Page 90 of Flint’s Strike

“Neither are you, Parker.”

The walk takes less than ten minutes, the weather cooler than it’s been in days. But it’ll still be ninety by noon. A gentle breeze cools my skin as we round a corner. A tree-lined path winds through a perfectly manicured expanse of grass that rolls down a gentle slope to the pavilion. Dozens of white tents form two concentric squares. At the gate, a guy with a guitar case propped open is playing a tune so quickly, his fingers are nothing but a blur. The rich scent of kettle corn fills the air.

Eliot’s hand finds mine, and the touch surprises me. It’s easy. Relaxed. The rest of him is anything but.

His gaze keeps going to his other sleeve. To the burn scars peeking out from the soft fabric. More than once, his shoulders hunch inward, as if that will somehow make the t-shirt two inches longer.

“I’ve lived here most of my life,” he says, nodding toward the tents. “Never knew this was here.”

“You live on the other side of Lady Bird Lake. Unless you drive by here on the regular, I wouldn’t expect you to see the signs. But you should check out the Saturday market on Guadalupe Street. It’s twice the size, and the food trucks are amazing.”

“Maybe next week.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “If you come with me.”

A whole swarm of butterflies swirls around in my stomach. I don’t know why. We’re clearly doing more than knockin’ boots here. But I don’t know what.

“I could be convinced. But you’re still gonna be on bag duty.”

He adopts an expression of mock outrage as we pass by a vendor selling huge bouquets of fresh flowers. “I’ll make you a deal, Parker. You let me buy you flowers next Saturday—even if they end up in a pint glass again—and I’ll carry bags for you anytime.”

The butterflies get angrier. Or maybe happier, I can’t tell. But I’m smiling before I can stop myself.

“I accept your terms, Flint. I might even stop at the Dollar Mart and get an actual vase.”

His laugh shakes his entire upper body, and it’s such an honest sound, I can’t help but join in.

We pass a table full of jars of local honey, and someone making daisy crowns for a group of little girls.

“What do you usually do on Sundays? When you’re not on bag duty.”

“Clean the apartment.” He looks over at a stand of sunflowers, but I don’t think he’s seeing them. “Work out. Laundry. If any new journal articles have come out recently, I’ll catch up on ‘em then. Not much time during the week.”

We stop at a stand with tomatoes stacked in burlap-lined crates. I pick through them until I find half a dozen that give slightly under my thumb, pull a reusable bag from my back pocket, and pay the farmer who grew them.

Eliot picks one up and turns it over twice before setting it back in the crate. “How do you know which ones are good?"

“They should have just a hint of softness. But you have to be gentle. If you bruise them, they’re ruined for anyone else. Here. Feel this one I bought.”

He accepts the tomato from the bag, and presses his fingers lightly against the skin. I’m not sure a tomato has ever received as much focus as he’s giving mine.

Two stalls down, I find blackberries dark enough to stain my fingers, and peaches that’ll be perfectly ripe in a couple of days. Carrots, onions, and basil will give me enough for a bolognese sauce once I pick up beef and pork at the grocery store.

Eliot accepts the bags without a word, and I cradle one of the green berry baskets in the crook of my arm so we can enjoy their sweetness on a perfect summer’s day.

We round the corner down the next aisle, and I stop mid-step, the scent of buttery pastry surrounding me. A folding sandwich board announces: New to the Market! Kolaches! Sausage, Cream Cheese, Apricot, and Raspberry! Behind the folding table, a woman laughs, sliding a hot kolach into a paper bag for a guy in a pair of board shorts and flip flops.

For a moment, all I see is the baker’s graying hair, flushed cheeks, and knuckles swollen from kneading dough. So like my mom, I can’t breathe.

“Parker?” Eliot’s voice sounds far away.

I can’t answer him. I don’t know what to say. Or why all of a sudden, all I can think about is the last time I baked with my mother.

Eliot eases the basket of blackberries from my arm, tucks it into one of the bags, and rests his hand at the small of my back. Gently, he steers me away from the booth, away from the crowd, until he finds a bench under a tall willow tree.

I don’t sit so much as collapse onto it, my eyes burning with tears I won’t let fall.

“I’m right here,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”

“My dad…” I curl my fingers around the warm metal slats of the bench, squeezing until one of my damaged nerves fires, and pain shoots up to my elbow. It shocks me enough to continue. “He left when I was three. Mom hadn’t worked since before I was born. The only job she could get was as a secretary for this little construction company. It wasn’t near enough to pay the bills. So every weekend, she’d make a whole mess of kolaches to sell at church on Sunday. That led to farmers markets. Then a sous chef position at Comfort Food. When the head chef retired, she took over.”