Page 45 of Plunge

CHAPTER THIRTY

Fletcher

ONCE I’M AT Opal’s place, I realize I can’t sleep at night anymore. I’m used to being around Louie and Abigail and, yeah. My brother Hunter, too.

I toss and turn for awhile and realize it’s futile, so I shower and change and walk over to their place. Abigail’s passed on the couch and Louie is miraculously content in his little bouncy chair next to her on the floor.

He turns his head and grins at me when I come in.

“Hey, dude. Did you miss your Uncle Fletch?” This might be the first time I’ve seen him be pleasant after dark. I crouch down on the floor next to him and let him grab on to my finger, which he immediately tries to chew. And I just sit there for a bit, making faces at this baby and letting him tug on my hand.

I notice Abigail stirring a bit, so I scoop Louie up and take him to his room so we don’t disturb her. I remember that Hunter is still in D.C. and I feel a small wave of guilt that I disappeared on them after he went through all that trouble to make a chart and I had him just fill my name in on it.

Once he starts yawning I start wiggling into the baby sling and prepare to march him up and down the stairs, until I decide I don’t really feel like doing that tonight. I look at him, drooling in my arms a bit, and pull out my phone to text Thistle. Want to go for a walk with me?

Just in case, I wrap both the baby and me in my fleece jacket and stick a hat on his head until I hear my phone ping. Sure. Meet u on my street?

I send her a thumbs up emoji and scrawl a quick note for Abigail so she doesn’t worry. Louie and I start walking toward Wesleyan. I spot Thistle leaning against the streetlight with her hands in her pockets. She seems a little more at ease, a little more familiar in her casual clothes.

I can’t help but smile when I see her. “Evening, wifey.”

She rolls her eyes. “Cut it out, Fletcher. We need to talk about that.” And we do. We walk up and around the streets of Oak Creek in the wee hours while Louie falls asleep and we talk about things we agree on and things we don’t.

We both agree not to tell anyone about our paperwork marriage, but Thistle disagrees that she should sit with my family and talk about networking opportunities to find a new career.

She changes the subject. “You still go running a lot,” she asks, kicking at the cinders the township spreads around the roads when they think it’s going to snow.

“Mmmhmm,” I say, and then bounce a bit more when I feel Louie stir against me. “I mean, I never race anyone or anything, but I love a long run on a foreign beach.”

“You could still compete, you know,” she says, looking off toward the woods, where we can hear the creek babbling in the crisp, quiet night. “You could do races and stuff.”

“I spend enough time around races. I was never in it for the glory,” I tell her, and mean it. “I just liked to go fast.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “You were the one who liked to win shit.”

“That’s true enough,” she says. Thistle starts reminiscing about the races she won in the rain and the cold. “My hands used to be so chapped,” she says, holding them out in front of her. “I never could stand wearing gloves.” I remember that about her, how she always had some hippie lotion from the co-op in her bag. I feel a rush of heat to my belly when I remember that we generally used it to lubricate other things.

She looks off toward the distance again, slowing her pace as I slow mine now that Louie is fully asleep. “You were always at the finish line,” she says, her voice quiet.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I had to support my girl.”

She’s quiet for a bit, and it feels nice walking with her. “It’s been awhile since I spent any time in the cold,” I say, telling Thistle how I started choosing races in warm climates on purpose to skip out on winter time.

“Sounds like it’s been awhile since you spent any time in the same place at all,” she says, and then bites the side of her lip. “I didn’t mean to criticize. It’s not like I’ve done so great at that.”

“Hey, you’ve got an apartment at least. And a car.” I remind her. She starts heading toward a bench as we get to Thatcher Parklet near the Inn where Indigo lives and works.

“Can you sit?”

I shake my head. “Louie will wake up if I do. This is how I keep my sexy uncle bod tight. Constant movement.”

She laughs at that. “What happens if I sit?”

“I’ll have to walk circles around you.”

Thistle sighs. “It’s getting late…”

She does look tired. She probably came home to an inquisition this evening. I also know I’m feeling like I’m not quite done spending time with her.

“Hey,” I say. “What if I take Louie back to Abigail. We could go sit at my place?”

Thistle takes a deep breath in through her nose and disappears behind a puff of condensation when she exhales. “That sounds nice,” she says.

We make our way back to Abigail and Hunter’s duplex. I motion for her to wait outside, and when she looks hurt by that, I say, “They’ve got their damn chickens inside for the winter. I don’t want you to step on one and make it squawk.”

She raises an eyebrow at me and I wave my hand. I rush inside and gently set Louie down in his bouncy seat. I take a deep inhale, certain he’ll wake up screaming when I take him off my warm chest, but he doesn’t. He yawns and starts gnawing on his hand in his sleep. I make sure Abigail has covers on and I grab the note I’d written, stuffing it in my pocket as I head back outside to Thistle.

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