Page 9 of Penny For Your Thoughts
Oh…
All too aware of my ridiculous outfit—Who was I? Tallus?—I reached for my throat, wedged a finger under the strangling necktie, and tugged the knot loose. The goddamn thing was a noose. The dress shirt with its stiff material and restrictive buttons felt like a straitjacket. It had no give, inhibiting my ability to breathe deeply.
Who was I kidding? These fancy fucking clothes didn’t hide my flaws. They accentuated them. The minute I opened my mouth, these people would judge me unworthy of Tallus’s love. I would getthe look.
Tallus removed Echo’s leash, but even granted the freedom to explore, she remained obediently by my side. Her wide golden eyes checked in repeatedly. She bumped my leg and snuffled my hand, all methods she used to ground me, and thank god because I was adrift on a tumultuous ocean.
Tallus snagged my hand, squeezing. He, too, had a sixth sense I was ready to bolt. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Heath.”
Before we wandered off, Bernice rubbed my arm. “I mean it, Diem. It’s really great to have you.”
I nodded, unsure what to say. Did Tallus tell her I was fragile because it sure as hell felt like she was treating me like I was made of glass. Fuck. It was a fair assessment. My foundation was riddled with cracks. One solid bump and I’d shatter.
Tallus took me deeper into the house, past candid family photographs in frames on the walls—many of Tallus through the years, but plenty of Bernice and Heath as well.
We found Tallus’s stepfather in the living room. Warm earth tones and soft furniture turned the small space cozy. A TV, fit snug inside a curio, played a documentary about the lost cities in the Mediterranean. I recognized the program because I’d watched it the previous week on a rare night I was able to pry the remote from Tallus’s hand—he usually insisted on reality TV.
The National Geographic channel tended to recycle its feature pieces before moving on to a new rotation. Their March lineup seemed to focus on Lost Cities. Atlantis, Egypt, Machu Picchu, Pompeii, among others I knew nothing about.
Heath reclined in an easy chair, but lowered the footrest when we entered, getting to his feet. “Hey, hey, hey.” He rubbed his hands together. “It’s the man of the hour.”
Tallus bashfully fanned his face. “The fanfare is unnecessary, Father dearest. I’m here every Sunday. But do go on. Tell me how you missed me.”
Heath chuckled and waved my boyfriend off with a similar swat he’d earned earlier from his mother before offering me his hand. “Diem Krause, I presume. You’re all Tallus can talk about. It’s an honor to meet you properly, son. Call me Heath.”
Son. No one had called me that in a long time. It stirred something I couldn’t quite identify in my belly.
I shook. “Nice to meet you, Heath.”
Heath was a ballpark late fifties or early sixties, if I had to guess, with thick dark hair dusted faintly silver. He wore a plaid button-up, open in front to reveal a plain T-shirt, rugged jeans, and worn slippers. His kind eyes creased into crow’s feet at their edges, and his chin and jaw were dotted with rough salt-and-pepper stubble.
Yeah, I was overdressed.
“Please. Have a seat.” He motioned to a sofa. “Take a load off. You want a beer?”
My mouth pooled at the thought. Clearly, my alcoholism had not been a topic of conversation.
Heath had a bottle on a table beside him, and my parched throat and spiked nerves begged me to accept. I sensed the heavy weight of Tallus’s gaze. It wasn’t a judgmental stare, per se. He never openly commented on my backward slide, but I knew without a doubt that my inability to pick myself up and quit again worried him.
Deep down, I suspected Tallus feared I’d given up, and in a lot of ways, I had. When life proved too challenging, I couldn’t help choosing the easy way out.
Bernice saved me from deciding. She wandered into the living room with two cold bottles of Budweiser, dripping condensation. “Dinner will be in twenty minutes.” She handed a bottle to Heath and offered me the other. “Do you drink beer, Diem?”
“I…” Should have turned it down, but that would have been rude, right? I avoided Tallus’s gaze and accepted the bottle. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Bernice, sweetie.”
“B-bernice. Thank you.”
Logically, it was up to me to own my alcoholism, but my nerves had been banging and clanging and jangling like a fucking marchingband since before we left the house. One beer to turn down the noise wouldn’t hurt—said every addict on the planet.
“I poured you wine,” Bernice said to Tallus. “Help me make a salad. Let these boys chat.”
I didn’t want to be left alone with Heath, a man I barely knew, but the alternative was suffering Tallus’s disappointment—even though I suspected it was mostly in my head. Dr. Peterson reminded me often to stop writing the script of other people’s inner monologues because I was not clairvoyant.
Tallus went with his mother, and I tipped the bottle to my mouth, draining a few stabilizing swallows of ale. The relief was immediate despite knowing that the alcohol hadn’t hit my stomach yet, let alone my bloodstream. I would take the psychosomatic symptoms over anxiety any day.
Only as the suggestionist sensations took effect did I realize I held a death grip on Echo, her fur and the loose skin around her neck balled in my clenched fist. I let go, offering a few reassuring pets, while refraining from apologizing to the dog out loud.
