She could see her apartment door, on the middle floor of the three-story building. Each section of the apartments was connected to the next by a concrete, railed landing with stairs that zigzagged down. From her vantage she could see her nondescript door as June bugs and moths fluttered around her porch light.
Was her father hiding in the shadows? Was he waiting for her?
She reached for her purse and got her cell phone. She flipped over to her page of contacts and thought about which of them might be able to help her. Several of her friends were out of town, and others didn’t answer her call. She kept trying, even selecting people she hadn’t spoken to in years. The few people that answered all had excuses as to why they were unavailable.
Alma led a reclusive life, only venturing out to go to work and the occasional concert. She wasn’t socially adept, preferring the comfort of a late night movie alone than a party. She didn’t make friends easily, and when she did they usually tired of trying to convince her to come out. Alma always had an excuse why she was staying home for the night, and eventually the new friend would stop calling.
There was always Paul.
She looked at his icon on the phone. He had a wide, beaming smile and a stoner’s eyes. “Fuck it.” She tapped his icon and waited, half hoping he wouldn’t answer.
“Yo,” he answered with a lethargic greeting.
“Paul?”
“Alma? Holy shit.” She heard covers rustle and assumed he was in bed. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Paul,” she sighed, regretting this already. “I need your help.”
“You got it, babe. What’s up?”
Alma had a mixed reaction to his voice. His lounging baritone, each syllable drawn out as if he savored them equally, caused an equal amount of disgust and adoration in her. While their past convinced her to hate him, she couldn’t help but love him a little.
“I need a place to stay.”
He didn’t answer.
“Paul?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. I heard you. Just, you know, thinking about it.” He sighed and she could hear him scratching at his scalp like he always did when conflicted.
“Never mind.” Alma was annoyed and ready to hang up.
“You can stay here, Alma,” said Paul. “You’re always welcome, you know that. It’s just that, well, you need to know that I’m not alone here. You know what I mean?”
“You’ve got a roommate now?” asked Alma.
He paused for a telling second before saying, “Sort of.”
She understood what he meant, and didn’t know how to respond. “Maybe I’ll just get a hotel.”
“You don’t have to,” said Paul. “You can stay here if you want.”
“No,” said Alma. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Alma and Paul had been together long enough for him to become familiar with the underlying meaning of certain phrases. Every couple develops passive aggressive mannerisms, and Alma was as guilty of it as anyone else. Paul knew that when she said, ‘I’ll be fine,’ it really meant anything but that. And if Alma were being honest with herself she would admit that she deliberately used that tone to stoke Paul’s compassion. It wasn’t that she wanted to guilt him into helping her, but rather that she needed him to hear how hurt she was that he was sleeping with another girl. Even though they’d broken things off, for the third time, over six months ago, Alma still hadn’t moved on and the revelation that he had was agonizing. Six months was far too long to dwell on a failed relationship, but Paul and Alma had kept in contact over the break, and she always thought they would end up together again. It was agonizing to find out that Paul felt differently.
She could hear Paul push the covers off of himself as he got up. “Babe, stop being silly. If you need help, I’m here for you. What’s going on?”
“I just need a place to sleep for the night.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, sure, and I’m the first person you call? Come on, Alma, don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. What’s the matter?”
“You weren’t the first person I called.” She had a spiteful bite to her words. “I literally called everyone else I could before I called you.”
He stayed quiet, and Alma felt bad for attacking him.
“Look, I’m sorry,” said Alma. “I’ve had a crappy day.”
She heard his beard scratch on the phone and then a beer bottle hiss as it was opened. The cap clinked on the counter and she could imagine the scene, his kitchen littered with bottles, some upright and others overturned, and a seared pan on the stove, probably filled with burned macaroni. He was always a mess when they weren’t together.
“Door’s open,” he said callously. “You know the address.” Then his tone softened and Alma could tell that he was sorry for being gruff with her. “If you want my help, I’ll always be here for you. I didn’t mean to sound nasty, I’ve just had a long day. A buddy of mine got in some trouble and I’ve been trying to help him out. It’s a long story.” He groaned and Alma could hear his beard scratching on the receiver again. “I want you to come here, Alma. I’ve been meaning to call you, but just haven’t worked up the courage. Come to my place and I’ll help you with whatever you need.”
“You’ve been working up the courage to call me by banging some girl?” asked Alma.
“It’s complicated,” said Paul.
“I’m sure it is.”
His voice lowered and he spoke quickly, “Look, babe, I want you here. The door’ll be open.”
He hung up.
She looked down at her phone in shock, as if he’d cursed at her. “You asshole.” She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and then stared up at her apartment as if the conversation might’ve given her strength to attempt to go home, if for no other reason than to avoid giving Paul the satisfaction of seeking his help.
She grinded her grip on the top of her steering wheel as she looked up at the swirling bugs in front of her apartment door. If her father was going to hide, where would he do it? She looked at the shadows that plagued the space between her car and the apartment door. He could’ve been in the bushes along the building’s façade, or on the other side of a stairwell, faced away from the parking lot and out of her line of sight. Maybe he was already in the apartment. He could’ve lied to the office, and showed them his license to prove he was her father, convincing them that he was here to surprise his daughter. He could be in there right now, hiding.
Had she left the bedroom light on?
It was on now. She could see her bedroom window from the car. Had she left the light on this morning? She often did, but how could she be sure? What if it was him? What if he was in her room, searching through her drawers, planning his assault? He couldn’t have gotten here before her, could he? What if he did?
“Fuck that.” She yelled out as if celebrating her decision not to chance fate. She put the car in reverse and sped out of the complex’s lot, a chill running down her spine the whole way as if she’d just barely escaped with her life. Whenever she finally decided to come home, she wouldn’t be alone.
Alma intended to go to a hotel, but she passed them all on her way to Paul’s. His studio apartment was in the city, in a neighborhood that was in the midst of a planned renewal. It was going to be called ‘LoDo’, standing for Lower Downtown, and city officials promised that the rejuvenation would attract new business. They hoped to push out what they called the ‘unwanted element’ and restore a sense of pride to the neighborhood.
Alma wondered what element Paul fell into.
His studio was above a tattoo parlor, and was accessed by a stairwell in the rear. She parked next to a row of Harleys beside the parlor and could hear the raucous music as soon as she turned off the car. Tattoo parlors often stayed open late to host parties, and this one was no exception. When she’d lived with Paul, they attended several of the bashes that the parlor’s owner threw, and she had a couple lasting reminders of those nights on hidden parts of her body. It’s hard to turn down a free tattoo when you’re drunk.