The only thing that’s made it go away again has been talking to Paige. I called her the next night, as soon as I got home from work and once Leah was bathed and fed. I had no reason to call her, other than…I wanted to. I shouldn’t want to, and my head kept screaming to me what a bad idea it was. Paige and I live on different planets, and she is nothing like the girls I date. When I date. Not that I ever date. Which is also the point—I don’t date. There have been the occasional late nights at the bar with Casey…resulting in me being at some girl’s apartment or dorm room, usually by his prodding and with the fuel of alcohol. Then there’s the eventual awful conversation the next morning where I leave early, so I can go back to my real life full of responsibilities. I never talk about being a dad, because it doesn’t matter. Sober, I’m no longer interested in whoever’s bed I wound up in. Instead, I just deliver the overplayed it’s not you, it’s me speech that has gotten me slapped and thrown out, sometimes both. Usually both.
Always deserved.
But Paige got the story. She got the story first. She got the story without me even having the thought of something else. No, that’s not true. I’ve thought about it. I’m a man and she’s gorgeous. But the thoughts have been fantasies, almost jokes I tell myself. Nothing I plan to act on—ever! Yet she asked me about Beth, and I told her everything. I wanted to tell her everything. It was like I couldn’t help myself.
I was prepared never to call again, just to wait for her to show up for the beginning of the semester, to make our relationship business only. But there I was, dialing. Then she answered, and she started talking the second I called. I started listening, and there was this weird give and take. It was as if this was what we did. That conversation, it was far less heavy. We talked about music, about food, about those stupid things you talk about when you’re flirting with a girl at summer camp and you want to kiss her. Damn, I was thinking about kissing her, too.
I did it again the next day. And the next. And each time, I think more about kissing her. I look forward to talking to her, to making her laugh. I want to hear the sound of her laugh. We’ve fallen into a comfortable routine—making plans every night to talk the next. And she texts me during the day. Sometimes, she asks me questions, about things that I know nothing about—like shoes, or is it better to fly into Oklahoma in the evening.
The last time we talked, it was about her sister, Cass. She’s sick. She has multiple sclerosis, and she’s been having an episode. Paige gets weird when she talks about her sister. She’s worried about her; I can tell. But she won’t go on about her long, and she dismisses things. I guess for a while, Cass was having trouble walking, but Paige said it wasn’t a big deal. I could tell she didn’t mean that, but when I started to question, she grew short with me and ended our call a few seconds after.
We haven’t talked for two days now, and I’ve missed her. But maybe it’s better that she doesn’t call, better that I don’t call. I want to get along with her. It’s good for Leah if we’re friendly. But she’s still a tenant—my roommate. I need to keep the line there, and even though it hasn’t moved, I’ve been more aware of it. I shouldn’t be aware of anything when it comes to Paige. I should just know when her rent check comes in.
School starts next week, and I know Paige is flying in later today. She at least sent me a text about that. I’ve already got Casey prepped to help me move her things. I have a feeling Paige comes with a lot of things. Just like Barbie, she has…accessories.
The store has been busy this week, with the students returning. A lot of people are stocking up on things like beer, bread, and peanut butter—pretty much the college-diet staples. The beer thing stresses Sheila out. Freshmen buy more beer than anyone, but they are also the ones not allowed. Sheila cards everyone, and I know most of those IDs are fake, but she gets overwhelmed, pulling her glasses down her nose and trying to match up the photos to the faces. I took over that duty today, and so far, I’ve been called a dickhead and a pussy for telling two guys to beat it.
“Hey…sandwich guy,” his voice fills the store before he even makes it to the counter. Paige’s ex-boyfriend is an asshole. She hasn’t talked about him once, so I’m assuming that’s done. It better be. I think I’ll kick her out if it’s not.
“Hey, asshole,” I say. I’m feeling brave, and now that I stand here, a little more prepared, I realize we’re the same height. I’m pretty sure I could take him if he threw a punch at me while I was looking.