until I met Hazel that I learned I could trust someone. It didn’t happen overnight, but after I learned her story, I didn’t feel so alone in my pain anymore. But it took me over a year to finally trust Hazel. I’ve only known Wes a total of four months. Can I really trust him after such a short amount of time?
Is length of time the only indicator of trust, though? I knew my father and Sawyer my entire life. I’m not sure I’ll ever trust them again. At least not Sawyer. He should have stood by my side. Instead, he used my predicament to his advantage, drawing sympathy from high-ranking members of his church, all while throwing me to the proverbial wolves.
But Wes has stood by my side. And, as promised, he hasn’t pressured me to do anything I’m not ready for. He’s remained true to his word, despite how difficult it must be for him to spend time with me knowing there may never be anything more between us than what we have now. That has to count for something.
“I do trust you,” I admit in a strained voice.
“Good.” He blows out a relieved breath, almost as surprised as I am about my admission. “Then let’s go.”
“What are we doing here?” I glance around the dirt lot abutting an abandoned drive-in theater about forty-five minutes outside of the city. Then I return my attention to Wes as he puts the Range Rover in park.
“Figured you’d enjoy this.” He nods at the open field in the distance, rows upon rows of tables and pop-up tents.
I squint, trying to figure out what’s going on. Then I dart my wide eyes back to his. “A flea market?” I shriek excitedly.
“Last week, you’d mentioned how much you missed going to these, since they’re only on weekends and you’ve been spending all your weekends since June with me. So I did some research. Found one with decent reviews, saw it was today, and here we are.”
“You researched flea markets?” I ask in disbelief. “For me?”
His lips quirk up into a gentle smile as his fingers flinch, as if wanting to reach out and push away the few curls that always fall in front of my eyes.
“I’d do anything for you, Londyn,” he responds, his voice laden with sincerity.
I swallow hard through the heaviness in my throat. As much as I should tell him he can’t say stuff like that, not when I’m trying to finally make peace with my past and heal, I’m simply unable to utter those words.
The more he’s slipped in the occasional compliment or words of encouragement over the weeks, the more I’ve begun to crave them. They help me through the bouts of depression that plague me every once in a while. Although, lately, I haven’t experienced many instances of depression. Haven’t had days where I physically couldn’t get out of bed. Haven’t felt the need to storm over to Hazel’s and spar with her in the gym until my muscles give out under me. Things have been…good. Better than good. And I have a feeling I have the man at my side to thank for that.
“Shall we?” Wes arches a brow, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Yes.”
He jumps down from the car and rushes over to my door as I open it. He touches my elbow, helping me down.
Excitement buzzes inside me as we walk through the lot, immersed in the familiar atmosphere of a weekend flea market. Deal-hunters haggle on price with vendors. Wood chimes jangle in the slight breeze. The smell of musty fabric mixed with spices surrounds me. All familiar sounds and smells, ones I didn’t think I’d miss as much as I have.
As I stroll beside Wes down the first row of vendors, sticking to my rule of not buying anything unless I absolutely must have it and it’s a bargain, I steal a glance at him, his expression bewildered, eyes darting around, like a stranger in a strange land. For someone like Wes, he probably is.
“I’m guessing you’ve never been to a flea market before,” I remark as we pass a vendor who seems to do exactly what I do — finds crap and up-cycles it to resell at a hefty profit.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little.” I playfully nudge him, skirting a few little boys chasing each other, their mother darting after them.
“Let’s put it this way. My mother would consider going to a discount superstore beneath her. So a flea market, which