Collateral (7 page)

but instead she seems almost grateful.

You really want to drive me home?

Crazy! You can stay over, if you want.

It's the guy who gets pissed.
Hey,
he slurs.

You're supposed to come home with me.

Darian is all Darian.
Why? Because I danced

with you? How does one equal the other?

Because of
how
you danced with me.

He starts moving his hips, a bad imitation.

You know what I mean.
He grabs for her,

but she isn't nearly as drunk and easily

sidesteps his reach.
Fuck off! You couldn't

get that teeny pecker up if you tried.

The guy's cheeks puff out and his face

blossoms crimson. He takes a step forward

and I yank her backward. “Come on, Dar.

We'd better get going or your husband

will get back before you do.” We both smile

at the joke and I take her arm, steer her

toward the table. The other ladies watch

intently, no doubt trying to decide if full-on

intervention is called for. So does

a beefy man, clearly labeled “bouncer.”

One look from him moves Drunk Guy

back to the bar, muttering a fast-flowing

stream of obscenities. Darian laughs

it off.
Wow. He got a little testy, huh?

Carrie and Meghan titter. But Celine

is thoughtful when she says,
Some men

would get more than testy. Maybe you

should think about that.
She stands.

My babysitter turns into a pumpkin

at midnight. You girls ready to go?

The three offer lukewarm good-byes,

head out. “What about you? Ready?”

Just about. Gotta pee first.
Off she goes,

unaware of, or at least paying minimal

attention to, the way Drunk Guy watches,

scooting toward the edge of his barstool

as if he just might follow her. Bouncer

definitely notices and shoots a warning

glare. Thank God he's on it, or I'd be more

than a little afraid of the walk to my car.

And I rush to lock the doors.

Still, I don't hurry too quickly

to back out of the space. Last thing

I need is to bump into something.

I don't feel inebriated, but who knows

how close to .08 I might be after three

drinks, approximately one per hour?

Darian, I'm pretty sure, is beyond

legally drunk. It isn't far to the gate,

maybe fifteen minutes, driving right

at the speed limit. Not enough time

to plumb her in depth, but I have to

say something. Let's start with trite.

“So, what have you been up to?”

She sighs and leans heavily back

against the seat, making it squeak.

Not a whole lot. I'm taking a couple

of courses online. Might as well

get my BA. Never know when it

might come in handy. How's school?

“Not bad. Except for Chaucer.

It's kind of lonely living by myself,

but after you, any other roommate

would be totally boring.” I smile,

because it's so true.
I know, right?

Good thing your parents want

to help out. Are they used to the idea

of you and Cole yet? My dad's always

been good with Spence and me, but

five years later and Mom still thinks

I'm crazy. Of course, she's married

to Dad, so I guess that makes sense.

In addition to ranching and rodeo,

Darian's dad is in the National Guard.

He's been deployed several times.

The Guard isn't just Weekend Warriors.

Sometimes, they get called up,

regardless of age or points earned

toward a calf roping championship.

Darian's mom thinks the military

is most of the reason he's so mean.

“My parents don't agree with a lot

of my decisions. But you're right.

At least they're willing to support

me in them. Not sure how I'd pay

back a student loan as a rookie social

worker. If I can even find a job once

I get my degree.” We reach the gate

and Darian starts to dig in her purse

for her ID. But the cute young MP

sticks his head in the window.
Don't

worry. I know who you are.
He grins,

waves us through. Why does that

not surprise me? “
He
knows you,

but do
you
know him?” It's a joke,

but not, and that's how she takes it.

When she answers.

I've made it a point to get

to know lots of people here,

including men. Especially

men, in fact. Life is simpler

when you're in charge, even

though you need to make others

think they're driving the tank,

if you know what I mean.

I do, and it's not very pretty.

But it is truthful, so that's a good

start. I have more questions.

We pull up in front of a row

of pretty, well-kept town houses.

Darian directs me to a short

stretch of driveway.
I'd let you

park in the garage, but Spence's

Harley takes up more space

than you'd think.
She laughs.

They say buying a big bike is

a guy's way of making up for

certain personal inadequacies.

Not true in Spencer's case, at least

not if you're talking about cock size.

I cringe at her straightforward

language. She has changed in

the last few years. Changed a lot.

Any curse word beyond “jackass”

would have resulted in a bar of

Ivory in the mouth from Dar's mom,

or giant belt welts from her dad.

Funny, but my parents never said

a thing about my language, not

that I ever used bad words within

their earshot, and rarely beyond it.

I don't have a real problem with men

cursing, unless they go overboard.

But lipstick-framed profanity somehow

seems wrong to me. If you hear it

escape my mouth, you'd better run.

It means I've totally lost it and I'll

probably throw something, too.

I have to admit I got a kick out of

Dar's “teeny pecker” comment tonight.

“Teeny cock” wouldn't have had

quite as much power, in my modest

opinion. I lock the Durango's doors,

follow Darian inside. The two-bedroom

town home is compact but pretty.

At least it would be pretty if she kept

it a little neater. As it is, dirty glasses

and crumpled wrappers decorate

tables and countertops. “Uh, Dar?

Is it the maid's day off, or did you

invite your neighbors' kids for snacks?”

Simultaneously from her nose

and throat.
Thus my decision

to leave child rearing to others.

Kids are fucking messy, no doubt

about it.
She gestures for me to sit

on the beige microfiber sofa. Goes

over to the wet bar, pours Campari

and soda for herself, three fingers

of some upscale (but likely bought

duty-free) Añejo tequila for me.

One velvet sip and I am convinced

that Jose Cuervo is a wannabe. No.

Take that back. A total imposter.

“W-wow . . .” It's a hoarse imitation

of the word. “That's excellent.”

Right? It's not what you know,

it's who you know, et cetera.
She

rewards me with a long, assessing

stare.
God, it's great to see you.

How come we don't get together

more often? Not like you live across

the universe, or even the state!

Valid question. Why
don't
we get

together more often? Why the heck—

hell—do friends have to grow apart?

About long-time, all-time friends

is, no matter how many hours

(days, weeks, months, and, I assume,

years) you spend in different places,

when you're finally in the same

room again, it's like you've never left

each other's side. And you realize

that your hearts have never

disconnected. You still like the same

music. Even though it's not exactly

California “in,” Darian and I have

been country fans since we were kids.

She turns on Lady Antebellum,

who I much prefer to Lady Gaga.

“Need You Now” plays softly and

Darian sings along.
And I wonder

if I ever cross your mind. For me,

it happens all the time . . .

Such a sad song, and somehow

it feels relevant here, where I can't

find evidence of Spencer. Cole and

I don't even live together, but there

are pieces of him everywhere

in my apartment—a favorite shirt,

still smelling of his deodorant

and cologne; stuffed animals he won

for me at carnivals; shells and sand

dollars we collected on beach walks;

the dried husks of flowers he gave

me over the years. I never tossed any.

There is no trace of Spencer here—

no flowers, no shells, no shirts.

Framed photographs grace tables

and walls. Dar and her mom. Dar

and her horse. I can see a couple

of Dar and me. But none with Spence.

Not even one of their wedding.

Wonder if there are any in their

bedroom. I'm tempted to go look.

And while I'm there, check the closet

for his clothes. Why am I suddenly

so certain everything inside there

belongs to Darian? And why should

I really care if time and distance

have jacked them apart? Because

I do, damn it. It's just sad to think

about. There was so much promise

in the two-as-one of them. I'm not

sure how to approach the subject,

other than directly. I take three

strong swallows of tequila, seeking

courage. “How are things with Spence?

Any better?” I'm hoping she'll say

yes. But it's just wishful thinking.

About the same, I guess. It's hard

to know, exactly. E-mail isn't

the best way to communicate

feelings. And it's definitely not

the right way to discuss our future.

If we even have one together, that is.

But I did start this, so here goes.

“You're not thinking about leaving

him, are you?” The divorce rate

for deployed soldiers is dependably

high. Something like seventy

percent. Can't Darian and Spencer

be part of the thirty? She shrugs.

I don't know. There are reasons

to stay. And reasons to go.

I think about Celine—how she and

and her husband decided to stick

together, no matter what. “Is it because . . .”

It's so good talking to her again,

I really don't want to make her mad.

Still . . . “I heard there are rumors.

About you and other men. Don't get

pissed, okay? I just wondered, um,

if that's one of your reasons to go.”

She sips her Campari. Considers

what to say. For several seconds,

she retreats so far away she might

have visited another time zone.

Finally, she returns to Pacific

Standard.
What am I supposed

to do, Ash? I'm only twenty-five.

Not like I can live without sex,

and no piece of vibrating plastic

is going to cut it for me. Yes, I've

slept with a couple of guys. I'm not

as strong as you, and maybe I lack

morals. I don't know. It's just every

now and then, I need a warm body

next to mine. I need someone real

and strong and caring to pull me

into him, hold me close, and tell

me he lo—”
She skids to a sudden

stop, and certain clarity washes

over me. Why did I start this, again?

“And tell you he loves you? Is that

what you were going to say?” I wait,

but she doesn't answer. “Talk to me,

Dar. Are you in love with someone else?”

She directs her gaze until it's level with

mine.
Yes.
She gulps down the rest

of her drink. I do the same with mine.

About two weeks to overtly insert

the word “love” into the Cole-plus-