Credence

We come to our first stop sign, and he lifts up his visor now that we’re slowing down.

“Do you have others?” I ask. “Cousins, I mean?”

I don’t know why I care.

But he just shakes his head. “No.” And then thinks better of it. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

I’m it on his father’s side, so that just leaves his mom. Where is she? I haven’t known Jake long, but it’s hard picturing him domesticated. Were they married?

For a moment, it’s easy to think well of him, raising two boys on his own, but it’s also easy to understand how he could drive someone so far up the wall that she ran for the hills.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Noah about her, but if he tells me something sad, like she’s dead or abandoned them at birth, I don’t know how to respond to things I can’t do anything about. My sympathy just comes off disingenuous.

He grips his handlebars, the veins in his forearms bulging out of his skin, and I tighten my hold as he takes off again, entering the main drag of town with all the shops lining the street.

We pull up to a store and park, Noah backing into a space and turning off the bike.

“I’ll teach you to ride if you want,” Noah offers as we climb off and remove our helmets. “If you stay.”

I follow his lead, leaving my helmet on the other handlebar and turn my cap back around, following him onto the sidewalk. “You barely know me, and I’m not friendly,” I mumble. “Why do you want me to stay?”

“Because nothing changes up on the peak. Not ever.”

What does that mean?

I enter the store, not responding, because I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

“Hey, Sheryl,” he calls out, and the lady at the counter smiles back at him as she hands a customer her bag.

I look around, seeing the store is really small. For crying out loud, there’s like six aisles. They better have ramen.

“Grab what you need,” Noah tells me. “I’ll meet you at the register.”

And he heads off, disappearing down an aisle to the right.

I take a basket from the stack, thankful he’s headed in the opposite direction, and veer off to the back, toward the pharmacy.

The store is small, but it’s kind of cute. It has the turn-of-the-century vibe with an old-fashioned register and polished wood everywhere. I pass a bar with an old soda fountain and a menu of sundaes and other treats, a couple of patrons sitting on stools and enjoying homemade milkshakes.

Stopping at the counter in the back of the store, I quickly look around for Noah before I address the pharmacist.

“May I help you?” he says with a smile.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I’d like to have a prescription transferred to here, if possible. Do I just give you the phone number of my pharmacy back home?”

“Oh, yes.” He pulls a pen out of his white jacket and slides a pad of paper over. “That’s easy. I’ll just call your pharmacy. We can have it refilled for you today.”

Cool.

“The number, please?”

I dictate the number, watching him write it down. “213-555-3100.”

“Your name?”

“Tiernan de Haas. Birthdate eleven—one—of oh one.”

“And what is the prescription for?” he asks.