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Paul became a good friend after I landed in Alexandria. After our run-in at the police station, he made it his mission to help me get to know my new city. Obnoxiously so, at first. Several days after waiving my parking ticket, he showed up at Claire’s front door. Maggie and I were on the back patio making chalk drawings when Claire slipped outside and told me I had a visitor.
“I don’t know anyone here.”
“Come see,” she urged.
Paul stood on the front deck and told me to grab my shoes because we were leaving.
“Leaving? What’d I do? I thought you took care of my ticket!”
“I’m gonna take you around and show you the best parts of Alexandria. You’re new here. If you’re gonna live in a small town, you gotta know the best spots.”
“Listen, I appreciate you waving the ticket. It helped me out more than you know. But, to be honest, I’m not interested. I’m not sure how long I’ll be in Alexandria and I’m hanging out with my daughter right now.”
Claire, who I learned is great at eavesdropping, stepped onto the porch and smiled at Paul.
“It turns out I’m playing with Maggie. You might as well get your shoes on and go. Have a good time, boys.” She tossed my tennis shoes onto the porch and smiled at me before closing the door.
That impromptu afternoon with Paul went better than expected and signaled the start of our friendship. I felt like I could share as much—or as little—as I wanted with him. You don’t expect a calming presence like his from a country boy in a backward ball cap and a pair of Levi’s.
Thankfully, my tour around town hadn’t been in his cop car. He showed me the good local restaurants, a small cafe near the library, and a park near the reservoir where he admitted he’d come for a good cry after his last heartbreak. His admission made me do a double take, but I found his honestly refreshing.
We’ve met up at least once a week since then to have dinner or to watch a game at his place. Sometimes he invites other friends. Spending time with people who know so little about my recent history, and don’t flash me looks of pity, is refreshing.
“I was calling to see if you wanted to go to the bar tonight. Wells is bartending. I need to cut loose a little and spank someone in a game of pool. You seem like a worthy enough opponent.”
“Thanks a lot.” I feign hurt. “But, I don’t think so.” Despite Paul’s incessant yet polite invitations, I’ve still never joined him at Sharkey’s. I’d rather be home with Maggie.
“Come on! It’d do ya good—you never go out with us.”
“Nah . . .” I decline before thinking about the guy’s nights I had with my friends in California. I cut ties with all of those friends when I moved—they were precious to Hannah and me, but now felt like a painful reminder of all I’d lost. They called, messaged, and stopped by my place for months—I feet terrible for ghosting them, but I didn’t know how to explain I needed space and now I’m too ashamed to fix the situation.
“Meet us at Sharkey’s in three hours. I want to hear all about this new place of yours,” he interjects before hanging up.
Nostalgia urges me to go.
Bar patrons have packed Sharkey’s full before I even arrive. It takes no effort to find Paul, his voice floating above the crowd in the middle of telling a joke. Following the laughter, I find him seated at a high top. Sharkey’s is cleaner than I expected for essentially a honky-tonk bar with a few pool tables shoved along a wall. Glancing around, I notice the owner made a few upgrades—new flooring and freshly painted walls contrast with the cracking vinyl on the barstool seats and outdated light fixtures.
“Logan!” Paul claps me on the back. “Whatcha think?”
“It’s nice. Thanks for dragging me down here.” I smile, wanting there to be no doubt I’m joking.
“Dude, you agreed. Besides, we both know a good ass-whoopin’ will do you some good. Better be ready because I am going to leave you bent over and hurtin’,” he boasts.
“Where’s Wells tonight?” Wells is Paul’s twin brother, but their appearances and personalities are nothing alike. If I didn’t know better, I’d bet they weren’t relatives.
“In the back, probably working on payroll. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him he ain’t gonna find love hiding in his office.”
I furrow my brow and tilt my head in Paul’s direction. “Wells owns Sharkey’s? I thought he was the bartender?”
“He’s both. He bought the bar a few years ago from the previous owner’s widow. When Mr. Shark passed away, his wife didn’t know what to do with this place. A rumor started floating around that she was planning on selling it to the city for a new parking lot. Wells lost it—he marched right over to Mrs. Shark’s door and offered to buy the place.”
“Mr. Shark? You’re kidding me!” I bellow, and Paul’s taken aback by my obnoxious laugh.
“Yeah, Mr. Shark . . . Sharkey’s . . . make sense now?” Paul furrows his brows. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
I laugh again at his comment, blowing it off, and get up to grab a beer from the bar. It’s my first time here, but several customers milling about have familiar faces, ones I’ve seen in Walmart, the library, or elsewhere around town. A sullen redhead behind the bar acknowledges me with a nod. She’s fresh faced and dressed in a black, cutoff rock t-shirt and a matching pair of jeans. Her blue eyes stand in stark contrast to her dark clothing, with her fiery hair twisted into a bun.
“Hey,” I smile at the redhead, trying to be friendly, though her scowl is clear.
