MAUREEN
I’m surprised to find myself crying as I make my way downstairs. At least I’d waited until I’d left Clay’s room. Hadn’t I? I still feel blurry inside, as though someone has taken my memories and shaken them like a snow globe. I pass the Bishops’ grand living room, where Clay and I had spent that first night here playing games. A lifetime ago, it feels like, and sadness overcomes me. Stop. You knew it was going to end this way. Why would you expect any different?
In the quiet and darkness, I’m aware of the sleeping bodies upstairs. I find my purse and shoes next to the couch where I’d dropped them when we’d come in. I open my purse to look for aspirin. It’s much lighter than usual, and I immediately know why. My mermaid statue. I’ve lost her. I frantically check each pocket, even though I already know she’s gone.
And then I find a business card sticking out of one of the side pockets. “Benny,” it says in black permanent marker. Followed by a phone number.
I hold on to the couch for support. Shit. How much did I owe him? I try again to remember how it all went down, but I can’t pull anything new from my mind.
Across the room, the bar glows with a soft light, the bottles of alcohol lined up on the shelf like jewels. I walk over, pick one up, test its weight, wonder if I could sell it to the guys at the carnival who like good liquor. Cash is cash, at this point.
I take off my ring and set it on the bar in exchange for the bottle. I can hear the weary creaking of the house as it settles, bracing itself against the unending wind outside. I know I should go. But once I leave, it’s really over. Once I’m out there, I have no idea what will happen to me. Will the wind wreck me? Blow me right back to where I started, everything I’ve tried to escape?
When the light goes on, it’s like an explosion. I jump, nearly dropping the bottle in my hand. I turn, half-hoping it’s Clay, that’s he’s come to make things right.
“Pardon,” Mr. Bishop says, like we are meeting in a hotel lobby instead of in his house in the middle of the night. He’s wearing striped pajamas and dark slippers. The smell of woodsy cologne fills the space between us.
“I woke very hungry.”
I hesitate, confused by his lack of alarm. “I am—I was—just couldn’t sleep,” I settle on, placing the bottle awkwardly back on the bar.
“You, too?” He walks past me into the kitchen, and I follow him. He opens cabinets, pulls out a plate and then unloads a bunch of food from the refrigerator. “I’m making a sandwich. You want one?”
I shake my head. We don’t say anything at all while he makes his sandwich. Like that night we saw him at the restaurant in Jasper—carrying boxes and taking care of business—everything he does seems effortless, delivered with a confidence I envy. I wonder if I should just leave, but it’s like I’m glued to the chair. Everything I think to say seems immature, so I just sit and watch.
Finally he turns, glances over his shoulder. “I need to be the responsible adult and ask why you’re here.”
“I needed a ride home.” I blush, knowing that’s not much of an answer. I retie my scarf in my hair nervously, trying to think how to explain. “I was...out...and my ride left, and so Clay came to get me...”
He interrupts. “What is your name again?”
He thinks I’m a bunny, I realize. A hair-twirling twit. As if this night couldn’t get any worse.
I tell him, my name sounding immature to my own ears. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.” I stand to leave, but he motions for me to stay.
“It’s okay. Can you grab that bottle you were holding before?”
I flinch, but I obey. Mr. Bishop doesn’t seem like the type of person who people disobey. I leave it next to him on the counter and stand awkwardly in the doorway.
He licks a bit of mustard off his fingers and leans against the counter, taking a bite from the middle of his sandwich. He washes it down with the scotch.
“So it was a rough night?” Mr. Bishop asks.
“I’ve had worse.” I look up at him and then away, too embarrassed to make eye contact. He’s handsome, intimidating in a way that Clay is not. Solid. A square jaw, with just a hint of stubble. And twinkling eyes, like he’s always in on a joke that you definitely want to be part of. Not many men—for Mr. Bishop was definitely a man—could look good in pajamas. Zeke would never have pajamas like that. He’d probably make fun of them.
Mr. Bishop washes down the rest of his sandwich with the scotch. He sets the glass down with a satisfying clack on the counter and places his plate into the sink. “You should be careful. There are, if you’ll excuse my language, a bunch of assholes out there.”
I laugh, can’t help myself, but it makes my head ache. I am very tired.
“Am I right?” His eyes are a blue like the ocean is supposed to be. Everyone talks about the ocean being this beautiful blue, but in truth, if you really look at it, it’s more of a dark gray. Mr. Bishop’s eyes are the kind of blue people want the ocean to be.
“I need to get back to sleep, Maureen. Thanks for the drink and the chat.” The way he says my name startles me. Intimate, comforting. I realize that I don’t want him to go.
I think, desperately trying to prolong the moment, but my brain is a snow globe again, and I’m unable to concentrate. I feel my eyes tear up, and I brush the wet away impatiently.
“Maureen, remember. It’s never too late,” he says earnestly. “Believe that. There’s always a way through something. Always a solution to a problem. Remember that.”
I nod. He claps his big hand across my back, the same awkward paternal kind of gesture I’d seen him do with Tammy that day in the restaurant.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
“Things always look better in the morning. You’ll see.”
Mr. Bishop is right. Everything seems brighter in the morning light. I managed to make it back to Tammy’s apartment, sleep off whatever awful thing Benny had given me and slip away while Tammy was still in the shower.
It’s going to be a beautiful day. There are no shadows, no places for anything dark to hide. Just the hot sun, glinting off metal, boiling the black pavement so that I feel like my flip-flops might sink into the tar like it’s water-clogged sand.
I still feel groggy, but it’s okay because I also feel the destiny again. The magic dances through me. I can shoot it out the tips of my fingers. Go, go, go. Everything as bright, as twinkling, as Mr. Bishop’s eyes. I walk along the shops and the bakery’s got smells of yeast, hot fresh bread in the window. Somewhere a radio faintly, ironically, bleats vid-eo killed the rad-io star. A woman washes down the sidewalk with a hose, the water sizzling in the heat.
Mr. Bishop. In his matching pajamas. He’s right. There’s always a way through. I can fix this.
I pull out the business card and call Benny from a pay phone. It’s even hotter inside the box, so I keep the door propped open with my foot, dodging the crumpled newspaper slick with some liquid I don’t want to identify. It rings and rings. I wrap my finger inside the curled cord, watching as the tip turns red. Someone’s written Mandy Sucks Dick above a postcard for a pizza delivery place that’s taped to the wall.
Benny finally answers. “Well, well,” he says after I say my name. “I figured I wouldn’t hear from you for a while.”
“I’ll pay you back. How much?”
“Princess can’t remember?”
“Just tell me how much.” I turn to use my other foot to hold open the door. There’s a strong smell of urine on this side, but I have a view of the street, where the town’s just starting to wake up.
“Twenty-five hundred. I need half of it by Wednesday.” I can hear the cruel curl of a smile in his voice.
I close my eyes, will myself to stay calm. The magic’s still there; he won’t suck it out of me. He can’t. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Half, princess. That was our deal.”
“We had no deal. You drugged me.”
His laugh sounds like a bullet, sharp and sudden. Dangerous. “You wish. You’re not as good as you think you are.”
His words sting. Isn’t that what everyone’s been telling me since I got here? You’re not as good. Zeke. Barron. Mabel. All barking at the edges, reminding me of my place. I wrap my finger tighter around the cord. The pain from the numbness is satisfying.
“But hey, I know a way you can pay me back quicker. I have parties, you could join us. My guys would like you.” He chuckles, and even in the glow of the sun, my skin ices over.
“Uh, no.”
“You wanted to play in the big leagues, remember?”
I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “So give me another chance to pay it all back. Let me into another game.”
“No way. You had your chance. Half. I’ll tell you what. Since it’s such a lovely day out there, I’ll give you till next Sunday. Either in cash or, like I said, more...creatively. You’ll have fun. You should think about it.”
“I’d rather eat a bag of glass.”
“You may have to.” He pauses. “And don’t think about skipping town either. I mean, if you care about your friends. I know where you and your little girlfriends live. And if you skip out, well, they might find themselves at a party...unwillingly.”
I drop the phone cord. “Stay away from them.”
He chuckles again. “We’ll see.”