The Unwilling(26)

The girl was five-three, brunette, and every bit of twenty-seven years.

She was also very pretty.

That was a bonus.





9


Tyra slept late, woke to the sound of rain, and used both hands to hold her skull together. Curtains made a gray square in the dimness, and she imagined cool, wet rain, the patter of it on her face. It didn’t help. Curling into a ball, Tyra tried to stitch together the pieces of her night. She’d argued with Sara—nothing new—then stormed out, angry. That was early. Then what? Happy hour at the Tiki Lounge? That seemed right. Then pizza at Shakey’s, down the block, and ladies’ night at some club downtown. She remembered an empty dance floor, a seriously hot bartender, and some old guy making a play from the stool beside her. She had visions of cab rides and other dance floors and other bars. Eventually, she remembered the dude.

“Oh shit, the dude…”

That’s what she’d called him. He had a name, but it was something vanilla like Alex or Winston or Brad. He’d introduced himself with a name and a drink, and she’d said, Thanks, dude. He’d been tall—she remembered that—a tall guy with Jesus hair, a silk shirt, and something like a bearskin rug on his chest. After four tequila shots, Tyra had run fingers through that rug, and said, Dude … Later, there’d been dancing and kissing, a blur of streetlights from a van with shag carpet on the dash. It was a dude’s van. She remembered saying it. Dude, this is a dude’s van. She’d said the same word when he pumped up Jimi Hendrix, and when he lit a joint, and when he ran off the road trying to make the turn for Dairy Queen. It seemed the word had been her language last night. She’d laughed it, and said it soft, and panted it twice when he went downtown, her fingers curled in all that hair. Dude, dude …

But the dude was gone, and Tyra wasn’t sad about it. Out of bed, she drew the curtain and looked out at gray rain, a gray sky. She already wanted a drink.

No, she decided. Not today.

Pulling clothes from a pile on the floor, Tyra crept from the room. Her favorite diner was only two blocks down, but it felt like miles. Even after coffee, eggs, and cheese grits, she still felt less than human. But the rain had dwindled. The sun was trying.

She still couldn’t handle Sara.

A movie made better sense. That was another six blocks, but she made it in time for the early show, stopping at the posters to consider the choices.

THE GODFATHER

DELIVERANCE

She went for the second because Burt Reynolds looked good. When it was over, she bought candy and a Coke, and watched the other movie, too. It was cool inside. It was dark. Even so, it took two drinks at a local bistro before she was ready to try again with Sara. She was being so unfair! Tyra was trying to make her life a better thing.

Almost no drugs …

Less drinking, kind of …

She’d even considered calling the cops about the parked cars she’d hit. How many was it? Five? Six? Hell, she could have hit fifty. She could have killed someone.

Shit …

She dropped money on the bar.

Sara was right to be angry.

Telling herself that she was ready at last, Tyra aimed for the condo, but ended up walking four or five times around her own block, unready to go inside. It was dusk when she finally stopped and looked up at the light in Sara’s window. The shade was drawn, but she was there.

“Okay,” she said. “One more try.”

She kept her nerve all the way to Sara’s door. “Sara? Sweetheart? I know you’re in there.”

“Go away, Tyra.”

She knocked harder for a full minute. Eventually, she beat on the door. “For God’s sake, Sara, I’m trying to apologize. Open the door. Come on…” She stopped pounding, and spread her fingers on the wood. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Not everyone would understand her need, but Sara was the gauge by which Tyra measured all the ways she’d screwed up in life: the bad boyfriends, the failed jobs. A silent treatment like this had only happened once before, when Tyra went beyond doing drugs, and tried to make a living selling them. She remembered the arguments, the screaming.

Your parents are rich. Ask them for the money!

But how could Tyra explain the debts? The kinds of people she owed? Her father owned his own business; he was a deacon of the church. Bad enough she’d dropped out of college …

“Do I need to beg, Sara? Is that what you want? I’ll beg. I swear I will.”

“You wouldn’t beg me if your life depended on it. You’re too proud and stubborn and spoiled.”

Tyra covered her mouth, choking down an unexpected sob as the dead bolt turned, and a crack appeared with Sara’s face behind it.

“You could have killed someone, you know.”

“I do know that, sweetheart. I promise I do.”

Sara opened the door all the way. She wore pajamas, an old robe. “Are you sober now?”

“Of course I am. I mean, two glasses of wine…” Tyra held her thumb and finger an inch apart. She wanted a smile, a hint of a smile. A smile meant forgiveness. Forgiveness meant she wouldn’t lose her only friend.

“I’ve seen you do some stupid shit, Tyra…”

“I know you have.”

“That biker last year. Kiting those checks. The heroin…”