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…”
“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.