Page 92 of The Affair
“Do you want to go away this weekend?” I blurted out, surprising him as much as myself.
“What?”
Not knowing where I was going with this, I stumbled, trying to make sense of why my mouth was saying one thing while my brain was saying another. “Um, there is a flea market a couple hours away that I’ve been thinking about going to. With plans to introduce new merchandise, I thought it might be fun to see what else is out there, beyond the small world of estate antiques.”
Well, that had definitely been unplanned. While I had, in fact, looked at attending a flea market, I hadn’t actually looked into going to one so soon. It was more of asomedaysort of plan.
Not anymore.
“Sure,” he answered, not seeming to notice the bullshit I was throwing his way.And he thought I was a bad liar.“When do you want to leave?”
“Saturday? After we close?” I suggested before adding, “Unless you need time to work on your furniture piece. I know it came with a tight deadline.”
He shook his head, and I saw his demeanor change ever so slightly. “No, I don’t need any time. Not anymore.”
“You finished it?”
“It fell through.” It was the only explanation he gave before turning toward the break room to make himself some coffee.
I should be used to this by now—the vague answers, the change of subject. It was all classic Sawyer. But I wasn’t. Every time he pushed me away, I felt more out of control.
I hated it, which was why I knew when Reed called me back, I wouldn’t let it go to voice mail or politely tell him I’d made a mistake.
No. If and when he called me back, I’d demand answers even if they were from the one person I knew I shouldn’t trust.
* * *
It had beenseveral days since I left that message for Reed.
Every time my phone buzzed, my heart would start to pound in my chest.
Was this the call? Would I answer it or ignore it?
But each time, I was disappointed.
Or maybe a bit relieved.
“Have you ever been to this flea market?” Sawyer asked.
It was the first time we’d spoken in several minutes since leaving town an hour earlier. We’d packed up everything that morning, so we could leave right after closing. I’d been a jittery mess ever since.
“No,” I answered, my eyes set on the dark view of the trees out the passenger window. “I’ve never actually been to a flea market.”
“What? None? How is that possible? Surely your mom took you as a kid.”
Turning toward him, his eyes set dead ahead, I shook my head. “She never went to any either.”
“But you’re an antique dealer. Flea markets are kind of your bread and butter. Or at least, they should be.”
“True,” I agreed. “But it wasn’t a place Mom even considered. She got all of her pieces locally and built up inventory with time. She believed in patience when it came to finding the right treasure.”
“So, basically, she sat around and waited for people to die.”
Laughing, I shrugged. “I guess you could say that. I think she believed flea markets were beneath her. She was always proud of the fine antiques we sold—like it was her solemn duty to preserve them for the families who’d given them up.”
He didn’t seem impressed. “Fine antiques are great and all, but if they don’t sell, they’re basically giant, expensive dust collectors.”
“The old me would have argued with you over that point.”
