Page 10 of Iowa Intellect
I nod my head, understanding that need to keep your eyes on the prize to stay motivated. I’d pushed myself through medical school with that same sort of optimistic determination.
Looking back up at me, he adds, “I’ve bought most of the ones I wanted from collectors, but it’s not quite the same as finding a really rare one out in the wild.”
“I get that. My grandma always gave me two-dollar bills in my birthday cards, and I was convinced that one of them would be my ticket to financial freedom. I’ve never been able to bring myself to spend any of them.”
It feels good to have something in common with him. Deciding to double down, I add, “I’m a bit of a penny collector myself.”
This revelation gets his attention. His eyes widen as he asks in a surprised tone, “Really?”
I nod in answer before continuing, “Yes, any time my family went on vacation, I used the touristy crank machine to stamp the location on a flattened penny. I have a whole display book of them representing all of my travels. It’s the perfect cheap, portable souvenir.”
His startled look, verging on disgust, is not at all the reaction I had expected from my personal story. He blinks several times as if he’s struggling to absorb what I have shared. Finally, he asks in a croaky voice, “You kill pennies?”
It dawns on me then why he looks so appalled. For a man who grew up cherishing and placing his hopes and dreams on pennies to find out that I smash them for fun is probably quite a shock.
Uncertain how to defend myself, I say, “Oh… Umm, yes… I guess I do. I truly never thought about it that way.”
“It seems like a doctor should know better,” he lightly chastises me, but I can see from the glint in his eyes that he’s teasing.
“I guess I should have,” I admit. After thinking it over for a moment, I say, “I’m in way too deep to stop collecting them now, but how about if I promise to check the pennies to make sure they aren’t rare before I stamp them?”
“Murder them,” he corrects me.
Just when I begin to think he might truly be angry with me, he begins chuckling.
Soon, we are both laughing at how ridiculously opposite our hobbies are. When our giggles subside, I find myself feeling comfortable enough with Brock to say, “This has been a stressful day––with me almost drowning and being accused of coin murder. Do you have any food in this joint?”
“Let’s go see what we can find,” he offers.
He takes my hand to lead me into the kitchen. I try, but fail, to ignore the zing of electricity that shoots up my arm at his touch.
11
BROCK
As we stare into the depths of my French door refrigerator, I warn Caroline, “I don’t really keep any fancy cuisine on hand. My taste in food is pretty simple.”
I’m delighted to hear the doctor agree, “Mine is too.”
She proves that point by suggesting, “How about if we have grilled cheese sandwiches, grapes, and chocolate milk?”
“That sounds like the perfect comfort food after a tough day.” I readily agree with her suggestions because they are likely exactly what I would make if I were here alone.
I’m glad that she feels comfortable enough to make herself at home by retrieving ingredients from my fridge, but at the same time, I want to take care of her. Her face registers surprise, then delight, when I say, “You go relax on the couch. I’ll fix our snack.”
“A lady could get used to this,” she says with a wide smile before turning to head back into the living room.
“That’s the plan,” I mutter just loud enough that I can’t be certain if she hears me or not.
As I putter around the kitchen preheating the skillet and buttering the slices of bread, my eyes keep being drawn back to the beautiful woman in my living room. Instead of resting, as I had suggested, she’s perusing my bookshelf.
It should probably feel invasive to have someone so openly scan through my books, but with this woman, I find her curiosity to be charming. Although it’s a new and completely unfamiliar urge, I am pleased to discover that I want to share the more intellectual side of myself with her.
By the time I have the grapes washed and the cheese sandwiches browned to perfection, she is settled on the sofa with her legs curled under her. Her nose is buried in one of my books. Desperate to know which one she chose, I scan the shelves to see which one is missing, but it’s too hard to see from here.
After I set our plates and glasses down on the coffee table in the living room, I gingerly tip up the book she’s reading to see its cover. I’m not overly surprised by what she has selected, so I say, “Excellent choice.”
She smiles up at me. “I’ve always been drawn to Emily Dickinson’s poetry because she was surprisingly fierce.”
