have to pay attention and hope I can eventually convince him to take it more seriously.

The restaurant is a fast casual kind of place with a counter you order at before picking your own table. It's also surprisingly packed, which I guess bodes well for the quality of the food. There's at least one free table in the corner, though, which he points to.

"Do you want to snag us that table while I order?" he asks.

"Sure. I assume you're picking my meal for me?" I say with a smirk.

"Yup, just trust me, darlin'."

I shake my head fondly, then head over to the table. Within five minutes, he's already walking over with two baskets of food and water bottles tucked under each arm.

"That was fast," I say.

"That's why I like this place. It's fast and good." He slides a basket with a pulled pork sandwich and chips and a water bottle in front of me.

I expect him to dig into his food, but he just stares at me. "You're going to watch me take the first bite, aren't you?"

"Yes."

He watches with barely concealed excitement as I take a bite of the pulled pork sandwich. I suppress a laugh, not wanting to choke. He's so excited he looks almost like a golden retriever, and it's incredibly endearing.

"Well?" he asks before I've even finished chewing.

I take my time, then swallow before answering. I don't know if it's the best barbecue I've ever had, but the sauce is good—a combination of sweet, spicy, and vinegary that shouldn't work, but does. "It's good. I like it."

And clearly, that is the correct answer because his grin widens, making that dimple of his even more pronounced. "Oh, thank God."

"What would you have done if I didn't?" I ask, hiding my slight concern with a teasing tone.

"Probably drive you all the way to Goldsboro for a second opinion," he jokes. "And worry that there's something deeply wrong with your tastebuds."

"Well, now that you know there isn't anything ‘deeply wrong with my tastebuds,' can I eat my sandwich without you watching me?"

He laughs and picks up his own sandwich. "Eat away."