That Was Before

by Dan Lawton

  “Well?” she said. The smile on her face told Benji she was pleased with herself. She had him shook. “You like?”

  Benji smiled. Widely. “Would you like to come in?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  She jumped him in the doorway.

  . . . . .

  Sweat drenched his back. The sex sofa licked up their juices and trapped their scents. Benji still had not left a towel nearby, just in case, which he regretted. He was short of breath.

  “My God,” he said. “You’re insane.”

  Cheyenne rolled off him. She leaned over the edge of the sofa and lit a joint, then blew smoke out the open window. “You really know how to flatter a woman.”

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  She took another hit.

  Benji scanned the studio and squinted to read the clock on the microwave. “Ah, shit.”

  “What?”

  “I have to go.”

  Cheyenne nodded, took another hit. “You said that.”

  “No, like I really have to go.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Work.”

  “Skip it.”

  “I can’t just skip it. The rent’s not going to pay itself.”

  Cheyenne stood. She faced the open window and blew a puff of smoke out it. She lingered longer than was necessary as if to give a free show to an onlooker in the building across the street, then turned back. Benji scrambled to find his clothes.

  “Aren’t you the responsible one?” she said.

  “Here.” Benji gave her a pile of her clothes. There was not much.

  “Want to go for round two?”

  Benji stopped, looked at her. “Did you not hear what I said? I should have left ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m not finished yet.” She meant the joint.

  “Take it.”

  Cheyenne paused, nodded, and dressed. Kind of. She kept her clothes off and chose instead to remain nude under the peacoat. Benji pulled a T-shirt over his head and rushed to the door. He hopped on one foot as he struggled to slip his shoe back on. Once composed, he yanked on the knob and held the door open, and waited for Cheyenne to follow.

  “You realize we need to talk, right?” she said as she approached. The joint hung from her lips like a cigarette in one of those retro Camel commercials.

  “Not right now we don’t.”

  “Soon.”

  Cheyenne transferred the joint to her hand and leaned in, the perfume still luscious on her nape, and pressed her lips against Benji’s. He kept his tight against hers, sealed until her tongue parted them and massaged him. His entire body tingled.

  Cheyenne pulled away and said, “Goodbye, lover.” Then she left.

  Benji waited until she descended fully and the exterior door closed behind her. Echoes from her stilettos clanked in the stairwell. Benji gave it a minute more, then he left too. All the while, he thought of Shay and hoped she was okay.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Did O’Reilly’s warning mean anything? Should it? Randolph knew nothing about the man—his relationship with Sheila, or his intentions—so he had to make his own judgment. A skeptic could wonder the same thing about Sheila since Randolph hardly knew her either, and they would not be wrong. But life was nothing more than a compilation of split-second decisions made at the moments they arose—Randolph made his, and he was comfortable with it.

  He had a few hours to kill. Sheila would be released before dinner. So he drove home. When he arrived, he was alone. Again. Patricia’s car was nowhere in sight, having hauled its driver to somewhere beyond Randolph’s wildest imagination. Patricia had morphed into someone he hardly knew, someone he disliked. Irresponsibility crept into her life in a flash, and it turned her into someone Randolph hardly recognized.

  The love was gone, but that was normal. A marriage the length of theirs was bound to experience romantic lulls—and they had other times too. But with devotion and commitment and effort and a realignment of priorities and needs, it came back. It always had. But this time was different. Beyond the lost love, there was a genuine dislike and discontentment between them. Randolph felt it, and he was sure Patricia felt it too, though he had not asked. He no longer cared to hear her opinion, or to listen to her personally attack him and blame him for her unhappiness. It was time to move on.

  But it was more difficult than that, there was more at stake. There was his life’s wealth—both the sizable fortune he inherited from his parents’ passing and the abundance he amassed through his work as an engineer—and all the physical assets they shared. And there was Bruce and Max and that already delicate situation. More personally, there were Randolph’s insecurities about what he had to offer and what type of women he might attract if they knew his net worth. Simply, Randolph was not ready for all that would be involved to completely sever the relationship. Not yet. He needed more time to figure everything out.

  He packed. Or he tried. The effort was daunting. Without a plan on where he and Sheila would go or what they would do or how long they would be gone, Randolph was out of his element. Tens of hangers draped button-downs and polos and well-pressed sweaters over the rows of shoes on the closet floor. Multicolored chinos and khakis and a handful of pairs of high-quality denim were folded in perfect squares on the shelves on the back wall. Brown and orange and black belts hugged the tie rack. None of it felt appropriate.

  Was it a vacation, or a permanent move? Randolph could not say. When he thought about it, he felt foolish. Who would pay the mortgage? Who would cut the grass? Who would attend next week’s town meeting about the inevitable property tax hike being discussed? It would not be Patricia. Those were all his jobs, along with being the sole provider and plumber and electrician and handyman. His home was his castle, regardless if he wanted it to be, and part of him did not want to leave.

  But he wanted something more. Needed it. He could not rationalize leaving on a whim without explanation or his affairs in order, but he could not justify staying either. So where did that leave him? Sheila told him yes, and it had been a while since he heard that word from a woman. He owed it to himself to explore that feeling more, to chase that high. Where it would go was the beauty of the mystery of the universe. The house and all the responsibilities that came with it would not go anywhere.

  He tossed the bag on the bed. In the bureau was his casual attire—the old T-shirts and cargo shorts stained with paint, the torn pair of denim he refused to part with—and underwear and socks. He emptied it. The clothes he wore were neutral colors and age-appropriate and comfortable enough, and the flat front pants were versatile for lots of situations. He tossed a pair of sneakers on top of the pile and slipped it all into the bag. Then he did the same with the necessary toiletries from the master bathroom and zipped the bag. It was enough.

  Downstairs, he killed all the lights, locked the front door, draped a light jacket over his shoulder, and left.

  . . . . .

  A before dinner release was about as unspecific as it could get. Randolph did not want to be late. He brought a paperback from the house and tried to read in the parking lot, but he struggled to concentrate. The words failed to register, even after he read then reread the sections that did not process the first time. Sentences became a jumbled mess, entire paragraphs an impossibility to get through. He could not focus. He closed the book and tossed it on the seat next to him.

  A half-hour became a full one. One became two. Randolph dozed in and out of wakefulness. The phone in the cupholder failed to ring or chime with a new message—the firm had apparently moved on, and the women were without need. He debated going inside and asking for an update, or to
see her again, but he thought that might delay the process. So he waited. Comfortability came and went and his temperature fluctuated—jacket on, jacket off; windows up, windows down—but he was calm. Anxiousness was suppressed and replaced with the anticipation of seeing her again, of what was to come. His decision seemed validated.

  When he became restless, he slid out of the truck to stretch his legs. A crack shuttered through his spine when he leaned too far to one side. But life was good. He felt good, great even. Excited. For wherever the forthcoming adventure would bring him, his mind was open. More so, his heart was open too. And he was ready to let someone in.

  Sheila.

  Then just like that, as if the universe had listened to his thoughts and sent a messenger to answer them, there she was. In the mouth of the sliding glass, underneath the cross that blessed the patients inside, Sheila stood. Street clothes and all. A nurse stood by her side. Randolph straightened, instinctively reached to ensure his shirt was properly tucked but stopped himself. His heart leaped.

  He moved out of the shadow of the track and into the open. The nurse nodded at Sheila and turned back inside, then disappeared. Sheila looked both ways, her head on a swivel. A phone was in her hand, though she failed to look down at it.

  Then she looked right at him, or what appeared to be. But she did not react, nor did she appear to recognize it was him from a distance. Randolph raised his shoulder blade and sliced his fingers through the air above him to try to capture her attention. And it worked. Sheila saw him and raised her arm too, and waved back. She stepped off the sidewalk and started toward him.

  It was a long walk, and Randolph felt awkward. What should he do? Should he walk toward her and meet her in the middle? Or should he wait where he was? Should he watch her as she approached, or did that make him seem like a creep? Should he smile or play it cool when she approached? What about his hands—what should he do with them? So much internal debate, yet no right answers. No answers, period. The best part? While he pondered the questions and flipped back and forth on the answers, Sheila got closer. Then she got really close, then she was at an arm’s length. Then she stopped in front of him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “You came?”

  It was phrased as a question.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  No answer.

  “I’m glad you called. Are you feeling better?”

  “I’m fine. Just hungry.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I would have—”

  “It’s okay, that’s not what I meant.”

  Randolph nodded. Then silence fell. Heavy, hollow silence. What now?

  Sheila flashed him a smile. It was awfully close to the smile she wore at the supermarket, and Randolph felt his face flush and the tension lessen.

  Sheila.

  “So,” she said, “where to?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The lady was hungry, so they stopped to eat. It seemed like a good place to start. Randolph had a few favorite places in Cedar Rapids, but he thought better of showing up at any of them with another woman. Soon it would be normal—he and Patricia living separate lives, introducing new lovers into the mix—but for now, it felt taboo. Instead, they wound up at a highway diner in a tiny town called Center Point, which was barely more than a dozen miles from the city and still within Linn County. Even better, he knew nobody who lived there.

  Far from the bustle of the restaurants in Cedar Rapids, the diner was half-empty. It had a throwback vibe—bright red booth benches and counter-high padded bar stools without backs; vintage photography of muscle cars and train stations and auto mechanic shops hung on the walls; country-western classics rang out from the twenty-five-cent jukebox on the far wall; the chefs rang the call bell on the counter when a meal was ready; and the waitresses wore dresses and a pink apron.

  Randolph scanned the diner for anyone he knew, found none. No surprise. A plate of greasy bacon and scrambled eggs and pancakes stacked three high left the kitchen, followed by a mound of meatloaf with an absurd amount of thick, oozing gravy. Some patrons sipped room temperature coffee while others gulped down carbonated beverages in all shades of colors—it was the full twenty-four-hour diner experience. The number of conflicting aromas was a shock to Randolph’s system to where he failed to recognize any of them. His stomach either churned or growled—it was hard to tell the difference.

  He watched Sheila. Her eyes scoped out their surroundings, though her neck remained still. Her lips were pressed against each other and did not move. She traced the edges of the coffee-stained menu with a subtlety and gentleness that made it seem as if it provided her comfort. She had not looked at it once.

  “What are you thinking?” Randolph said.

  She stopped, looked at him. “Huh?”

  “What are you going to eat?”

  “Oh.”—she looked relieved—”I haven’t decided yet.”

  Randolph nodded. What else was he to do? He leaned in. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You just did.”

  He leaned back.

  “Kidding,” she said. Then she flashed him that smile.

  Randolph returned the smile and felt a wave of joy rush over him. “You never answered my question from earlier.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Are you a serial killer?”

  Shelia exploded with laughter. It began with a smile, then a chuckle, then full-blown belly laughter. Sheila howled with a joy typically reserved for a child, and as much as Randolph tried to contain himself, he could not. Quickly, it became infectious. Before long, tears streamed down his face and moistened his cheeks. Once he regained control, he used the napkins from the metallic tray to dab his eyes. His stomach still hurt, but it was for a different reason now. Other patrons looked their way—some unhappily, others with smiling faces.

  “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time,” Sheila said. She mimicked Randolph’s tear drying tactic.

  “Me either. I hate to spoil the fun, but I feel I must warn you. I’m not usually that funny.”

  Sheila balled a napkin and dropped it on the corner of the table. “Well, that’s disappointing. But to answer your question, no, I’m not a serial killer. Never killed anyone, actually.”

  Randolph laughed. “That’s good to hear. Neither have I.”

  After they settled and a silence that bordered awkward took over, Sheila said, “Okay, my turn.”

  “To what?”

  “Ask you a question.”

  Randolph leaned forward. “It’s only fair.”

  “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  Ouch.

  Randolph slid back. He felt deflated, like a balloon that had been pricked. The ring that was in his pocket suddenly reminded him of its presence—it felt like a led bullet against his thigh. He would not lie to her.

  “Yes, I’m married,” he said. “Legally.”

  Sheila nodded, though her expression was unchanged.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “Maybe.”

  Randolph could not gauge her reaction. Was she angry? It was hard to judge. “Let me put it this way: Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure you’ve ended a relationship with a boyfriend or two, though?”

  She hesitated but said, “Of course.”

  “It works the same way. Two people fall out of love and decide to break it off, but the logistics can be complicated. It’s not l
ike you can cut off all communication and move on with your life. When you’re married, there are steps that need to be taken. Assets and debts to split. Paperwork to file. Lawyers to debrief. It can take time.”

  Sheila remained still.

  “Does that make sense?”

  “Sure. It makes perfect sense. For the record, I’m not judging you. I was just curious.”

  “Oh.” Randolph felt relieved.

  “I noticed you wore a ring earlier, at the supermarket, but you’re not now.”

  “You caught that, did you? Old habit I guess. Totally forgot it was there.”

  Sheila smiled at him. He was tempted to lean over the table and kiss her but did not. Too soon.

  “What else are you hiding?” she said.

  “Nothing. Look, I’m sorry if—”

  She leaned across the table and dropped a hand on his. “I’m kidding.”—that smile again—”You’re too uptight. Just relax.”

  Randolph looked down. Sheila’s palm was as smooth as silk to the touch, yet the top of her hand was worn and slightly callused. Amazingly white cuticles led to short and unpainted nails. Randolph tingled as her longest finger stroked the top of his knuckle.

  A waitress came and they ordered—Sheila, apparently, had come to a decision. Before long, most patrons vacated and a few new ones came, and the diner quieted. Then the jukebox stopped and the only sounds were of clanking silverware and sizzled bacon and the occasional bell chime. Randolph felt as if every time he spoke he was the loudest voice in the room, and he disliked it. But he also knew he would have to get past it and care less about the opinions of the people around him if he were to make himself happy, which was what he was trying to do.

  “What made you change your mind?” he asked between bites. Honey mustard oozed off his club sandwich and dripped onto his napkin. His earlier craving had passed.