The right-hook came swiftly and without reservation. Before Jack knew what was happening, Bryce had knocked him to the floor. "That's enough," Bryce's tone was direct and menacing. He turned his back to Jack and with a tilt of his chin, signalled for me to head towards the exit
Jack came up off the floor like a kangaroo. "What the fuck, dude!" He howled, even more pissed than he had been moments earlier. He leapt across the space between them and grabbed Bryce by the left shoulder. With quick reflexes, Bryce gripped Jack's left hand with his right and held him in place. Then he whipped his head backwards and slammed Jack in the nose. He grunted in pain, staggering backward. If the table hadn't been there, he would have gone down once more.
He's defending me. It was the only fact that seemed to make it into my brain. It rustled around in the alcohol-induced haze until it finally started to sink in. Bryce wouldn't do that for someone he was only pretending to tolerate, would he? I couldn’t help the momentary thrill the thought sent coursing through my body.
"Don't worry about the hundred bucks," Bryce said flippantly before sauntering away. Jack was left nursing his bloody nose with bar napkins. "I'll text you tomorrow, John." In the scuffle, I had forgotten John was there at all. I waved a polite goodbye in his direction. Then flashed him an awkward grimace that I hoped said, I was sorry, and then Bryce ushered me out the door.
“I'm sorry,” I blurted out before I had a chance to think about how insincere it would sound. I had started the altercation, even after Bryce had tried to stop me. How could he believe me when I said I was sorry?
Bryce's face turned standoffish. "Get in the truck," he snapped.
"I don't know why I did that. It's so not like me. The way I handle confrontation is usually much more civilized."
“Stop talking. Get in the god-damned truck. Now." His tone was ominous.
I did what I was told and bit my lip nervously. Bryce climbed into the driver’s seat, fuming. If he had been a pot of water, he would have scalded me. He slammed his palms twice into the steering wheel before turning to me in aggravation. “What were you thinking?" That I had waited twenty years to give that ass a piece of my mind. “We were having a great time until you became a raving lunatic."
I felt a familiar feeling of guilt come over me, creeping up, forming a dry lump in my throat. "I'm sorry," I said again, certain that I meant it that time.
“No, I'm sorry,” Bryce said, exasperated. "I shouldn't have brought you here."
"I didn't ask to come," I said, almost defensively. "You invited me."
"I know I did, but I shouldn't have. It was a bad idea."
"Then don't do it again." My voice sounded more superior than it should have been — especially given my behaviour only moments earlier. "Look, I don't need a babysitter while I'm here. You don't need to feel obliged to invite or include me just because you feel sorry for me. It's insulting."
Bryce looked at me, puzzled. He was either unsure to what my last comment was referring. Or, he knew exactly what I was talking about and was surprised I had called him on it. I was working very hard to maintain my composure, even though my drunk-self was tempted to let him have it, the same way I had let loose on Jack. I kept that temptation at bay, for now.
"What are you talking about?" He asked, after a moment's silence. "That's not why I invited you."
“Oh my god! Are you going to sit here and deny it? I heard every word you said to your friends earlier. So please don't humiliate yourself by lying about it now.”
Bryce laughed unexpectedly. "You really are a firecracker when you drink. Do you know that?"
"Don't change the subject!” I snapped, scrunching up my face in disgust. "You said that you were only being nice to me because you feel sorry for me!" I was yelling again, and Bryce sat, staring at me with wide eyes. "I don't need or want your pity, ok? I have an amazing life! AMAZING!” I wasn’t sure if it were him or myself, I was trying to convince. “I've been to the Oscars, for Christ sake!" Actually, I had waited in the press gallery for hours only to snag a few brief moments with that night’s winners. He didn't need to know that part. "There is no reason for you to feel sorry for me. People want to be me!"
"I'm sorry you overheard that."
I glared at him. “Oh, come on! You're sorry I overheard it? Save it. How 'bout being sorry you said it, in the first place?"
"Alright, I'm sorry I said it." Now, he was just telling me what I wanted to hear. Bastard.
"Did Lauren ask you to entertain me? Is that it? Did she ask you to keep me occupied so I could avoid another run-in with our father? That's it, isn't it?" It would be like Lauren to meddle in that way.
Bryce groaned. “Are you going shut up long enough for me to explain? Or do you enjoy answering your own questions?"
My lips became thin lines, and I folded my arms begrudgingly. I turned towards the window, shutting him down, ending the conversation. The gesture was not lost on him, and he scowled before turning on the ignition. The drive back to River Bluff was silent, both of us mulling over the evening and our argument. I concentrated on the empty ditches. Trying to relax the indignation that kept asserting itself. It was one in the morning, and there were few lights on that stretch of highway. So, while I couldn't see much, it was far better than lending any attention to the driver next to me. Bryce was focused on the dark road, and at one point, he said, "The wind has picked up again.” To which I offered a polite but disinterested hum. When he turned right, down a narrow gravel road, rather than the required left, my interest sparked. I turned to him with quiet curiosity.
“You're not taking me back to the motel?"
He shook his head. "It's late, and I'm tired. Taking you back would add another thirty minutes to my time."
I turned back towards the window. In the years that I lived in River Bluff, I had never travelled down this particular road before. I stared for a long time at the unfamiliar terrain, taking in every detail for the first time. The land was flatter in this direction. Farmland. Fields of canola, wheat and barley lined both sides of the road, black against the night like deep pools of oil. We made another right, and we started down an even thinner road, this one paved. I realized it was a driveway by the cluster of well-groomed hedges that marked the property line. I perked up in my seat and scanned around me but was unable to see much through the night. We drove to the end of the driveway and stopped in front of a large, red brick home. It looked old and expensive — a piece of architecture from a time when buildings were built slowly and to last. The front of the building was high and angular. The windows were at least ten feet tall, arched with detailed stone flower boxes beneath each one.
I took it all in for a second. "This is your house?”
He said, as he opened his door, "This is my parents’ house. I just live here."
I fumbled my way out of the truck and pursued him to the giant, double front doors. I found the absence of a front porch unusual for country living. Then I realized it would have clashed horribly with the design of the building, so I made no mention of it. "It looks old," I said instead.