“What the hell are you thinking, Alma?” she asked herself. “Don’t do this. Just go to a hotel. Don’t get out of the car.”
She fiddled with the keys as they dangled from the ignition. The teddy bear keychain that Paul bought her on their first date, back in high school, spun from its chain.
“Fuck it.”
She took the keys out and put them in her purse along with her phone before she got out and headed for Paul’s door. She raced up the wooden stairs as if scared she might reconsider. She didn’t have a coat, and the chilly night caused her arms to break out in goose bumps.
She stood in front of the simple white door, hesitant to go in. There was a new mat at her feet that read, ‘Welcome.’ She wondered when he bought that as she wiped her loafers on it.
Why did she wear such plain shoes to work every day? She looked at her drab outfit and thought about how nice Rachel looked at the restaurant. Alma needed to start dressing nicer. She was suddenly embarrassed that she had been filmed for a news program today. And now she was standing in front of Paul’s apartment, dressed in clothes she should’ve thrown out years ago. The once purple top had faded to mauve and her jeans were worn out in all the wrong spots. Then a terrifying thought came to her that she hadn’t considered before: What if his new girlfriend was here?
The door opened and Paul greeted her. “Hey beautiful.” He glanced up and down, inspecting her. “You look good. Did you start jogging again?”
“Don’t patronize me. I look like shit.”
He rolled his eyes, sighed, and turned away from her. “Fine, whatever. You look like a washed up hag. Get in. It’s cold.”
Paul looked good. He was a big guy, both in height and width, but his weight was sexy. He lamented his former football physique, but she often tried to convince him that some girls liked hefty men, and she was one of them. He had a gut, but it wasn’t a loose one. It was as if he were just a big, bulging muscle. His beard was trimmed down from its once bushy length, but was still thick, and he’d shaved his long hair down to stubble, revealing a head tattoo of a snake that she’d never known about. He had a tank top on and a pair of torn jeans that he hadn’t bothered buttoning or zipping up all the way.
“I like your hair,” said Alma as she walked in.
He rubbed his palm over the stubble. “Yeah? Thanks. I lost a bet.”
Alma glanced around the impeccably clean apartment. She couldn’t believe the sight, and knew that he hadn’t been able to simply clean up in anticipation of her possible arrival. “What the hell is this?” she asked as she looked around. “Did you hire a maid or something?”
He rubbed his belly, which was a trait that she’d always loved about him. Every morning when he got out of bed he would stretch and his long arms would nearly touch the ceiling before he’d bring them back down to rub his stomach. It was one of a thousand endearing traits that she recalled.
She knew she was falling back into the same old trap. Alma let this happen far too frequently, but even when she recognized the pattern she was helpless to avoid it. The comfort of familiarity was alluring. She recalled all of the things she loved about Paul, but none of what she hated.
Alma glanced around the studio apartment, relieved to see that Paul had asked his slut to leave.
“No. I’ve been trying to keep things nice around here. It hasn’t been easy. You know how I am.”
“Yeah, I do.” The cleanliness was a nice change, but she felt oddly uncomfortable in the apartment that had once been her home away from home. It seemed somehow foreign now.
“Want a beer?” he asked, already headed to the corner of the studio where the kitchen was set behind a breakfast counter.
She nodded and walked with him while still surveying the changes in the apartment. A new flat screen television was mounted on the wall and had tall speakers one either side of it. All of the changes were welcome ones, but she felt a pang of sorrow that she hadn’t been around to see them. She would’ve preferred that Paul stayed exactly as he was the day she walked out, as if it was impossible for him to live without her.
When they got to the kitchen, Alma was almost sad to see that there wasn’t a burned pan of macaroni on the stove. She felt like a mother visiting her son’s new home for the first time, expecting disaster, only to discover that he didn’t need her anymore.
“Here you go,” he said after he popped the top off a Milk Stout Nitro and handed it to her.
“Glass?” she asked.
He smirked and winked. “That’s my girl.” He retrieved an extra tall pint glass from the cabinet and gave it to her.
This was their beer, and she knew how it was supposed to be poured. As opposed to most brands, this one needed to be hard poured. Instead of daintily tipping a glass to keep the head from exploding, this beer had to be overturned and plunged into the glass. It was a technique that they’d taught a hundred guests, and it had a noticeable effect on the flavor of this beer.
She took a long drink and then sighed in satisfaction. “I needed this. Thanks.”
He put the two bottle caps in the garbage, which wouldn’t have surprised anyone but her. In all their time together, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him throw a bottle cap away instead of just tossing it onto the nearest surface.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked. “Or am I going to have to get you drunk first?”
She sat on a stool on the opposite side of the breakfast counter from him. “My dad showed up.”
He stiffened and raised his eyebrows. “Oh shit. Really?”
She nodded and tilted her glass to watch as the foaming brown color of the beer slowly turned black. “Yep. He found me at a restaurant where I was meeting with a reporter.”
“A reporter? What was that for?”
She smiled as she recalled the start of her day. “My school surprised me with a new music room, and the local news sent a reporter to cover it. They wanted to interview me, so I met up with them at the China Buffet on Fairmont.”
“That’s awesome, about the room and the reporter, not the buffet. That place sucks.”
“I know, right? I hate that place.” She smiled as she looked down at her beer. It was nice to be with Paul. They understood each other, which was a comfort she direly needed. “All in all, I was having a pretty great day until Dad showed up. Turns out the reporter had interviewed him in Pittsburgh…”
Paul interrupted her, “What? Why?”
While the two of them had shared a lot, she’d never revealed anything about her history with the Widowsfield incident. “They were, I don’t know, doing a story on the king of assfucks or something. Doesn’t matter. The point is: He followed them to me.”
Paul drank his beer and stared at her over the rim. She could see by his expression that he sensed she wasn’t telling him the whole story. When he lowered the glass there was foam on his mustache.
He wiped his mouth on his arm. “Want me to beat his ass?”
“No. I already had a guy do that for me. Now there’s a Dad-sized dent in the side of my car.”
Paul frowned and his eyebrows sunk as if he were scowling, but his menace was comedic as he asked, “Who do you have beating up guys for you? That’s my job.”
“Yeah, well you’ve been busy porking bar sluts.” She thumbed in the direction of the nearby queen bed that Paul had made up in an attempt to hide what had occurred there just hours before.