Quarterback Sneak (Red Zone Rivals #3)(33)

We thanked them, along with the older woman who was already perusing the first table, before I led Holden to start on the opposite side.

“There’s so much stuff,” he commented.

“Which just makes the treasure hunt that much more exciting.”

He picked up a strange figurine that looked like something between a long neck dinosaur and a Pegasus, eyeballing it every which way before shaking his head and setting it back down.

We ambled slowly along the tables and racks, and after a while, I felt like Holden was watching me more than any of the items for sale. I peeked at him over my shoulder as I picked up what looked like an oddly shaped, dusty piece of metal at first, but on closer inspection I discovered was a Baroque hand mirror. I ran a thumb over the dust, revealing beautiful rose details on the back. The mirror itself was in good shape, too — just needed a little cleaning.

“Jackpot,” I muttered under my breath.

“What is—”

I turned away from Holden before he could finish his question, holding the mirror up to Geraldine. “Five bucks?”

She barely looked up from where she was setting up a full china set. “Deal,” she said with a smile.

I smiled, too, opening the reusable bag I had with me and carefully dropping the mirror inside it before I readjusted the straps on my shoulder.

Holden chuckled, following me as I continued scanning the table. “I take it you’re a pro at this.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “But I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

“What do you do with all this… stuff?” he asked, picking up an old tool that was far too rusted to be on sale.

“What do you mean, what do I do with it?” I asked on a laugh. “I use it. I hang the art on my walls, polish the vases and fill them with flowers, line my cabinets with old glassware and dishes, stuff my closet full of gently used clothes.” I shrugged. “There’s already so much stuff in the world. Why buy something new when you can have something with memories attached to it, something with history? Every single thing you see here has a story.” I picked up an old, worn, heavily read edition of The Feminine Mystique. “It has character.”

I held up the book, then, turning to Geraldine.

“How much for the book?” I asked.

She shrugged, unsure. “Two bucks?”

I nodded, signaling it was a fair price before I dropped it in the bag.

Holden smiled. “This explains what you wore to the party at the Pit that night.”

“What do you mean?”

“The vintage-looking top, the bizarre heels, the leather pants that looked like something my mom would have worn in the 80s.”

I folded my arms over my chest, leaning a hip against the table. “You really were watching me all night, weren’t you, Cap?”

His eyes caught mine, but before they could dig their claws in and hold me captive, I turned and headed for the next table over.

“You said you’ve been doing this your whole life,” he mused as he followed me. “Who got you into it?”

I smiled — and not the fake or forced kind of smile, but the genuine kind that bloomed from the memory in my mind. “Grandma. My dad’s mom. She used to take me and Abby every Saturday in the summer. We’d stay with her for a few weeks while Dad did football camps, and she’d drag us out of bed groaning and complaining before the sun was even up. But we always gave in because we knew she’d buy us something.” I chuckled. “And she always made us coffee on Saturdays, which made us feel like adults. It was mostly milk and sugar, but still.”

Holden mirrored my smile. “Who’s Abby?”

Ice water washed over me, through me, and I paused where my hand hovered over a delicate teacup. Even my heart seemed to hesitate, taking a long breath before it began beating again, a little more unsteady than before.

“My sister,” I finally breathed. Then, I lifted my eyes to find Holden. “She died the summer before my senior year of high school. She was sixteen.”

Holden looked as if I’d reared back and slapped him, as if he was both shocked and in pain from my admission.

“I didn’t know,” he finally said.

I shrugged. “Not many people do.”

I continued walking, and though my heart was still unsteady, I found my next breath a little easier.

Holden fell quiet, spending some time sifting through old CDs. He plucked a few from the stack and offered Geraldine two dollars each, which she agreed to. I opened my bag for him to drop them in, smirking a little when I noticed the old Aaron Lewis album.

“So, yard sales are to you what gardening is to me,” he mused, pausing at an old casserole dish.

I frowned, confused.

“It’s a way to keep her with you,” he said when I didn’t reply. “A way to live a little piece of her life in your own.”

He looked at me then, and tears pricked the corners of my eyes unbidden when he did. Because I’d never been so nailed down like that, never had someone look at me with the same kind of pain and horror mirrored in their gaze.

I’d never been seen.

It was like he’d lifted up the rock I’d been hiding under, blinding me with sunlight as he peered down at me with a magnifying glass.

And he didn’t run at the sight of what he found.