New releases had just been stocked, and he pretended to be absorbed in the description on the case of first one movie and then the next. He watched the girl out of the corner of his eye. She looked about the same age as his students, somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two. She was pretty, with rosy cheeks and wide-set blue eyes.
She finally settled on a romantic comedy, some schmaltzy holiday flick, and Ben grabbed a movie too, following not far behind her.
“It’s under my boyfriend’s name. Is that okay?” she asked the checker.
“Phone number?”
As she rattled off the number, Ben tried to burn the numbers into his mind.
The checker clicked the keys of the computer. “Mark Fitch?” the checker asked without looking at the girl.
“Yeah,” the girl said.
“On South Beaver Street?”
“Yep.” She smiled.
The checker scanned the DVD and placed it on the other side of the security gate. The girl pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill out of her back pocket and handed it to him. And then she was headed out the door.
Ben set the DVD case down and pulled out his keys with his rental card attached. He tapped his foot, repeating the phone number in his head like a song.
“Your credit card is expired on this account. Do you have your new card?”
Ben sighed, and pulled out his wallet. 928-555-0990.
By the time they were finally done and he was outside again, the Mustang was gone. And snow was starting to fall. He pulled out the same piece of paper where he’d scrawled the license plate number and wrote down Mark Fitch. South Beaver Street. 928-555-0990.
He tried to think what houses were on South Beaver Street, what apartment complexes. If it was close to campus, he was probably some dumbass college kid. Though he might be local if he was staying in town for Thanksgiving. Most of the kids cleared out for the break, heading home to their parents’ for the holiday.
But he had a name and a phone number and part of an address. Now he would just need to be smart about this. He’d ask around first, see if anyone knew him. If the guy lived on South Beaver, he might hang out at the Brewery or at NiMarco’s, the pizza place. If he lived downtown, chances are people would know him. The baristas at Macy’s Coffeehouse, the waitresses at La Bellavia. If Ben knew one thing about people, it’s that they tend to stick to their routines.
Ben knew that Sara was probably starting to freak out. He looked at his phone and saw that she had texted him three times. Where r u @? Don’t forget the Shiraz. U there?
He pulled into their driveway and felt his stomach knot up again. The pain was sharp. He clutched his side. Jesus, he thought.
He unloaded the grocery bags from the truck, leaving them on the porch. The snow was coming down now in huge fluffy flakes. If this kept up, he’d probably be spending most of Thanksgiving morning shoveling the driveway so Sara’s parents could have a place to park. Her father hadn’t wanted them to buy this house because it didn’t have a garage.
He opened the door, and Maude came running up to him.
“Hey, Maude,” he said. “Hey, girl! Sara?” he asked.
She must have decided to take a nap. She was so exhausted after work most days, she went straight to bed for a couple of hours before forcing down some dinner. Lately he’d been eating alone in front of the TV while she slept. She’d get up just as he was starting to get tired. After a handful of saltines and a glass of milk, she’d curl up next to him on the couch, and he’d wait until she was starting to fall asleep again before gently nudging her up off the couch and back into bed.
He poked his head into the bedroom, and she was, indeed, burrowed under the covers. Her face was mostly covered, her hair fanned out across the sheets like corn silk.
He quietly closed the door and went to the kitchen, unloading the groceries into the fridge and cupboards, making a spot on the bottom shelf of the fridge for the turkey. When
She finally settled on a romantic comedy, some schmaltzy holiday flick, and Ben grabbed a movie too, following not far behind her.
“It’s under my boyfriend’s name. Is that okay?” she asked the checker.
“Phone number?”
As she rattled off the number, Ben tried to burn the numbers into his mind.
The checker clicked the keys of the computer. “Mark Fitch?” the checker asked without looking at the girl.
“Yeah,” the girl said.
“On South Beaver Street?”
“Yep.” She smiled.
The checker scanned the DVD and placed it on the other side of the security gate. The girl pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill out of her back pocket and handed it to him. And then she was headed out the door.
Ben set the DVD case down and pulled out his keys with his rental card attached. He tapped his foot, repeating the phone number in his head like a song.
“Your credit card is expired on this account. Do you have your new card?”
Ben sighed, and pulled out his wallet. 928-555-0990.
By the time they were finally done and he was outside again, the Mustang was gone. And snow was starting to fall. He pulled out the same piece of paper where he’d scrawled the license plate number and wrote down Mark Fitch. South Beaver Street. 928-555-0990.
He tried to think what houses were on South Beaver Street, what apartment complexes. If it was close to campus, he was probably some dumbass college kid. Though he might be local if he was staying in town for Thanksgiving. Most of the kids cleared out for the break, heading home to their parents’ for the holiday.
But he had a name and a phone number and part of an address. Now he would just need to be smart about this. He’d ask around first, see if anyone knew him. If the guy lived on South Beaver, he might hang out at the Brewery or at NiMarco’s, the pizza place. If he lived downtown, chances are people would know him. The baristas at Macy’s Coffeehouse, the waitresses at La Bellavia. If Ben knew one thing about people, it’s that they tend to stick to their routines.
Ben knew that Sara was probably starting to freak out. He looked at his phone and saw that she had texted him three times. Where r u @? Don’t forget the Shiraz. U there?
He pulled into their driveway and felt his stomach knot up again. The pain was sharp. He clutched his side. Jesus, he thought.
He unloaded the grocery bags from the truck, leaving them on the porch. The snow was coming down now in huge fluffy flakes. If this kept up, he’d probably be spending most of Thanksgiving morning shoveling the driveway so Sara’s parents could have a place to park. Her father hadn’t wanted them to buy this house because it didn’t have a garage.
He opened the door, and Maude came running up to him.
“Hey, Maude,” he said. “Hey, girl! Sara?” he asked.
She must have decided to take a nap. She was so exhausted after work most days, she went straight to bed for a couple of hours before forcing down some dinner. Lately he’d been eating alone in front of the TV while she slept. She’d get up just as he was starting to get tired. After a handful of saltines and a glass of milk, she’d curl up next to him on the couch, and he’d wait until she was starting to fall asleep again before gently nudging her up off the couch and back into bed.
He poked his head into the bedroom, and she was, indeed, burrowed under the covers. Her face was mostly covered, her hair fanned out across the sheets like corn silk.
He quietly closed the door and went to the kitchen, unloading the groceries into the fridge and cupboards, making a spot on the bottom shelf of the fridge for the turkey. When
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