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“What can I get you?” Her words are polite enough, but lack warmth.
I tell her I’ll take whatever she’s got on tap and end the uncomfortable encounter. She slings my drink onto the bar top with the least enthusiasm I’ve ever seen from someone in a profession dependent on tips.
Beer in hand, I notice a few more of Paul’s crew have arrived by the time I make it back to the table. I greet Jonny and Lee, two of Paul’s buddies who sometimes join us for Sunday Night Football. They’re kind, but I don’t know them the way I do Paul. After handshakes morph into dude hugs—complete with a slap on the back—they make sure I know they’re happy I made it out tonight.
The four of us sip our beers and catch up. Alexandria’s down a police officer after one retired earlier this month, leaving Paul working overtime and exhausted. Jonny and his wife found out they’re having a third child. The auto shop owner promoted Lee to manager. He told me a few weeks back his goal is to buy the place in a couple of years. I’m satisfied listening to everyone’s life updates, but Paul chimes in that I have some news of my own.
“I’m moving,” I reluctantly share. “But just to an apartment downtown. I’m not heading back to California or anything.”
The guys hoot and holler with excitement, knowing I’ve been sharing a bedroom with my six-year-old. Only Paul knows what the last year of my life has been like, and even then not the entire story. It’s nice to share this small joy with others.
“When’s the big day?” Lee asks.
“Wednesday or Thursday? I haven’t decided yet. I need to tell Maggie. I don’t know how she’ll take it—she loves the farm.”
“She’ll be fine,” Jonny assures me. “Kids bounce back. My two heathens come out on the other side of shit all the time. I thought Amery broke his neck jumping off the porch roof the other day. Still don’t know how the hell he got up there, but I’m thinkin’ his brother had something to do with it.” Jonny’s 9-year-old twins are always into some kind of trouble. I hope Maggie doesn’t develop a mischievous streak like theirs.
“Let us know if you need help moving.” Paul flashes a stern face to get the point across that he’s not joking.
One beer in, Paul leans over and tells me it’s time for my ass beating. I’m no pool shark, but I’ve played a few times at bars and been okay—I’ve even won a couple. The game begins evenly, but I secure the first win. Paul claims the rules are ‘best two out of three’ and I agree, knowing we never set a rule. Paul clears the table with me in the second match.
Tied, Paul takes the first shot of our last game. Ready for my second beer, I glance at the bar to judge how long the line is. My eyes catch on a long-haired blonde with her back to me. She’s talking to Wells, who made his way out from the back. I choke as my breath catches in my throat and tears force themselves to the surface.Hannah?
Logically, it’s impossible. My heart tries to accept that as it thuds loudly between my ears. I stare at the woman’s natural-looking blonde locks, strategically tamed into loose waves hanging to her mid-back. My wife had long, naturally blonde hair for the entirety of our relationship. The lady’s petite, just like my Hannah, who despite eating like a bodybuilder couldn’t put a pound on her slight frame—I was always jealous of that.
The alternate reality I’m crafting where this woman is my dead wife feels like a shot at being together with her again, even if only for a minute. I lose track of how far I’ve drifted until Paul smacks me on the shoulder.
“It’s your shot.”
How do you go from seeing the ghost of the woman you planned forever with, to returning to a casual game of pool? My focus is gone and I don’t care to get it back. Paul delivers on his promise and wins the last game. Instead of jeering and rubbing in his victory, he resets the table for the next players and drapes his arm over my shoulder.
“You alright?”
“I don’t think so.” My honestly feels like rubbing sandpaper on a raw wound. I dig my thumbs into the fold below my eyebrows, desperately trying to work out the stress settling into my brain.
“What happened?”
I slyly point out the blonde, who’s since grabbed her drink and moved away from the bar. “See her? I would have bet money it was Hannah. The similarities are uncanny. I know it’s not, but . . .”
“It caught you off guard?”
“For sure.” I glance at my cell and even though it’s only after eight, I call it a night. “I appreciate the invite. We’ll do it again sometime to make up for tonight.”
“No apology needed. We’ll catch up later. Be careful headin’ home.”
Chapter 10
Logan
MostofSundaycenterson a new-clothes fashion show Maggie puts on for us. She and Claire enjoyed a girls day after story hour—in the end I ducked out so my aunt could have some one-on-one time. I’m told there was school shopping, pedicures, and who knows what other spoils. Maggie walks a runway of her own creation, modeling every shirt, pair of pants, and accessory purchased as she struts through the house. I worry Claire bought everything they touched at the mall. There’s enough clothes that Maggie won’t repeat an outfit for weeks.
Rufus scans over the 1st-grade supply list several times throughout the day, making sure we’ve not missed anything Maggie will need tomorrow. As bedtime looms, I’m confident I’m more concerned about her start at a new school than she is.
Our evening ritual ends with me brushing Maggie’s wet hair and braiding it. I never thought I’d be watching YouTube videos for ‘how to braid a little girl’s hair,’ but practice has made perfect-ish. Braiding her fine strands is almost meditative as I gather her hair and cross the pieces one over another.
Maggie pulls the cover up to her chin as I tuck her in, and I flip off the lights before crawling into the empty spot next to her.
“How are you feeling about school tomorrow?” I whisper to her in the dark. Vocalizing feelings isn’t a strength of my daughter’s. I take the lead, asking questions to give me insight into her emotional state.
