Chapter Text
Before Cloud 9 shuts its doors to the general public for good, Amy has an idea. The store is a buzzing, unforgiving mess, all half-empty shelves and warehouse pallets strewn across the linoleum, and the moment Sandra realizes they’ve kissed, it only takes about six and a half minutes before everyone on staff knows, and they’re swarmed with questions and invasive comments and even some lewd hand gestures. She glances at her phone—thirty-eight minutes til close.
“C’mon,” she says emphatically, grabbing Jonah's left hand and leading him toward the back of the store, still dizzy from their kiss, from his words, from everything that’s transpired in the past couple hours.
Jonah laughs, “What is this, where are we going?”
“You know where.”
The flicker of recognition that crosses his face tells him that yes, he definitely knows, and she’s suddenly overcome with this strange wave of combined nostalgia and ache. She glances at him sideways as they shuffle through the narrow corridors, trying to digest the expression on his face, the familiar twitch of his eyebrows. The truth is, Amy has imagined this opportunity—this moment with their hands clasped, rushing to be alone and in a small, private space—time and time again while she was in California.
"Amy, the store is gonna close soon. Don't you want to—"
"Shhh," she drags him through the entry, plops them down on the floor. He looks like he's about to open his mouth to protest again, but there is a shadow of a smile on his face.
The room is darker than she remembered, but the piles of abandoned toys and squashed boxes of gluttonous snacks remain untouched, almost fossilized. She sits cross-legged, her jeans providing more give than any of the manager-appropriate slacks she got all too familiar with in the past couple years, and he sits with his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around and resting his chin, eyes fixed on her with a levelness that has always startled her. It cuts through her like a hot knife.
Amy reaches behind her for a case of Sugar Logs and tears it apart unceremoniously, handing him a package with a sheepish grin. She's suddenly aware of how much is hanging in the air around them, and it's not just the musty wet drywall smell. Tucking a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear, she clears her throat.
"So- um," she stammers unhelpfully. Why are her palms clammy? It's not like they didn't just make out in the middle of Health & Beauty, and didn't he flash her that reassuring smile after they pulled apart, his eyes crinkled and glinting like they had some kind of renewed secret? She feels like a teenager or something, on the porch with a high school crush, unable to find the appropriate words to drive the conversation forward.
"Are you okay?" Jonah asks gently, reaching out with fingertips. She latches onto them, examining his nails, if only not to have to look him in the eye just yet.
"You know, when I first moved out to California, it took two weeks for me to settle in before Adam flew Emma and Parker out to join me. I didn't want them to be there with me while I was, y'know, floundering in the middle of a bunch of boxes I hadn't unpacked yet, unable to cook them a normal meal at a normal dinner table."
He is watching her studiously, uncharacteristically quiet, which only makes her babble more.
"And I hadn't even enrolled Emma in the new district school in California, I just opted for remote learning with her old school and she kept going to class over Zoom with her old friends, and I would sometimes glance over her shoulder as she was in class and think about how everyone else on that Zoom meeting was in St. Louis and she and Parker and I were in this... I don't know, California bubble that felt- felt like it was floating in space or something. Sometimes I would watch Cheyenne's Instagram stories just to see what was going on in the store," she waves her hand limply, motioning to the space around them.
She watches him take a bite out of the Sugar Log, only to grimace, smacking his lips slightly in what she can only assume is an over-exaggerated response to its saccharine sweetness. The absurd face he makes calms her down a little.
"Anyway, I don't know. I just- I kept thinking about how I was so excited for this big change, this new place, this new job, this new life, and when I finally got there, it was like all I could do was look at the place I left behind under this microscope. And I kept thinking about you—"
"Amy," he interrupts her for the first time, the smile on his face gone, his eyes noticeably darker. "You don't think I spent all my time thinking about you, too?"
"I mean, I don't know!" Amy says, her voice coming out more like a wail than she intended. "I fucked up, right? I felt like I didn't have any right to even imagine that as a possibility. I'm afraid of change, but maybe more accurately, I'm more afraid to face the consequences of that change. Anyway, that's what my corporate-sponsored therapist tells me."
At this, he chuckles, softening. "Mm gotta love those bougie management perks. When I felt sad, I just drowned my sorrows in Moose Tracks ice cream and pale ales."
This comes across, actually, as much more depressing than perhaps Jonah intended, and it causes Amy to balk. "Jonah, I-"
"Sorry, sorry," he says hastily. "I didn't mean it like- well, I mean. It was true, I ate a lot of ice cream in the past few months. I mean, it wasn't always Moose Tracks, mint chocolate chip in a pinch—"
"Did you hate me for saying no? To marriage?" Amy asks the question that has been weighing on her this entire time, before she even landed back in St. Louis, before she even got to California, for that matter. She knows it's a stupidly loaded question, that whenever you ask someone if they hated you for a decision you made, it's just asking for reassurance, a pitying "No, no, of course not."
That's why it takes her aback when he nods slowly. "I uh, well- kind of. Don't look at me like that!"
"I'm not—"
He sighs, a deep heavy sigh that she instinctively wants to make fun of, because it is so dramatic and over-the-top that it makes her think of Jonah-the-theater-nerd, eager to show off his acting chops.
"Amy, some days, before we broke up, I felt like we were married. Like, already. On days when we'd wake up together and I'd scramble eggs while you got Parker dressed. When we'd get into the car, all four of us together, and you'd be in the driver's seat adjusting your mirrors and it'd feel like we were preparing for some family road trip. How could I not resent you a little for deciding for the both of us that that was... not real?"
Her throat catches at the sincerity of his voice combined with the painfulness of his words. One thing that has always been true about her—since, well, forever, at least since she was an angsty preteen—is her unwavering ability to compartmentalize. And the reality is, she compartmentalized the shit out of her breakup. There was the Pre-Breakup version of herself, and then instead of thinking of herself as Post-Breakup, she constructed a Career-Minded version that she could funnel all of her energy into. And with the pandemic and everything, the Zoom meetings blurring the lines left and right, work was everything. Sometimes, she'd be up until midnight making new presentations, falling asleep with slide decks swirling around her head. But all this meant that she never truly sat with the image of Jonah reconstructing their family road trips in his mind.
Amy scoots closer to him on the floor, pressing her legs against his and inching toward his face, their noses nearly touching. "It was real," she whispers. She can smell the Sugar Log on his breath. "I told you, I just had all these options, and I'd never had options—"
Jonah presses the softest, fleeting kiss just northwest of her lips, but it is hesitant. Cautious. "I heard you. I understand that. But it's hard not to take that personally, Amy. You can do anything. I've watched you juggle fire, and all of a sudden I didn't fit in your vision anymore."
She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, taking a deep breath. "Another thing my therapist told me was that I never truly admitted to you that I was scared to be in a marriage again. Specifically a failed marriage."
He laughs grimly, "A failed marriage, huh? A failure before we even started?"
"You don't get it, okay! You don't get what it feels like to have all that weight on your shoulders, all the reminders that the last time you said yes to being with someone forever, it didn't feel like the wrong decision in the moment, and with every passing year, more and more of it would just crumble around you, and next thing you know, fifteen years of your life, just... gone. You've been unburdened, free as a bird, able to make whatever spontaneous decision you wanted."
He's tracing his long index finger against her forearm almost absentmindedly, but it causes a shiver to run through her, and she's suddenly realizing how familiar his touch feels even through the fabric of her shirt.
"I don't think I've ever pretended to get it, or at least I didn't try to. But Amy, the thing about being unburdened is that it really winds up being untethered, nine times out of ten. Like I'd just been floating aimlessly for five years, and- and you reminded me what it was like to keep my feet on the ground, and even now—" he looks up at the ceiling, as if it represents Cloud 9 as a whole, "—even now, I feel like I don't have something to latch onto. If you hadn't come back, what would I be doing? In like, fifteen minutes, I will be officially unemployed, and it's just... I'm not ready to just—" he makes a weird clapping motion with his hands, miming a "that's that" sentiment, "—hop back on the train and ignore all the free-falling I've been doing."
"Am- am I the train in this metaphor?"
He narrows his eyes. "Just go with it."
He's right, of course. He's right more than she'd care to admit. Jonah's the reason she got to the upper tiers of management in the first place, and now that she's made it, she's not even worried about having quit her job, because she already has headhunters swarming in her LinkedIn messages, asking for her to interview. And even though she doesn't necessarily have a strong sense of direction, per se, she has... a place. And as she glances at his knit brow, his tight-lipped expression, she knows that he is still searching for his.
"The point is," he continues, "Before you broke up with me, I felt like I was happy with my purpose of working toward this union, and working in our relationship—taking care of Parker, taking care of you—"
"—Are you saying our relationship was work? Also, you never needed to take care of me, I'm perfectly capable—"
"—Every relationship is work," he shrugs. "And I would never imply that you aren't capable of taking care of yourself, I'm a staunch feminist—"
"—Jonah."
"Okay, sorry, sorry. I just meant... I don't know, I liked my purpose then. And suddenly, the union stuff was screeching to a halt. And I had this total bust of an interview with what I thought was a job that actually aligned with my values. And you and Parker and Emma were gone. And now Cloud 9 is closing, and it feels like all the work I put in is getting thrown out the window. What did I have left? What do I have left?"
Amy has to swallow the instinct to say "You have me" like she's in the same kinds of 90s romcom movies she spent an embarrassing amount of time binging on her couch in California.
"I hear you, I do," she insists instead, hanging her wrist over his knees, leaning in closer. "I—"
She stops short, an idea suddenly flooding her like it's the most obvious thing, the clearest answer. She stares at him, only partially aware that her jaw is now hanging open.
"What? What are you- why are you looking at me like that?"
Breaking out in a wide smile, Amy paws at his legs, guiding them down to the floor so that he's sitting like an L and then nudging them apart so that she can sit in between, so close that her thighs are flush up against his. She props her own limbs up so that one foot is on either side of his body, almost like they are spidered up against each other. He looks startled and a little confused, but she ignores it momentarily.
"Look. I know you have no reason to trust me just yet. I know I betrayed that trust when I said no to marriage, when I left, and I know I can't ask for all of that trust back in one day. But can we- is it totally unfair of me to ask if we can just try something, the moment we walk out of this store together? A fresh start, if you will."
His mouth twitches at these words, and he nods slowly. "Might be harder than the last time to have a real fresh start, you know. And probably less international live streaming of us having sex."
She shoves lightly at his shoulder. "We can work our way back up to that. I just- I have an idea. I'm not asking you to trust me in full right this second, but will you trust me for just this evening?"
He eyes her carefully. "Just this evening," he echoes. "How do you know I don't already have plans?"
"Oh—I mean, do you? I—"
"I am unemployed and have no pets or dependents under my care, Amy. The only thing even remotely close to a plan I have is Marcus asking me for the sixth night in a row to happy hour at a disgusting bar across town that he insists is always, and I quote, 'crawling with the ladies.'"
"Well, I wouldn't want to rob you of the opportunity to spend an evening with 'the ladies' but I'll have you know that my plans, my idea is very good."
Jonah laughs. "Okay. You got it."
She leans in slowly, carefully. The memory of all of the quick, cursory kisses they've shared comes rushing back to her—in the break room when no one is nearby, in the parking lot before they entered the store for a shift together, at her old kitchen table before one of them ran out for a bottle of wine—and she feels an immense, overwhelming sadness that she can't quite square away with the excitement she can still sense in her blood.
"You smell like Sugar Logs," she says to break the silence.
"Your favorite," he says quietly, reaching out to intertwine his fingers behind the small of her back, pulling her even closer. Her breath catches as their foreheads touch and she can feel her heartbeat quickening in a juvenile, unexpected way, as if this is somehow about to be their first kiss, as if they hadn't ever gotten this close before.
This time, when his lips finally meet hers, it is less urgent and starved, more searching, like a question mark. She missed the curve of his lower lip, the way he clutched onto her back whenever they kissed, as though to prevent her from falling, the soft humming sound he made when she ran her fingers along the nape of his neck, into his wavy hair. She grows more and more lightheaded as he draws her in more, to the point where she is essentially straddling him in his lap.
"Seven minutes til close," he breathes into her neck when they part for air.
"We have time."
Jonah agrees to the mystery of Amy's grand plan, which involves him going back to his sad studio apartment and getting changed ("Do I have to wear anything in particular?" "Yes, a speedo and a ski mask, and nothing else.") into a fresh button-down shirt (the one he wore to work this morning was, disgustingly, stained with armpit sweat) after using his Old Spice deodorant and running his fingers in his hair. He debates taking a full-on shower, but Amy is always on time, and she said she'd pick him up at exactly 7:30PM.
He waits for her on his futon, collapsing in what he only just realizes is a bout of real, full-fledged fatigue. The day has officially caught up to him. Everything from standing in front of the greeting cards with Amy, who admitted to and apologized for things he did not for a second expect to receive, even in the dozens of ways he imagined what a reunion with her would look like. In several iterations of this daydream, they didn't even speak, just charged at each other and made out. Sometimes in the parking lot. Sometimes in her old office. But never in his imagination had he conjured up a slow, careful apology the way she delivered it. And then feeling the wind getting knocked out of him in front of a sparse toilet paper display, hearing her say that she would wait years for him—at that point, he could not wait any longer. The pent-up energy, carbonated and out of control, came rushing out of him, and suddenly he was kissing her in the middle of the fluorescent aisle.
He stares at the ceiling, folding his hands over his chest, unable to help the fact that his foot is now shaking restlessly.
Amy. Amy, who texted him from the airport when she was leaving for real, for real to say a final, half-hearted goodbye with that emoji with the closed eyes that looked like it was half-smiling, half-grimacing, which he read over and over again in this very same spot until the words started to blur together. Amy, who let him see Parker one last time two days before her flight, during which they sat in her kitchen eating sour cream and onion chips while he bounced Parker on his lap, chin on the toddler's soft, perfect hair. They barely talked that evening. He was haunted by the idea that the child he had been helping to raise was disappearing, just as ghost-like and translucent as his mother.
His apartment buzzer goes off, and his heart jumps right back to his throat, where it had been residing all day. He scrambles to get up, knocking over the unlit candle on his coffee table and nearly apologizing to it until, duh, it's an inanimate object in his own house. He buzzes her in and closes his eyes, counting to the obligatory twenty seconds it would take for her to get to his floor and unit.
He lets her in halfway through her knock. Shit, that probably seemed overeager. But she is standing there in his doorway, wearing a gray hoodie he recognizes immediately, and holding... Parker. She has him right on her hip even though he looks like he's outgrowing being held, and he is staring at Jonah wide-eyed and curious.
"Parker," he breathes, unable to help himself. To say Amy's second-born child's presence is a severe shock to his system is an understatement. He had spent the past several months slowly accepting the reality that both Amy and Parker (and Emma, too, for that matter) were gone for good, that at best, he could hope for a fleeting encounter at a mutual friend's wedding or something, but beyond that, he had to be content looking at photos Amy posted on her Instagram, usually where he couldn't see Parker's face at all, since she was very serious about privacy.
"Bye!" Parker says loudly in the way kids do, like everything is deserving of an unabashed shout, and it startles Jonah a little.
"Sorry, he's been saying bye like all the time, no matter what part of the evening we're in," Amy grins. "Parker, remember Jonah?" She tips Parker in his direction, and Jonah instinctively reaches out his arms, as though muscle memory is all that matters right now.
"Ames—"
"—We're gonna go on a little adventure, the three of us," Amy cuts in confidently, handing Parker over to him. "Also, this guy is getting a little too old to be carried around, honestly."
Parker has definitely grown substantially in the past several months, and Jonah falters a little when his weight transitions into his arms. "I- of course, okay. What- where are we going?" Parker's head tilts toward Jonah's, the way kids' heads do like they're too heavy to hold up for too long. Jonah can feel his chest constricting.
Amy has a mischievous look on her face, the way she gets when she's thoroughly proud of herself for a scheme she's cooked up. "Don't you worry 'bout a thing," she drawls in a bizarre, hybrid accent that makes him snort with laughter. "I'll drive."
She can't stop looking at Parker in her rearview mirror, even as they pull up in the parking lot of the mini-golf place on the outskirts of the city. Parker, to his credit, is happily swinging his legs against his carseat, taking turns between staring out the window and staring up front at her and Jonah. She can't quite bring herself to look Jonah directly in the eyes yet. But she can tell his leg is doing that thing again, shaking like he's nervous and thinking.
"Ta-da," she says proudly, shutting off the engine, finally forcing herself to glance over at him. Maybe she's imagining it, but his cheeks look flushed, almost. His eyes are flitting between the neon lights that line the mini-golf course and Amy's face, like he's trying to decide what to say.
"What are we—"
"—Fresh start, remember?" Amy says as breezily as she can, wondering just for a moment if her voice is more high-pitched than usual. "Parker needs to learn how to play the most important sport in the world, it's about time, I'd say—"
"—I thought you said golf was a stupid sport?"
"Big golf is," she corrects him, swinging open the car door. "Mini-golf is an important part of growing up. Parker is two and a half now. It's time."
Jonah laughs, "Ah yes. Two and a half, the time when kids learn how to tie their shoes and putt little fluorescent balls into astroturf holes."
"Hey," Amy feels the pressure releasing from her head as they lock up the car, walking to the entrance, where the ticket window lady is helping a family of four. "I plan on imparting real knowledge and worldly experiences onto my children."
"Obviously, obviously."
Amy pays for a round for them—Parker gets to play for free because, well, all he can really do is swing the putter around—and they shuttle as a unit to the first hole. It's sparse tonight, and Amy feels grateful for that because really, her endgame here is to get some quiet time for the three of them to be in one space together.
"So," Jonah says, gesturing for her to go first while taking Parker's hand. "Talk to me about tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know, you've got that look. Like you're planning something and you can't wait to brandish it in my face."
Amy pretends to look hurt. "What, is this not enough for you, Jonah? Quality time with me and my son and the best sport in the world?"
His eyes get big the way they always do when he starts to backtrack, and she takes pleasure in listening to him stammer helplessly through his next words, like it is a part of a familiar choreography that she had grown to know and love.
"No, I- I didn't, I meant, I wasn't-"
"Relax, Jonah." Amy takes a swing at her ball, watching with glee as it rolls close to the hole. She glances sideways at Jonah, who is now swinging his arm with Parker, almost as though they are doing so to some imaginary music, a beat that only the two of them can hear. She suddenly feels shy and uncertain, because that's Jonah, accompanying her son again as though no time had passed, looking down at him with such unmistakable adoration that it reintroduces a fresh pain in her to think about the fact that she had to pry the two of them apart in the first place when she moved. "But you're right," she says quietly. "I want the three of us to have some alone time, but there's also a second objective tonight."
"Oh?" Jonah's eyebrow, expressive and defined as always, quirks upward as he puts his ball down on the ground and exaggeratedly positions himself in a preparatory stance. "And what's this second objective?"
"Well, now, this is the part where you's gots to be ready to play in the big leagues," she says, pulling out the goofy accent without thinking. She takes a seat on the bench and pulls Parker into her lap, pointing her club in Jonah's direction. "If you win, I'll give you the surprise, you'll win it fair and square."
Jonah looks visibly intrigued. "And if you win?"
"Win!" Parker throws his fists up in the air in response triumphantly. They both laugh.
Amy ruffles her son's hair. "When I win, you owe me another evening together. In our fresh start."
Jonah—who in the past twenty hours or so has carried a forlornness in his eyes that she has clutched somewhere deep in her chest with a heaviness that she feels certain will not go away any time soon—laughs a full-throated laugh that reminds her instantly why she returned to this big, dumb, beautiful city in the first place.
Amy, despite all her crowing about her mini-golfing prowess, does not win. She does, however, in true sore loser fashion, insist that Parker's adorableness was distracting her the whole time.
"Hey! I, too, was distracted by Parker's adorableness, but not enough to l-o-o-o-se," Jonah taunts, swaying while propped up against his club. He feels a silly but very real rush over having beat her at what she claimed to be her game. "Admit it, Ames. You might be the Mini-Golf Queen, but make way for the King!"
"Ew."
Jonah puts his club down and reaches for Parker, who has started to rub his eyes drowsily. "It looks like it's time to take this one to bed, huh?"
"No! No bed!" Parker hollers immediately, like Jonah's unlocked the exact word to set him off. "No bed!"
"Okay, champ," Amy soothes. "No bed yet. But let's get ourselves back into the car, okay?"
They return their balls and clubs and Jonah volunteers to carry Parker to the car—Parker, who despite his protests around bedtime, immediately plops his head down on Jonah's shoulder and closes his eyes.
"So," Jonah says, unable to help himself, his impatience getting the better of him. "What's my prize? My surprise? My sur-prize, if you will?"
Amy rolls her eyes, and the expression is so comforting and nostalgic that Jonah nearly stops walking for a moment. Amy unlocks the car, opening the backseat door, and Jonah gingerly places Parker in his booster seat, buckling him up. Once Amy has checked his work, which he feels both indignant and understanding about all at once, they pile in the front seat. Amy does not start the car. Instead, she reaches over his lap—he tries not to think too hard about the way her arm brushes against the denim over his thigh—and pops open the glove compartment.
"Amy, what is—"
"Shh," she uses her free hand to press her index finger against his mouth. His eyes go cross-eyed looking at her hand practically cupping his chin, but then his gaze drops down to his lap, where she's dropped what looks like... a folded piece of paper?
"Amy—"
"Shh," she insists again. "Read first. Then react."
Obediently, Jonah picks up the paper, realizing that it's tri-folded like a brochure. He has to flip it over to see the front, where JONAH SIMMS FOR CITY COUNCIL is emblazoned in block lettering, positioned over a cheesy stock image of the American flag and a bald eagle. His instinct is to blurt "What is this?" out loud again, but, remembering her request, he uses his thumb to unfold the pamphlet slowly. He can feel his eyes widening, his mind racing.
At first, he thinks it's a joke. Like a legit, thought-out prank, something that felt like a jab at what she's always calling "his unrelenting idealism" and his mouth opens, ready to protest. But then he runs his fingers over the paper, and it feels familiar—Cloud 9 printer paper. And then he looks at Amy’s beaming, clearly-proud-of-herself face. And then he reads the inside flap.
"WHO IS JONAH SIMMS? Originally from Chicago, Illinois, Simms is a St. Louis transplant, but one who is passionate about fighting for working class St. Louisans across the city. He has direct experience with Raise the Wage, and worked hard to help retail workers unionize right here in St. Louis. As someone with a true sense of vision and drive, determination and heart, Simms will work tirelessly for the rights and dignity of all St. Louisans."
Jonah looks up, tears his eyes away from a picture of his own face grinning back up at him. He feels like his throat has closed all the way up. Amy is staring at him, waiting expectantly for him to say something. But he can't. It's not that he's crying, exactly, but his eyes are stinging, that's for sure. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again.
"Ames, what is this?" Jonah finally manages.
She smiles, that dazzling, incredible smile that makes him feel even fainter than he already feels. "You know what it is."