But who shows up, today, of all days?
Eleanor fuckin' Ashby. Again. Without fail. And I hate her for that—for being the one person who sees me when nobody else even bothers to look.
I sigh and take the envelope, my dirty fingers leaving smudges on the crisp paper. Inside are photographs and five stacks of twenty-dollar bills bound with a paper band that reads, $2000.
Ten thousand dollars. I look at Eleanor. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s money, Legion. And photographs. Don’t you want to look at them?”
I let out a breath, removin’ the photos from the envelope. It’s a nice stack of five by sevens. Most of them are of me—moments of my childhood I’d forgot about long ago. Me on my shitty BMX bike. Me skippin' stones across the creek. Me standing on a ridge at sunset. The pictures in my hands are anchors to my youth. I grow up before my eyes.
But it's the last photo that stops time.
It's a man with my jawline, my eyes, my build. But older, harder, with a beard and the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen too much.
My father.
I look up at Eleanor. "Why are you doin’ this to me?"
"Doing what?" Eleanor asks quietly.
“Killin’ me like this. Why do you wanna kill me like this, Eleanor? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
She frowns. Like my words actually mean something, though I doubt they do. "They’re just some of my favorite photos of you. And some money. I meant it as a birthday present, but… but you can consider it payment for all the modeling you've done over the years if it makes you feel better."
I don't react. Don't thank her. Don't smile. My face stays stone as I toss the envelope onto the passenger seat of the truck I drive to pick up parts.
Then I go back to unloading the truck bed like she isn't even here.
"I won't be around for a few weeks," Eleanor says, shifting her weight from one expensive shoe to the other. "I'm… taking a series of photographs in… Wyoming. The light there is extraordinary in late summer."
I don't look at her. Don't acknowledge her words. Just keep workin', the muscles in my arms and back flexing with each lift and turn.
"Legion," she tries again. Her voice has an edge of desperation that makes my skin crawl. "I'd like to talk about?—"
"Got work to finish, Eleanor," I cut her off, still not looking at her. "Thanks for the money and… whatever. Thanks."
She lingers for another minute, then walks back to her Range Rover.
I don't watch her leave, but listen to the engine as it purrs to life, and she pulls away.
The next morning, I'm standing in the Harley dealership in Billings before they even flip the sign to OPEN. The salesman, a paunchy guy with a goatee and a Sturgis Rally t-shirt, eyes the neatly bundled stacks I place on the counter with open suspicion.
"Where'd you get this kind of money, son?" he asks, thumbing through the bills like they're a deck of cards.
"Saved it," I lie.
"Uh-huh," he says, not believing me for a second. "And you're how old?"
"Eighteen," I answer, sliding my ID across the counter. "As of yesterday."
He looks at the license, then at me, then back at the money. "Well, let me count this again, just to be sure."
He counts out every bill, taking his sweet ass time like he's hoping I'll get nervous and confess to robbing a bank.
I don't. Because I didn't.
Eleanor. I thought about her all fuckin' day after she left. Something wasn't right about her, and it's bugging me, but I can't put my finger on what, exactly, it was.
