That Was Before

by Dan Lawton

  That Was Before

  Dan Lawton

  © Copyright Dan Lawton 2021

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2021 by Dan Lawton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-692-0

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for reading one of Dan Lawton’s novels.

  If you enjoyed the experience, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!

  The Green House by Dan Lawton

  “Beautiful, intriguing, and slightly haunting.

  I found myself not wanting the book to end.”–Joe Siple, award-winning author of

  The Five Wishes of Mr. Murray McBride

  DEDICATION

  Thank you to my usual beta readers—

  this is for you. And to the new one, Avree Clark—

  thanks for your attention to detail.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  MORE TITLES BY THIS AUTHOR

  BRW INFO

  CHAPTER ONE

  No more than thirty seconds after he slid into his truck and celebrated his remarkable yet unfathomable achievement, the supermarket brilliantly exploded behind him.

  It was the same supermarket he was inside just minutes before. The same supermarket where he had just gotten the jubilant cashier’s phone number.

  Sheila.

  That was before.

  Before, he found his reflection in the window and straightened the strands of hair the wind swept out of place, pushed them to the right and smoothed the part; he inspected his teeth for remnants of breakfast, found none; he adjusted his collar, pressed it flat. He felt good. Confident. Surprisingly edgy in a way he had not since he was a teenager. The sliding glass doors welcomed him like outstretched arms as he walked through and into the wonderfully chilled, always reliable refrigerated air.

  There was a woman who worked at the supermarket he had a particular regard for. Shelby or Sheila, her name he failed to remember at the time. He had been to the supermarket thrice this week, if only to catch a glimpse of her. There were now more than a dozen green bananas at the house because of it—and he did not much care for bananas. A stockwoman smiled at him as he weaved through the basket displays of brightly colored berries and lush greens, past the stacked towers of red and green and yellow apples, but his attention was elsewhere. Another woman with a young child in the carriage buried her face into a notepad and blocked his view from the registers, so he moved to a new angle. The spice of the bell peppers tickled his throat as he stood and watched, waiting for his opportunity.

  Then he spotted her. A crimson apron covered her from chest to knees with the strings in the back knotted in what used to be a bow. She smiled at the customers in her line, laughed with them, spoke sweetly to them. Her optimism for life, he could tell, infected him like a sickness. But it was more a drug than a sickness because he craved it as much as an addict would their venom of choice.

  He scooped up a hand of bananas from a nearby display and tucked them under his arm.

  The beep from the register scanner grew louder as he approached, as if a pacemaker he did not have struggled to keep up with what he asked it to do. He felt jitters he had not in many years. Decades. The line at the register—her register—thinned out, so he stepped closer and dropped the bananas on the conveyor belt. His throat burned with dryness. The woman looked up at him.

  “Hello,” she said.

  He smiled, felt his cheeks redden.

  She dropped her hand on the bunch and pulled it toward her, then turned and hit some keys on her computer.

  Randolph’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as if it were permanently cemented there, and he thought he might suffocate. Fear rushed over him, left droplets of nervous sweat on his collar. His eyes shifted down and found a magnetic badge that hung near the woman’s clavicle, which offered temporary relief. A distraction.

  Sheila.

  “You must love bananas,” Sheila said. Indents formed in her cheeks as her lips parted.

  He struggled for air. The strain of the tension of the muscles in his tongue was too much. It cramped and he winced, but he managed to stave off the pain and say, “Pardon me?”

  “The bananas. You’ve been in everyday this week.”

  Randolph winced again as the tension threatened to morph into a spasm. Part of him wanted to run away, to escape what was about to happen—his body had clearly rejected his efforts—but he knew he would regret it if he did. “You remember?”

  �
��Course I do! I wouldn’t ever forget a handsome fella like yourself.” She smiled at him again.

  Magically, the stress in his mouth dissipated and he felt instant relief as if a switch had been flipped. A sharp inhale cleansed him, offered rejuvenation. He felt better, acutely aware of the moment and the beautiful woman who stood in front of him. Within him, there was a sense of justification that told him he was doing the right thing.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d half be wondering if you keep coming in here to see me.”

  There was no one else in line behind him. He stepped closer to the register, careful not to crowd, straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest to improve his posture. His stomach rolled. “I’d like to take you out some time.”

  The smile fell from Sheila’s face as if it were thieved. “That’s very sweet of you,” she said, “but I can’t.”

  Randolph’s chest flurried. That was not the answer he expected, or hoped for. “Can’t, or won’t?”

  Sheila fell back on her heels and sunk a quarter of an inch. Randolph towered over her. “Well,” she said, then she faked a cough into her fist. “What I meant is right now. I can’t right now. I’m working.”

  “I see that.” Randolph smiled at her, and she smiled back. He watched her muscles relax as her torso dipped. “When are you free?”

  “I could do lunch tomorrow.”

  A weight lifted. “That sounds perfect.”—Randolph pressed his hands against his chest, then his hips, then his rear—”If I can get your number, I could—”

  “Let me.” Sheila pressed a button on the cash register and ashen register tape poked out from the top of the dispenser. She tore off a piece and pushed it in front of him.

  Randolph patted himself some more.

  “Use mine.” She pulled a pen from her breast pocket and handed it over.

  Randolph took it and thanked her.

  She gave him her number.

  “No, keep it,” she said when he tried to hand the pen back.

  He put it down next to the credit card terminal and retrieved his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

  Sheila looked at her computer then told him the amount. He handed her two singles. The machine dinged when she pushed the drawer closed. He left the change in the donation cup.

  “So, do I get to know your name?” she said.

  He laughed because he did not know what else to do. How could he have forgotten that part? “I’m sorry, of course. It’s Randolph.”

  “Sheila.” She outstretched her arm.

  He took her hand and shook it. Her skin was clammy against his, the grip solid. Moxie burst through him as his fingertips grazed hers, and he felt the testosterone pump through his veins like fire. He offered his best not too eager yet not too modest smile. “It’s been a real pleasure, Sheila. I’ll reach out, set something up for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow it is then.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Outside, he pulled the truck door closed and tossed the bananas on the seat next to him. He found his reflection in the rearview and approved of the smile he still maintained, then laughed, then smacked his hands together so loud his ears rang.

  And they rang even louder during and after the explosion that followed.

  Now was after.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The truck’s floor rocked as if there were an earthquake under his feet. His hands went to the steering wheel and gripped it so hard his fingers hurt. A kaleidoscope of colors reflected against the rearview in front of him. He was unable to make sense of what was happening.

  He spun to watch.

  On the other side of the glass, patrons screamed. A woman hurried with her two children in tow under her arms, the plastic bags she carried left strewn across the pavement as if discarded garbage; a man with a cane lumbered with a pace he surely had not in years; a trio of young men sprinted as if competing in Olympic trials against each other. Gray smoke billowed from the shattered supermarket window—the same window Randolph had inspected his reflection in just minutes before. Emergency sirens rang out in the distance.

  He trembled as he opened the door and slid out of the truck and slammed his heels hard against the earth.

  He knew he was defenseless to the universe’s catastrophes, but he still wondered what he could do to help. While people ran away from the smoke, toward where he was, to safety, he considered the opposite. Stuck inside were innocent civilians with shopping carts full of food for their families, and children and vacationers and helpless elderly. He remembered the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall near the entrance. But what would he do with it? From where he stood, there were no flames, only smoke. He was flustered, frozen with confusion.

  More people rushed out of the supermarket. Alarms rang out all around him—piercingly loud alarms, so loud they rattled his skull. Voices screamed; children wailed. A dog barked. His ears buzzed as if he were stuck in a twilight zone, unable to escape life’s treachery. Police and fire and rescue sirens got louder, closer. He stood motionless, trapped in the labyrinth of his mind, unsure whether he had control over his fight-or-flight sensors.

  “Run!” a man yelled as he passed by, the expression on his face that of sheer panic.

  Randolph was stuck, conflicted about what he should do and what he wanted to do, yet without a plan. His feet were glued to the pavement, his muscles stiff. Time froze.

  Then it hit him, and the decision was no longer one.

  Sheila!

  It was ridiculous considering they had just officially met, but he felt like he knew her. Perhaps it was the lust talking—the flicker of hope he felt when she smiled at him, the way he felt fifty pounds lighter when he strolled out of the store with a swagger he thought he lost and the sense of invincibility men half his age felt—but he had to do something. She was still inside. Trapped.

  He cracked the glue that caked his feet and stepped toward the smoke and the crowd of onlookers who formed nearby. Just then, the first fire engine roared into the parking lot—its sirens deafening, tires screeching, the Cedar Rapids script prominent on the underside of the ladder. Another engine quickly followed.

  Chaos ensued. Mobile phones rang; lights strobed; men and women in uniforms barked orders at the bystanders to back away. Soon, a line of wooden A-frames barricaded the onlookers far from the supermarket while the professionals carried out their civic duties. Police vehicles and ambulances joined and strengthened the barricade. Brown and neon suits leaped from the trucks, unraveled the hoses faster than Randolph had ever seen, and just as quickly disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. It all happened so fast, in what felt like an instant.

  By now, the back of Randolph’s neck was soaked, his collar drenched. The surrounding shops in the plaza emptied, which formed additional groups of curious and anxious bystanders. Worry blanketed the faces of many of the lanyard-wearing tenants and those who had chosen to wait until now to run their errands. A pale man near Randolph spoke animatedly to someone on the telephone and mentioned something about a terrorist attack. Others reacted to it in a frenzy. One lady shrieked and nearly collapsed, but was caught by a fellow onlooker who looked young enough to be her son.

  All the while, amid the chaos and the impossible to know information others thought they knew and insisted on sharing with others who would inaccurately disseminate it further, Randolph kept his focus on the entrance of the supermarket.

  Sheila never came out.

  . . . . .

  A couple of hours passed. The smoke was mostly gone, having floated to the heavens in the blue above the supermarket, though remnants of the odor lingered. Randolph overheard a quartet of rescue workers chat about w
hat they saw—a pair of firefighters and a pair of policemen. They said there was a contained fire at one of the registers that was suffocated before it spread, and though no patrons were injured, a small group of employees could have inhaled too much smoke and were being transported to the hospital to be monitored.

  “What the hell happened?” one of the police officers said—a young guy with jet black hair who wore a gold band around his finger. He fingered the butt of the pistol on his hip.

  “We found remnants of what might be a mini pipe bomb, though it’ll need to be analyzed further before we know for sure,” a fireman said. His helmet dangled in his hand near his knee. Black soot drew lines across his face.

  “We’re not talking about—”

  “Not here,” the other police officer said, an older one. The veteran of the group. The four men walked out of earshot.

  Sheila.

  It sounded like she was okay, which was a relief. Randolph must have missed her when she came out, though he did not know how that was possible—he had not taken his eyes off the entrance.

  He retreated to his truck. His heart raced to where he felt exhausted and weak, even once he sat. The steering wheel was hot to the touch, as if the fire had been inside the cabin of the truck instead of the supermarket, but he kept his grip; he needed something to do with his hands. Brown and black dots painted the skin of the bananas in the seat next to him. He leaned back and dug his shoulder blades into the cloth against his back and tried to relax, though it felt too soon. He was rattled. Tension knots twisted inside him. He felt nauseous.

  Sheila.

  Though he did not know how or when, he was determined to see her again. He would find a way. Some things were too important to let pass by the wayside without a fight. For matters of the heart, this especially rang true. He had loved and unloved and loved again, so he knew what he wanted. The addiction of that feeling, the euphoria of it, had been absent from his life for too long. And now, the potential of it felt so close he could wrap his arms around it and cradle it and never let it go—the loss of it hurt just as much as not having it to begin with. It could not, would not, end this way.