Chapter 4 #2
He didn’t walk all the way over to greet me.
Instead, he pointed theatrically to a booth beneath a crooked row of ancient framed photos and the infamous Welcher’s Grape Juice sign.
The wall, affectionately and disdainfully labeled the “Welcher’s Wall” was still completely obscured by napkins and index cards, some tacked up with thumbtacks, others taped or just jammed in the crevices, but all of which displayed the name of someone who’d welched on a bet or a promise and had therefore surrendered their honor for the entirety of their natural life.
I felt my lips curve, likely another product of unforeseen nostalgia. Of course the Welcher’s Wall still existed, and of course it was still full.
Walking the gauntlet and weaving around children and tables, I set my bag in the booth when I finally reached it. The surface was uneven and the vinyl seat squeaked when I sat.
Alaric lowered himself into the opposite seat, making no attempt to hide how he tracked my every move.
Up close, he looked less like a cover model today and more like a man who’d spent several days not sleeping.
There were shadows under his eyes, a peppery shadow at his jaw that meant he’d skipped shaving this morning, and a subtle, bitter tilt to his mouth that made some curious, typically dormant part of me want to see if I could wipe it off with words.
“What do you want to eat?” he asked, no preamble.
I stared at him for a beat. “Why would you assume I want to eat?”
He shrugged, as though he’d anticipated my resistance. “Mr. G said it’s all on the house. Order whatever you want.” He gestured at the laminated menu wedged behind the salt shaker. “Menu hasn’t changed in eighteen years.”
I glanced at the menu and saw he wasn’t exaggerating. Every item was the same. Even the prices looked similar, which was either a testament to Mr. G’s selfless disregard for inflation or a sign that no one in Alenbach had done a cost-benefit analysis since the 2000s.
I shook my head, more in disbelief than refusal. “Mr. G still owns this place?” I’d suspected as such, given the nature of the Christmas decorations and how meticulously everything had been cared for and maintained.
Alaric nodded, his attention squarely on me. “That’s right. I told him you were visiting. He was very excited, asked if you wanted your old job back. He’ll be out later to say hi.”
The floor seemed to tilt. I scanned the pizza parlor, craning my neck just in case I might catch sight of him in the back, manning the ovens. I didn’t. Or couldn’t.
Feeling somehow unmoored, I fixed my eyes on the menu again, reading every item, but the words kept blurring. I had to swallow twice, then a third time, as unbidden memories rushed over me from my time working at Igor’s.
Despite my best efforts to be contrary and my naturally salty personality, the only things that came to mind were good things.
I remembered the first time I’d handled a rude customer by myself—how fun it had been to openly insult a person without feeling even a pang of guilt—and how Mr. G had given me a high five in the kitchen after.
I remembered the time we’d hosted a lock-in for the middle-school chess club, and how all the little kids had begged me to play with them.
I’d purposefully lost every game and didn’t care at all.
I remembered the evenings Mr. G would send me home with food for my sister and my mom.
And I remembered my last summer in town, when he hired my younger sister to take my position, even though she was flakey and silly and messed up orders.
Even so, he kept her on for years, even when she got pregnant with Sawyer and dropped out of high school, because he knew my family needed the money.
“Are you okay?” Alaric’s question landed like a splash of cold water.
“Of course I’m okay,” I snapped reflexively. “Why would I not be okay?”
He watched me for several seconds, then asked, “How does it feel, being back here?”
I ignored his question because I didn’t want to answer it. More accurately, I didn’t know how to answer it. So, instead I said, “Why did you want to meet, and what will it take for you to unlimbo my petitions?”
He opened his mouth, but a server materialized at our table before he could answer and plopped down two waters and straws. I glanced up and guesstimated her age. Seventeen, maybe.
“What can I get you?” she said, the words smoothed into a single sound. “Anything other than water to drink?”
“Water is fine with me.” I hesitated, then tipped my menu toward Alaric. “You order first.”
He didn’t even look at the menu. “I’ll take the full Texan and a Dr Pepper,” he said.
That sounds really good . . .
Sorely, I was tempted to order the Greek pizza, my favorite. But better judgement reminded me that food was for fuel. Nothing more, nothing less.
Decided, I turned to the waitress. “I’ll have the Greek salad. No cheese, no olives, no pepperoncini, no pepperoni. Basically, nothing salty. But please add grilled chicken breast. And instead of Greek dressing, I’ll take olive oil and vinegar on the side.”
Her nose wrinkled slightly at my order, but she scrawled it down anyway. “Okay. It’ll be, like, fifteen to twenty-five minutes.”
We both nodded and she took the menus before she left.
When I looked up I noticed an odd-looking smile on Alaric’s face.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I was just remembering something you said to me when we were back at that hotel bar in Chicago.”
I didn’t remember saying anything memorable. “What’s that?”
“You said something about enjoyment not being the point of alcohol. I was wondering if that applies to all food as well?”
I glared at him. His smile persisted.
“Let’s get back to unlimboing my court filings,” I said, cutting off whatever emotional detour he’d hoped to lead me down.
“Right.” He reached into a satchel I hadn’t noticed until now—probably because it was black and featureless and therefore invisible against the vinyl booth—and produced a folder. He opened it, slid a few pages around, then turned the folder so it faced me.
I scanned the papers and the first few lines I read had me flinching and looking up at Alaric. “What is this?”
He arched an eyebrow. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like a contract where I have to give you no less than three days and three nights of my life.” I flipped through the pages, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“Your reading comprehension skills are still excellent, I see.”
I pushed the folder slightly away and back toward him. “I’m not signing this.”
He grinned. “You kinda already did.”
I stared at him, then at the folder, then back to him. “No I didn’t. When would I have signed this?”
Alaric reached over and flipped to the last page, which was labeled “Exhibit A” and was a full-color photocopy of a scrap of paper.
On it, in my handwriting, was a message I recognized.
It was the IOU I’d written when we were eighteen, the one promising him three days in return for access to his calculus notes.
My mouth opened and closed to no purpose, my shock at being confronted with this ancient, hastily scrawled piece of paper was so complete, my brain felt like it blue-screened, clearly needing a reboot. Or a diagnostic. Or more memory and storage.
He can’t . . . he can’t possibly be serious.
But then Alaric tapped the photocopy, drawing my fractured attention back to him as he announced matter-of-factly, “I’m calling in your IOU.”