The Unwilling(27)

“All in the past. I swear.” Tyra held up a hand and crossed her heart. Sara softened, but looked tired. That was on Tyra, too. “I’m a bad roommate, I know. I spend too much. I party. I keep you up.”

“You’re not bad,” Sara said. “It’s just that you have horrible judgment, no limits, and no consideration for others.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Doughnuts. Krispy Kreme.”

“Well, if it’s Krispy Kreme…”

The smile appeared at last, and Tyra clapped with joy. “Yes! It’s a plan! We can stay up late, watch TV, whatever you want.”

“No drinking, though.”

“Cross my heart.” Tyra made another X on her chest. “Twenty minutes, yeah? I need to shower. I’m gross.”

“I’ll make tea.”

Tyra skipped to her room, and thought she might cry a little. She showered, then pulled on the flared jeans, the T-shirt with no bra. In the kitchen, Sara gave her a hug, and made it a good, tight one. “You know I love you. You just make bad choices.”

“Not after today. Hand to God. A new start.” A tear slipped out; Tyra didn’t fight it. “I’ll be right back with doughnuts.”

“Bring a dozen,” Sara said.

“A dozen. Check.”

“And get some for yourself.”

Sara blew a kiss, and Tyra left with the lightest step she’d had in days. In the night air, she actually laughed. “Get some for yourself…”

Fumbling with the keys, Tyra made it to the driveway. The Mercedes was too wrecked to be an option, so she slid behind the wheel of Sara’s Beetle, a little Volkswagen with pale cream paint and red, vinyl seats. Tyra locked the door and started the car, then saw the joint when she turned on the lights. It was only half a joint, maybe a third, the end of it blackened where Sara had crushed it against the bottom of the ashtray sometime days or weeks before. Tyra peered guiltily through the glass.

Only the doughnuts …

That lasted to the store and halfway back. The break came at a red light where pavement made a cross on the face of the city. It would be nice, she thought.

Get high …

Eat some doughnuts …

The light turned green, but there was no traffic, so Tyra kept her foot on the clutch, thinking about it.

It’s just a joint, right, not even a whole one …

The light turned again before she lit it.

“Ah … shit, yes.”

Smoke rolled out, and her head went back. She took another toke and drove with the windows down, finishing the joint in six blocks, then stopping at a gas station for chewing gum and eye drops. The cashier rang her up but did it slowly, his eyes on her face, her chest. “Anything else?”

“Camel Straights.”

“That’s it?”

Tyra paid the man, then made a peace sign, and pushed the door with her ass, liking how he watched, liking the buzz. From there, the drive was groovy. She didn’t care about Jason French—the fucker—her job, or her parents. Traffic thickened, but the music was good, and warm air brushed her face. By the time she reached the neighborhood, she was tapping the wheel and singing with the radio. On the final block, she slowed, too high and happy to notice the parked car or the men inside it. In the driveway, she got out of the Volkswagen, already practicing.

Am I high? Of course I’m not high …

Come on, Sara. Don’t be silly …

“Excuse me, miss?” A man’s voice broke Tyra’s concentration. He stood to the side of the driveway, looking apologetic in khakis, a button-down, and a bow tie. He said, “I’m sorry to bother you.” And Tyra thought: Sweet old man, somebody’s husband.

“Yes?”

He stepped onto the driveway. “Would you be good enough to look at a photograph for me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“It will take but a moment.”

The situation was strange, but the weed had been pretty strong. She thought, Okay, whatever … The photograph he showed her was small, but the streetlamp was close and bright enough.

“That’s Jason French.” Her mouth hardened into lines of sudden suspicion. “Did he send you? You can tell that son of a bitch he had his chance. Tell him he’s an asshole and he can go fuck himself. You can tell him that from me.”

“And you are…?”

“Tyra. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

The small man nodded once, ignoring the anger, pocketing the photo. “Earlier, I saw a blond woman enter your condominium. Is she your roommate?”

Tyra squinted, confused by the questions and the fuzz in her head. “I don’t understand. What…?”

“Five-seven. Slender.”

Tyra started to nod, but something was off with the old man and his moment, and not because of the pot. His eyes didn’t match the clothing—they were too knowing—and he wasn’t that old, either, just seamed at the eyes, the corners of his mouth. “I’m going inside, now. My friend is waiting.”

“Sara, yes. She’s lovely. Really, truly … lovely.”

“How do you know her name?”

He shrugged, and Tyra stepped back, suddenly afraid. “Don’t come near me.”