19. Pennies For Your Thoughts
NINETEEN
PENNIES FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
? Late Night Talking - Harry Styles
NOAH
My fist closes around the door handle, and I stride into the bank. As I stand in the back of the line, I glance between the teller and the exit. Last chance to turn around and put an end to this absurd plan.
Clio’s spending the day in Oak Ridge at the Whispering Oaks Ranch Fall Festival, and she took Auggie with her so he could hang out with his best friend, Emmy Lou. They left early this morning, and in the time since, I’ve apparently lost my mind.
The line moves forward before I can find it again.
“Hey, Noah, what can I do for you?” Landry asks from behind his computer screen.
I don’t do grand gestures or romance. I don’t typically care if people are generally happy. So, why the fuck am I standing here?
We said no strings, but this feels an awful lot like casting a line.
“Can I get like ten rolls of pennies?”
He stares at me incredulously. “What the hell do you need five hundred pennies for?”
“That’s my business.” I slap a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Can you do it or not?”
He laughs. “I mean yeah, obviously you’re in the right place.”
“Do you need a purse for those?” A mocking voice behind me says as Landry sets the rolls of coins on the counter. “Perhaps a bag with a giant dollar sign on the outside?”
“Fuck off, Ben.”
“Seriously man, what’s with the spare change?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I grab the rolls off the counter and head for the exit, the cool air whipping around me as I swing one leg over my bike and start the engine. I’ve never been one to linger in the same place for long.
The buildings blur past me as I head for the back roads, ignoring the incessant urge to change course. A distant part of me wishes I’d gone with them to the ranch, but things are already complicated.
An open house sign catches in my periphery. Against my better judgement, I slow down to take the turn that I know will only lead me to the one place I’ve refused to acknowledge for the better part of ten years.
Idling on the curb, I watch as a young couple pushes a stroller up the walkway to my childhood home. Karen greets them at the door with a pamphlet and ushers them inside.
I should leave.
There’s no place for me here.
Instead, I park and amble toward the house that features in all of my best and worst memories.
Three sets of child-sized handprints are still pressed into the stepping stones that lead to the side door where Mom used to hang our laundry on the clothesline.
Farther back, I find the dilapidated treehouse Dad built for our sixth birthday with the rope ladder still hanging from the railing, and I know if I dig in just the right spot, I’ll find a time capsule made from an old Star Wars lunch box from 2003, though I couldn’t tell you what’s inside.
I can almost hear the laughter as Dad chases us around the yard with the water hose, and Mom yelling from the side porch not to track mud inside when we’re done horsing around.
She was always smiling, even when she was hurling empty threats at us.
I can still picture her holding little Emma on her hip as she watched us from the kitchen window.
I was nine when our quiet rural life came crumbling down around us.
The local paper mill closed, Dad lost his job, and we were living on savings and food stamps while he searched for a new one.
They owned the house, so we were never in danger of being homeless, but times were tough for a while.
Those blanket forts I told Auggie about—those were the nights we huddled together for warmth because the power was cut off.
Dad got a job as a long-haul truck driver after that, and he spent weeks out on the road, leaving Mom to raise us on her own most of the time. I don’t know when drugs entered the picture. Maybe they were there all along, and we didn’t know it until it was too late.
I walk back toward the front of the property in time to see the first couple leaving. I pause on the sidewalk, taking in the old yellow shutters and the decorative storm door with the corner scrolls. For a brief moment, I consider going inside but think better of it.
Karen eyes me critically from the doorway as I get back on my bike and drive away, leaving the ghosts of my past right where they belong.
CLIO
It’s late when I pull into my parking spot in front of the apartment. Auggie is passed out in his car seat with his face painted like a dalmatian with a pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I snap a photo and send it to Noah.
Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention to the tattoo shop. Just beyond the window, Noah has his phone in his hand, and he’s smiling at the screen.
His smile still manages to steal my breath.
Three dots appear on my phone, then disappear again.
I wait for his reply, but it doesn’t come. After slipping my phone back into my pocket, I get out of the car and round to Auggie’s side. Just as I’m about to lift him out of his seat, a velvety voice startles me. “Let me get him.”
“Shit, Noah. Warn a girl next time.”
“I thought you saw me.”
“Obviously not.”
I shift out of his way and let him take my place. He lifts Auggie into his arms, resting his curly head against Noah’s shoulder. Auggie doesn’t so much as stir. “Must’ve worn himself out,” Noah whispers.
“They played hard.”
I carefully close the car door so as not to startle him awake, and something shimmers under the streetlight as I head inside. I crouch low to pick up the copper penny, my heart fluttering as I slide it into my jeans pocket.
“Another one for the collection,” Noah says with an inscrutable expression, there and gone before I can make sense of it.
Despite my best efforts, I can never seem to get a read on this man. It’s frustrating, yet exhilarating—like a game of cat and mouse, but I’m not sure who’s who in this scenario. Sometimes it feels like I’m doing the chasing, and other days I’m certain I’ll be the one who ends up being eaten alive.