Chapter 19 - Callie
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Callie
The Clayton County flea market isn’t much to look at on weekdays, but on the first and the third Saturday of the month, the old livestock grounds come alive. Vendors from all over Alabama transform the open-air barns and feed houses into a bustling marketplace.
Rows of tables and booths line the walkways, each covered with everything from locally sourced honey and soy candles to vintage road signs, antique picture frames, mason jars full of jams and jellies, and rusted farm tools that tell the stories of another life.
There’s even a table full of decades old McDonald’s happy meal toys still in their original packaging for sale.
I chuckle as a little boy with blue-stained teeth and a snow cone nearly as big as he is skips past me, his mother chasing after him.
Next to me, two older women are haggling with a vendor over the price of a handmade porcelain pig wearing a chef’s hat, and an older gentleman in a faded and worn Crimson Tide hat calls out greetings in a booming voice.
“Mornin’ to you! Y’all looking for something special today?”
Nineties country music crackles over a loudspeaker and the sweet scent of kettle corn drifts by on a breeze, mingling with the curling smoke plumes from the BBQ pits near the back.
I walk slowly, appreciating the cozy chaos. The flea market is one of my favorite spots in all of Dayton Springs.
It’s also the perfect distraction from my thoughts of Jensen.
It shouldn’t be an issue, especially since we decided to keep things casual, but sweet magnolias, that man has been running through my mind ever since we left the Thirsty Horse together.
I don’t want to spend every free moment I have thinking about him, but I can’t help it.
He’s the first thing I think of when I wake up in the mornings and the last thing I think about before I fall asleep.
My artist brain isn’t helping, either. Every time I sit down to paint, it’s the deep blue of his eyes that I’m mixing on my palette or it’s the curve of his lips I’m sketching in a notebook .
It’s been over a week, but I can’t stop replaying our conversation in the truck, still can’t stop seeing the look on Jensen’s face when he told me he wanted me, only to use his next breath to tell me that he couldn’t pursue anything further.
It was exhilarating and crushing all in one which confuses the ever-loving hell out of me.
Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated—that’s what we decided, what we both said we wanted. But the feelings I’ve been wrestling with the last few days feel anything but easy.
It hasn’t helped that every time we run into each other now, I have this overwhelming urge to run my hands up his toned forearms, to trace the colored lines of the tattoos I’m dying to see more of, to kiss the mouth I can’t stop sketching.
Yesterday, Peaches had wandered into my yard and spent the evening with me while I painted after work.
Once it got dark, I’d walked her back home, and Jensen had greeted me on the porch with a smile that nearly knocked the wind right out of me.
And then he hugged me. I could’ve stayed on that porch with his arms around me until the cows came home and it still wouldn’t have been enough time.
Which doesn’t exactly scream casual does it?
I let out a low, frustrated sigh as I stop by a local artist’s table, thumbing through the prints she has for sale.
The collection of watercolor flowers is lovely, but not even the beautiful lines and pastel hues can distract me—mainly because they aren’t the vibrant spectrum of colors that decorate Jensen’s body.
Heat rushes up my cheeks, and I move past the vendor’s table in a hurry. I spy a table covered in vintage Coca Cola memorabilia and head in that direction. Seems safe enough.
But just as I’m admiring the collection—“Callie?”
I close my eyes and breathe out through my nose. I’d know that deep, gravelly voice anywhere, and apparently, so does my body. If the layer of goosebumps erupting all along my skin is any indication.
I spin slowly. Jensen’s blue-eyed gaze slams into mine, and my heart skitters and nearly stops.
“Hi,” I manage, the word breathy.
“This is a nice surprise.” Jensen runs a hand down my arm in greeting, which only makes the goosebumps worse. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.”
“You either.” I step back, needing a little air, and point to the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. “Doing a little shopping?”
“Yeah, I try to get out here at least once a month to pick up a few things for the RVs.”
I picture the Airstream and all the little details that make it feel so homey.
From the moment I first saw it in the listing photos and then again when I stepped inside it for the first time, it had felt like me, it had felt like home .
It hadn’t occurred to me to consider how much thought and care goes into creating a space like that, and the realization that this is who Jensen is—someone who spends his weekends at flea markets and antique fairs to find the perfect pieces makes me want to know him more, to understand more of his quiet, intentional ways.
“Is this where you got all the decorations for my Airstream?”
“A lot of them, yeah. I go to a few local auctions when I can, estate sales are great too. But I always find the best stuff here.”
“It’s the best,” I agree. “I used to come here a lot with my mom before she died. She always said that with a little bit of luck and patience, you could find just about anything here.” My fingers brush against my locket, a habit of mine when I talk about my parents.
“She died when you were young?”
“When I was fourteen. Both my parents, actually. Car accident.” The old, familiar twinge of sadness tugs at me.
It’s been years now, but I still miss them.
“They were on their way to pick me up from a sleepover. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn’t my fault, but I still think about what would’ve been, ya know? ”
“God, Callie. I’m sorry.” The understanding and sincerity in his voice make my throat ache and I have to blink back the tears I feel forming.
“The hardest part is time,” I admit. “It’s so fleeting.
My dad had a really wonderful laugh, the kind that came from his whole body, ya know?
I worry sometimes that I’ll forget the sound of it.
And my mom? She gave the best hugs. She’d wrap her arms around me and squeeze me so tightly that I never wanted her to let go.
I don’t ever want there to be a time that I don’t remember her hugs.
” I sigh, smiling a little as the memory of Mom and me skipping around the aisles fills my thoughts. “Places like this help though.”
Jensen nods, though his eyes are far away.
I know he must be thinking about Kasey, so I step closer, laying a hand on his forearm.
His palm lands on top of mine and we stand there for a few seconds in silence until Jensen clears his throat and gives me a soft smile.
“Would you want to walk around with me?”
The look on his face has me nodding before I can talk myself out of it and I’m rewarded with an even bigger smile.
This is fine, I tell myself as we head over to the next rows of tables. Jensen releases my hand, but he stays close as we stroll, his arm brushing against mine. Tingles skip up and down my skin whenever he touches me. Just keeping it casual. I almost snort at the thought.
Jensen takes his time browsing, pausing to flip through a stack of old vinyls or to inspect a tarnished pocket-watch.
He’s quiet too, his focus on the hunt. Every time he finds an item of interest, his brows scrunch together as he inspects it, turning it over carefully in his hands.
I’m supposed to be shopping for knick-knacks, but my eyes keep drifting back to him.
“What?” he asks when he catches me staring, an old wooden washboard in his hand.
“Oh nothing, I’m just wondering if you were some kind of pirate in another life.”
His brows lift. “A pirate?”
“Yeah. You seem to have a knack for finding treasure.” I indicate the washboard. “It’s beautiful. When do you think it was made?”
“1930s, 1940s maybe,” he tells me, running a hand along the side of the wood, inspecting the craftsmanship. “See this?” He points to a spot of discoloration. “The wood oxidizes over time. You won’t find that type of coloring in a reproduction. And the grooves here? They were made from use.”
I trail my finger down the grooves in the wood. “Do you think the people who made this ever thought it would end up in a place like this?”
“Probably not.” Jensen lifts a shoulder and drops it. “I think that’s why I’ve always liked vintage pieces. They come with a story.”
“Did you always know you wanted to restore RVs?”
“It was something my grandpa used to do, and when I was younger, I would go with him to junkyards to look for scrap parts and then he’d spend all weekend teaching me about how things worked and what to do when they didn’t.
It was my grandmother’s job to decorate the RVs once PaPaw was finished with the restoration.
She’d travel around to antique fairs and garage sales and find just the right pieces to make the place shine. ”
He shifts the washboard under his arm. “It’s some of the fondest memories I have growing up.
It really wasn’t till about ten years ago though that I started doing it myself.
I was stationed out in Virginia and missing home.
Then I was out driving around one night and I saw an old Winnebago sitting on the side of the road with a For Sale sign on it.
That was my first one. It took me a long time to fully restore it, and I made a lot of mistakes, but once I started working on it, all of PaPaw’s lessons started coming back.
” He smiles, his eyes clearly seeing another time.
“Well, as someone who is very much benefiting from your work, I’d personally like to thank your PaPaw,” I joke, giving a little salute.