Chapter 8
Levi
I should stay focused on closing activities for the festival.
I need to make sure everything is working smoothly with the train for tomorrow.
Many of the teens working here like to skip out right away and resist all the clean-up and prep that must be done.
But, I’m having trouble. My thoughts are restless, circling Hannah like a teenage boy with a crush – except I don’t even have her number, just her address.
Every spare thought comes back to Hannah and Ivy. That little girl who looked at me like I was more than just the train man. Her eyes were bright and excited for me to help, like I was a hero.
By the time the sun dips low, I’m a restless mess. Every instinct screams at me to climb in the truck and go to Maple Street. I could just drive by. Just see that pumpkin sitting on their porch, proof they got home safe. Proof that today actually happened.
Here comes the other voice cutting in. The one that reminds me I’d look like a damn stalker showing up uninvited. Hannah doesn’t know me. Not really. For all she knows, I’m just some stranger who runs the pumpkin patch.
I pace the platform after the last ride, muscles tight, jaw clenched.
I want to see them again. I need to, but I can’t spook her.
She’s probably the kind of woman who’s had to do it all on her own.
I could read it in her eyes, in the way she squared her shoulders like she carried more than the weight of pumpkins.
If I show up too soon, too eager, she might shut me out before I ever get close.
So I make myself stay put. Saturday night passes with me working late, checking stock, fixing a bent latch on the ticket booth door, anything to burn off the restless energy. Perhaps, they’ll come back again tomorrow. Maybe she’ll bring Ivy back for another ride. Maybe fate will do me a favor.
But Sunday comes and goes, and though the ranch fills with crowds of people, Hannah and Ivy aren’t among them. I scan the faces until my eyes ache, waiting for a glimpse of her hair, her smile, the little one clutching a another pumpkin. Nothing.
By the time the last whistle blows and the final families filter out, I’m done pretending she might show. The festival’s over. The crowds are gone and one good thing is now, I’m free.
I purchase some things from the vendors … half a jug of cider, a loaf of peach bread, and a jar of honey. Nothing fancy. Just enough to pass as a neighborly gesture instead of what it really is – an excuse.
Climbing into my truck, my head tells me I should let it go. That this is foolish, reckless, maybe even selfish. But something else inside nags me loud and clear, saying ‘just go’. The truth is, I can’t not go.
The road out of the square is quiet now.
In town, the landscape is dotted with jack-o-lanterns flickering low.
I drive slowly, window cracked letting in crisp autumn air.
I start double guessing myself and feeling a nervous as I get closer to Maple Street.
When I finally turn onto it, everything in me goes still.
I drive past houses with tidy fences and trimmed hedges until I see it – the blue duplex house with a swing out front. The huge pumpkin is there, sitting on the porch where Kyle must have left it. I ease the truck to a stop, headlights cutting across the pavement, and just sit there. Watching.
The house is dark except for a lamp burning in the front room. I imagine Hannah inside, maybe reading Ivy a bedtime story, maybe washing dishes at the sink. Normal things, everyday things. Things I suddenly feel curious about.
I reach for the jug of cider on the seat beside me, fingers brushing the glass, but I don’t move.
Because what if I knock on that door and she looks at me like I’m crazy?
What if she sees me not as the man who thought of her, but as the stranger who couldn’t stay away?
So I sit there, torn in two. Every muscle wanting to climb those steps, every caution telling me to stay put.
The swing creaks faintly in the breeze, and for a moment I picture her there, hair loose with Ivy curled against her side. Somehow, I envision myself in the picture. A protector for both of them, instead of a stranger.
Why am I thinking like this? I grip the steering wheel, noticing what a damn coward I am.
Dammit, if you like this woman and want to get to know her, do it. Get out of your truck and knock on the door … lightly.
Enough second-guessing. I kill the headlights and take the cider by the neck, the bread and honey tucked under my arm.
Stepping out, I shut the door quietly. Every step I take feels louder than it should.
Halfway there, the porch light snaps on.
A shadow passes across the curtain. The deadbolt slides.
I slow on the middle step. The door eases open. And there she is.