Page 4 of Margins

Once he's out of bed on Sunday, Alex takes a longer shower than usual, treating himself to an extra daydream or two because it’s the first morning he hasn’t dreaded in a while. Most other days remind him that little family routines have been traded for solitude he never asked for and doesn’t particularly want, but he can sit with that now—or stand, he supposes—and let the scalding water course over him while he thinks about the book and the written messages and what Hoodie might be able to tell him about where any of it came from.

Who might have written those notes, and whether E might have known about them at all.

Alex throws on jeans and a hoodie of his own, and he actually does something with his hair this time, then he grabs the book from his nightstand and jogs downstairs with more energy than he should have before his regular two cups of coffee. Once he’s surrounded by the scent of freshly ground beans and a hint of the cinnamon he adds as a treat, he makes himself a quick egg and cheese sandwich, the closest thing he’s had to a real breakfast in a while, his stomach growling at the very thought of being treated right. As he eats on his back patio, he looks down at his mug and wonders for just a moment whether he should make some coffee for Hoodie, too—whether maybe that might be the kind of thing one neighbor would do for another. He’s terrible at this actually, unsure about how to show up in these random social situations, so much of his life narrowed to work and family and the day-to-day built around those a long time ago.

Maybe bringing coffee would be weird. Alex doesn’t even know if Hoodie will be at the house. Inside or out.

He’s hopeful, mostly because it seems like garage sales are often a two-day event around here, and even if Hoodie doesn’t have one planned, he may still need to take care of whatever he’s been taking care of at a house that isn’t his. Then again, he hadn’t seemed like a morning person, and Alex showing up so early may be stupid.

Alex rolls his eyes as he finishes his breakfast and stares across his backyard. He has a lot of dumb questions about things that don’t matter, but there’s something at the far back of his mind wondering when he’ll start asking all the harder questions about the things that do. He knows Cass has always stopped short of asking them herself, and he’s curious about whether there’s any time left to force her to scream something out loud. She’s never been the cowardly one, and if Alex won’t reduce all of their problems to a couple of very simple words, he thinks someone should.

Suddenly close to being frustrated again, by his own inaction as much as anything else, he walks back into his house and locks the rest outside.

It’s still early, but there’s no reason he can’t go out now, Alex perfectly content to walk around for a while if there’s no sign of Hoodie yet, or ever. The fog remains as heavy and as welcome as always, and Alex tucks one hand into his pocket and holds the novel in the other as he begins to walk. It’s hard not to hurry, even if he shouldn’t be in a rush for anything today, so he focuses on the fresh air and the dew on the grass and he takes as many deep breaths as he can. It's only when he turns the corner a few streets down, and sees a garage door open, that all the calm gets a little caught in his chest, Hoodie in the middle of setting up a table in the driveway.

Alex's grip on the book tightens.

“I have to say, only the very best customers come back on day two,” Hoodie says when Alex is close enough to hear. He hasn't fully turned away from the table though, and Alex can’t figure out how long ago Hoodie had spotted him, the question leaving his cheeks to grow warmer than the cool morning should allow. “Although if you’re here to return something, I have to say it’ll knock you down a few spots.”

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe, but not exactly—not like that,” Alex stumbles, curious when he looks toward the street and back to Elijah again. “Did that guy come back to return the bedroom furniture?”

Hoodie’s head falls back as he laughs, and Alex is treated to the sight of an easy joy he envies from a few feet away. “No, but if you’re worried he has a chance of catching up to you, you’re welcome to help me get all this stuff set up. I’m running a little behind this morning.”

“Late night?” Alex asks, finding a shelf inside the garage, right next to the same black lab mix he’d seen yesterday, and putting the book there to keep it safe before he crouches and lets the dog check him out. Alex wants to know his name, but hasn’t even found a way to ask for Hoodie’s yet, so he scratches behind the dog’s ears, then stands to pull another folding table out and snap the legs into place.

“Yeah, actually. I’m a bartender, so—”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Exactly,” Hoodie says. “You look very awake, though. Probably not a bartender.”

“Nah, just a boring newspaper columnist. Though I guess we both listen to a lot of other people’s stories, huh?”

“And some are far better than others,” Hoodie jokes. Then he nods to the collection of small kitchen appliances Alex is arranging. “And thank you for helping me with this, but you don’t actually have to. I was just giving you a hard time.”

“Hey, no, I don’t mind. And I—I’m Alex, by the way. Alex Ramos. I mean, I guess introductions aren’t required garage sale etiquette, but now that I seem to be a regular here—”

“Oh, shit, sorry. Yeah, hi—” Hoodie says, wiping his hands on his jeans before he reaches out for a handshake. “Guess you take me out from behind the bar and I forget how to talk to people. I’m—”

A shout comes from across the driveway, a woman there far too excited about a couple of the coats she’s found on the rack, and she’s waving at Hoodie for some help, distracting them both. Hoodie’s mouth is still open like he’s about to laugh or apologize, and Alex just shoos him away.

“No, go, I’ll get the rest of the stuff set up for you. Looks like you might be able to get an extra buck or two out of her if you turn on some charm.”

Hoodie starts backing toward her. “Hey, I have plenty of charm all the time.”

Alex thinks he’s probably right, though whether he tends bar because he’s charming or whether he’s charming because he tends bar is anyone’s guess. He turns around and busies himself with the little left for him to do, noting that the vinyls are nowhere to be found, which means they were either sold yesterday, or Hoodie had taken his advice. When Alex is done, he leans up against the side of the house, and Hoodie helps Coat Lady and a couple of other early arrivals. It's another few seconds before the dog wanders out and sits next to Alex, calmly curious and content where he can watch whatever’s happening, both of them straightening a little when Hoodie returns.

“Welcome back,” Alex says. “She tip you well?”

“They usually do,” Hoodie replies with a wink. “But yeah—sorry, I’m Elijah Caplinger. Or Eli, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I—I don’t know why I said Elijah. Most people call me Eli.”

“Okay, sure,” Alex says, nodding slowly. “But what do you prefer?”

There’s a long pause and a head tilt that probably serve as enough of an answer, but Alex waits anyway, eternally patient with everyone but himself. And maybe sometimes that patience becomes stubbornness or a martyrdom he never sees coming, but for now it’s easy to keep his stare soft until Hoodie—or Eli or Elijah—speaks up and saves them both the trouble of wondering why Alex needs to know anything more about a stranger’s name.

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