Page 124 of What We Brave
I love her.
The thought hits me the way it always does — no warning, nobuildup, just a wall of it slamming into my chest. And right behind it, the old reflex:you don't deserve this. You're going to ruin this. You ruin everything you?—
No.
I shove it down. Not today. Today I'm at a flea market with a woman who chose to be here with me, and I'm going to hold her hand and enjoy it like a goddamn human being.
She catches me staring. "What?"
"Nothing." I squeeze her hand. "Keep going."
Two aisles later, I spot a rocking chair with a cracked spindle. Solid oak, probably 1920s. Good bones under the damage. My hands itch the second I see it — that automatic assessment, the part of my brain that's always cataloging what can be saved.
"This could work," I say, crouching to examine the joints.
"For what?"
"New project." I run my fingers along the wood grain. Feel the age of it. The quality underneath the neglect. "The spindle's shot, but everything else is solid. Strip the finish, repair the damage, new stain — could be beautiful."
Laine kneels next to me, studying the chair like she actually cares. Not humoring me. Actually looking.
"I didn't know you worked on furniture and other stuff."
"Yeah, that's how I started. The restoration stuff is more profitable, but I still flip pieces like this on the side. And right now, I've got a little time on my hands.
She smiles, slow and sweet. "Then you should get it."
I look at the price tag. Forty bucks. Not bad.
"Yeah," I say. "Maybe I will."
Laine grins and pops back up, already distracted by the next table. She's three stalls ahead before I finish talking to the vendor about holding the chair until we're done.
I catch up to her in front of a table covered in old dolls.
Creepy old dolls. The porcelain kind with dead eyes and cracked faces and hair that's somehow still perfect after a hundred years. Everything in my body sayswalk away.
Laine picks one up. Holds it at arm's length.
"This," she says solemnly, "is the most terrifying thing I've ever seen."
"Then put it down."
"I can't." She turns it to face me. The doll's painted smile doesn't reach its glass eyes. "She's chosen me now. We're bonded."
"Laine."
"Her name is Margaret. She was a Victorian child who died of consumption and now she haunts flea markets."
"You're making that up."
"Am I?" She tilts the doll's head. "Margaret says you're being rude."
I take a step back. Involuntary. Then have to force myself to stand my ground. "Keep that thing away from me."
Laine's face lights up like Christmas morning. "Oh my gosh. Are you scared of dolls?"
"No."
