Not After Everything (9 page)

I'm waiting for the bus Friday morning when a car pulls up to the corner, a sensible, silver American-made hatchback with dark tinted windows. One of the windows rolls down and I hear my name called over some shitty emo music.

“Tyler. Fucking. Blackwell!” the voice yells again. “Get in before I change my mind.”

It's Jordyn.

How the hell did she know I was taking the bus?

“Get. In.” She lowers her sunglasses and stares at me until I do as she says. “A senior taking the bus is just sad. Even you don't deserve that kind of humiliation.”

I guess she liked the jacket. This is probably the closest thing to a thank-you I'll ever get. I glance in the backseat and see the new jacket carefully laid across her backpack, which is somehow resting on a pile of, I don't know, art supplies maybe? Her car is a disaster. It's almost like Henry was let loose in here. Not at all what I imagined.

After she pulls the car into her usual spot, she kills the engine and says, “Don't think this means I like you now. I still think you're a total asshole.” Then she gets out and slams the door, but is smart enough to leave the jacket in the car.

I laugh. It's the most perfect reaction I could have imagined.

• • •

I'm in the hallway before lunch when some of the guys from the team round the corner, hanging on Brett's every word.

“How the mighty have fallen,” he says under his breath. “I'd kill myself before I had to take the bus.”

Only one of the other guys dares to laugh at this, but stops abruptly when he sees me. Then he looks embarrassed.

Everything gets eerily quiet for a second. My back tenses and my fist tightens. It takes every ounce of self-control to walk away. I'm not sure why this sets me off as much as it does, but I'm enjoying this feeling of pure unfiltered rage. Maybe a little too much.

I walk out the door like I'm heading to my car but I don't stop. I don't stop until I've reached my front door. It takes me well over an hour and it's hot as hell out and I'm sweating and reveling in the discomfort. I'm still so amped, even after walking forever with my heavy backpack, that I decide to take Captain for a long run up near Red Rocks. On my favorite path—the one I discovered with Mom. The one we made a tradition to hike every summer.

My feet pound the red dirt and I'm thinking about one of our final games last season when I ran for three touchdowns, including the one that won us the game. I'm smiling, and just as I realize it, I lose my stride. I've reached the tree, our rock. Mom and I used to have picnics up here, staring out at the red rocks, the way they tilt toward the mountains like piles of dust mid-sweep, how a stray tree here and there will find a way to grow out of the most improbable places. The first time we hiked this trail, she said this would be a great place to take a date. But I only ever brought her here. And Captain, who's panting so hard, I'm afraid he'll swallow his tongue or something. I crouch down and pour some water into the collapsible yellow bowl—yet another reminder of Mom. She got so mad at me for running Captain without any way to drink water—we got into a big fight about it, even—and then when I came home from practice the next day, this was sitting on the counter. I'm fighting back tears as Captain finishes his water and we head back down the trail.

When I return, Dad's car is in the driveway.

“You wanna tell me what this is doing in the middle of the goddamn room?” He kicks my backpack at me the second I enter the house. It hits me in the leg and a corner of a book digs into my shin. I try not to flinch but fail. He's just been standing there in the dark waiting for me to walk through the door?

“Sorry. I forgot to throw it in my room before going for a run.” I lean down and free Captain from the leash and then grab my bag, starting down the stairs. Dad follows right behind me. I brace myself for what he'll do next, but once we're in the family room, he just flops onto the couch and sighs while I fumble with my keys. It's like he's waiting for me to say something. I notice that there's a serious lack of alcoholic beverages in front of him. Okay . . . ?

“There's some crap for you on the kitchen table.” He points the remote at the TV.

Captain looks up at me, waiting for me to open my door, but my curiosity is piqued. I need to feed him anyway, so we head back up the stairs, where I see several bags of groceries on the table next to a large bag of dog food—the kind Captain likes, even. One bag is filled with shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, and disposable razors. And the other contains a four-pack of toilet paper. The nice kind.

My throat tightens. I look through the railing at Dad, but he just continues scrolling through the channels like nothing's happened.

I feed Captain and throw a frozen burrito in the microwave. It sounds like Dad has decided on some hillbilly show about something no one really cares about. Once Captain's done eating, I load my arms with all my groceries and head for my room.

I pause at my door, staring down at the key in the lock. “Thanks.” My voice sounds strangled.

I hear him start to cry. My stomach grips in a small spasm of guilt and I almost turn, but then I wave Captain down the stairs without looking back. If he knows I heard him crying, things will go south very fast.

How did things between us get so messed up? We used to talk. We used to joke, even. Sure he had his alcohol-induced violent episodes, but he wasn't quite as much of . . . Who am I kidding, he was always an asshole. Pathetic that I'm feeling nostalgic for the days when he was slightly less of an abusive dick.

• • •

I tell Dr. Dave about the jacket at my session Saturday morning.

“Well, Tyler, I'm proud of you.” He's just over the moon about the jacket thing. “I'm impressed that something affected you enough to do something this thoughtful for someone you claim to dislike so much.”

“I never said I didn't like her.” I sink back into the cushion.

“You intimated it.”

“No,
she
doesn't like
me
.”

“If she was kind enough to drive you to school, she obviously doesn't hate you as much as you think.” He looks at me. “I wonder, why is it so important to you that she doesn't hate you?”

“It isn't,” I say. But then I think about her disappointed face when she found out about Ali.

“You care about her.” He's smiling that smug shrink-smile of his. “I'm right aren't I?”

Is he right? “Sorry to burst your bubble, Doc. I don't.”

“Why do you think you're afraid to admit that you care?”

“I don't care,” I repeat. And I hate that I maybe do. Mostly I hate Jordyn for confusing me in the first place.

• • •

“I tried to get your attention yesterday as you bailed on school,” Jordyn says when she finally arrives at the studio. She's almost forty minutes late. I guess if your stepdad or whatever is the boss, you get to be forty minutes late without consequence. Never mind the poor employee forced to sit outside waiting for you to open the damn door.

I pull myself to my feet but don't bother looking up from the blog post I'm reading about last night—Marcus had a pretty awesome game. Brett, not so much. Jordyn sighs and sits at her computer, like she's annoyed and waiting for me to ask what's wrong. Not going to happen.

Henry doesn't have anything till 11:00, and then he's booked solid for the rest of the day—four sessions back-to-back. I won't have time for lunch, let alone to think. Thank god.

After I finish reading again about how Brett fumbled what should have been an easy touchdown at the end of the fourth quarter, which led to a turnover, which led to the other team's winning touchdown—go, Falcons!—I get on YouTube and try to alleviate my guilt by watching a series of videos about quantum mechanics. I feel Jordyn studying me, but I ignore it. After the fifth video, I head back to the kitchen to grab a Coke and a snack.

Jordyn enters the kitchen just as I'm taking a huge swig of Coke. I let out the nastiest, loudest belch in the history of belches, blowing the stench her way as I pass her. She grunts and shoves my arm. I wish she'd stop being so damn nice. I head back to the computer and watch yet another video about quantum physics and alternate universes and time-travel and shit. Wouldn't that be something, if that stuff actually existed? I would go back in time, get home from training earlier so I could stop Mom from slitting her wrists, and then I would force her to explain to me how she can be so goddamn selfish.

Henry throws the door open and saunters in, whistling. He's in an annoyingly good mood. Somebody got laid last night.

Henry tries to teach me about lenses and perspective while bombarding me with lighting terminology during the shoots. I'm kind of getting it by the final session. I can tell it bothers Jordyn that he's teaching me, and as petty as it sounds, I'm enjoying that very much.

I've caught her smiling a few times when I crack a joke to Henry, and it makes me want to shove her out to her workstation, where I can't see her stupid face. I want her to go back to being indifferent or, even better, hostile. What the hell was I thinking spending over $600 on some chick I used to be friends with a million years ago? Fuck her for making me feel like I had to do that.

“What's your problem today?” Jordyn asks as we clean up to leave.

“Nothing.” I grunt as I lift a light off the stand.

“You're mad at me?” There's an edge to her voice, like she's just daring me to admit it.

“I don't care enough about you to be mad at you,” I say, stacking the last light in the closet. I don't wait for a comment. I don't turn to see her reaction. If I act like I don't care, maybe I won't.

She comes up behind me as I walk to my car. “So I see you're driving again. I guess you're not planning on taking the bus this week?”

“Actually, I have another job to do in the mornings now”—I point to the “Sh*t Richie!” sign stuck to the side of my car—“so, no, I won't be taking the bus anymore.” I get in my car and start the engine.

“You're welcome. Asshole,” I hear her say through my back window that won't roll up all the way.

I wave at her as I drive off.

• • •

“Dude, you look like you haven't eaten in a month,” Marcus says as he walks up to where I'm waiting with the table pager. He's insisted on treating me to a steak.

I didn't realize it was that obvious. I mean, I've had to adjust my belt a few notches, but I didn't think anyone but me would notice. Thanks, Dad. “I haven't,” I say. Marcus thinks I'm joking.

Once we've placed our order, I tell him about Ali Heart-over-the-
i
.

“Dude! She sounds hot.”

“I knew you'd like her.”

He tries to grab my phone, but I'm too fast. “What, are you just going to call her and say ‘Hey, I'm Marcus. I'm friends with Tyler, you know, the guy you hooked up with from the photo place and forgot his name? And anyway, you're totally my type. Wanna hang?'”

“Damn, man. I'd give it a shot. What can she do? Say no? But she could also say yes.” He's grinning, waiting for me to put my cell back on the table. I stick it in my pocket instead.

“Not cool. Hook a brotha up.”

I'm saved by the server bringing our food. The scent of perfectly cooked prime rib hits me. My stomach pinches and my saliva glands explode. I dig in and it's as good as it smells. My eyes shut involuntarily and I let out a groan.

“I'm flattered that I'm able to affect you this way, but maybe this is not the time or place for noises like that. Perv,” Marcus says around a huge bite of steak.

“Can't help it. It's that good.” I'm trying to eat slowly. Trying to savor every bite, but I just want to shovel it all into my belly as fast as humanly possible.

“What's up with you lately? You doing okay? I mean, I know I joke about you being hungry, but I'm not sure it's a joke now that I see you inhaling that cow. Your job paying you enough? Maybe your dad—”

I feel my face turn into a vicious scowl. I set my fork down. “I told you my dad won't pay for anything. I wasn't making that up.” My words sound detached and staccato.

Marcus sets his fork down too and looks at me, really looks at me. “I'm sorry, man. If there's anything I can—”

“It's not your problem.” I wave him off. “Anyway, I have two jobs now. So I'm fine.” I pick up my fork and cut another piece of bloody prime rib. “But thanks for offering.” I'm not sure he can hear it, but he smiles and nods and then he goes back to his steak.

I tell him about my jobs, leaving out the part about Jordyn working there. I'm not sure he'd even know who she is anyway. He gets a real kick out of the dog shit thing.

“Just wait till you see the signage the guy expects me to keep on my car at all times.”

Marcus laughs. He insists I order dessert. “You're teetering dangerously close to hipster-skinny, dude. Unacceptable.”

“I promise to up my calories and get back in the gym before I start wearing ironic T-shirts, glasses, and stupid fucking hats.”

“You better,” he says. Then he asks the waiter which dessert has the most calories and orders it for me whether I like it or not.

The waiter laughs and assures me that I'll like it. It's everyone's favorite.

“So, homecoming is this weekend . . .” Marcus trails off. “It'd be cool if you came to the game. The team would like it, I mean, I know
I
would like it if you were there.”

“I don't know, Marcus.”

“I figured. I just thought it was worth a shot,” he says with a genuine smile.

“Thanks for understanding.”

“Just think about it?”

I sigh. “Okay. I'll think about it.” I won't think about it. There's no way I'm going. “Who are you taking to the dance?”