Page 71 of Bi-Partisan

Unsurprisingly, the conversation had at some point moved to crafts, during which he mentioned Sophie’s obsession with crochet stuffed animals. My mother absolutely doesn’t need another hobby, but that doesn’t stop me from loving that they found something to at least tangentially bond over.

“I’ll have Jamie text it to you,” he promises as he hugs her goodbye.

“I’ll see y’all next week,” I tell my parents as I hug them, since I’ll be staying behind even after Adrian leaves on Tuesday.

“Bye, kiddo. Love you,” my dad says.

After one last round of goodbyes, we climb into the car.

“Your parents are nice,” he says as we pull out of the driveway.

I hum in acknowledgement, then, the second I turn off their street, I pull over to the side and put the car in park.

“What—is everything okay?”

I pivot in my seat and nod once before reaching over the console, sliding my hand into his hair, and pulling him into a hard kiss. He gasps, but then sinks into it with a soft moan. Our tongues tangle for a few seconds before I pull away, chest heaving slightly.

“Sorry, I’ve just been wanting to kiss you for, like, the last hour and a half,” I say, a little sheepishly.

His cheeks go pink, and he lets out a breathy laugh. “So I guess you think that went well, then?”

“So well. They loved you, darlin’,” I say earnestly.

“Do you really think so?” he asks.

I smile and kiss him again, this time more sweetly. “I know so.”

Chapter 23

Adrian

Song: Belong Together – Mark Ambor

“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.

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