Glass (25 page)

What happened that night.

Tried to blame the meth.

The booze. The situation.

I even tried to forgive him

because Hunter is an angel.

But I can’t forgive him.

Can’t forgive that he forced

himself on me, inside me.

If he’d only been patient,

I probably would have

said yes. Okay. Let’s.

But I was scared, and

he knew it, and my

being afraid pushed

some kind of on button.

And it seems to me

if that happened once,

it will likely happen

again. I should have

called the cops. Turned

him in, seen to it he’d

never get the chance

to flip that on button

again. And if it wasn’t

for the monster, I would

have. So who is really

to blame? Brendan?

The monster? Or me?

Hey, guess what. It

doesn’t matter, anyway.

For tomorrow evening. Barring

complications, my car should

be running by then. I guess

I should be a little scared,

but I’m not. It’s not like he can

rip off my virginity twice.

Later I’ll call Grady, who’d

jump in front of a moving

train to score glass like this.

Hmm. Maybe I should have

arranged to meet Brendan

down by the railroad trench.

Next time. Meanwhile, looks

like I’ve gone into business

for myself. Entrepreneurship,

the American Way. Although

I doubt Warren Buffett ever had

anything like this in mind.

It’s simple. [If not exactly legal,

but then neither is that insider

trading shit.] It doesn’t take a

college degree. [Or even a GED.]

And it’s lucrative. [Only if you’re

not dipping into the profit margin.]

Therein lies a major problem

for me. Wonder, if I quit using

and kept the profit, if I could

actually make some money, save

it up, even. Wonder if I could

quit. [Don’t make me laugh.]

To quit

a bad habit, one

that has come to

define you?

To cease

using a substance—

any substance—

that you not only

need but enjoy?

To stop

yourself from

lighting up that

cigarette? It’s going

to kill you, but hey,

you’re going

to die

someday anyway,

why not die happy,

why not die buzzed,

why not die

satisfied? Why not

die sooner, with

fewer regrets, than

later?

He picked up the radiator on

his way home last night, and

he’s already out in the garage

working. Okay, we were up

all night, so he got an early start.

The new stash is all it should be.

Good thing Brad is handy with

tools, and the LTD presents few

surprises. Bolt this here, screw

that there, new hoses, new fluid.

Voila. The car is ready to go by

noon. He comes into the kitchen,

all greasy. I smile at the black

gunk smeared across his forehead

and dotted at the end of his nose.

“I owe you one. I mean, another

one.” And he just looks so cute

I can’t help but go over and kiss

him. We’re lip-locked, temps

rising, when all of a sudden,

Hey! What are you doing?

You can’t do that with Daddy!

We jerk apart, and there’s

LaTreya, hands on hips.

Okay, this one isn’t nanny

material. It’s up to the daddy

in question to assuage her ire.

But he sputters, helpless, so

I offer, “I’m just thanking him

for fixing my car. Okay, honey?”

No! It’s not okay. He’s my

daddy, and daddies are only

supposed to kiss mommies.

You’re not my mommy, so you

better not kiss him anymore!

She storms into the other room.

Brad smiles apologetically.

Sorry bout that. Jeez, she’s

more like her mother than I

imagined. Who knew such

a little girl could have such

a big temper—or opinions?

I’ve never really asked

about Angela before. This

seems like as good a time as

any. “Tell me about Angela.

What happened between

you? Why did she leave?”

He shakes his head.
Not

much to say. We got married

and had kids, right out of high

school. One day she said she

needed some space. Guess

she found some she likes.

And so do I, but thinking

about leaving kids behind

has made me want to see

Hunter. I pick up the phone.

“Hey, Mom. My car’s on the

road again. I thought I’d

drop by this afternoon. Uh,

maybe around three?”

I’m meeting Grady at five,

Brendan a half hour later.

That should give me plenty of

time to reconnect with my baby.

Brad weighs out an ounce

into eight balls. I’m not exactly

sure how much they’ll want,

or how much they can pay.

He is rightly concerned.

Promise you’ll be extra careful.

An ounce is trafficking—

definitely heavy jail time.

“Hey, no worries. I’ll drive

like an old woman. The last

thing I want is to get popped.

I’m too busy to spend time in jail.”

Brad walks me to my car,

looks right and left before

bending down to kiss me.

Call if you’ll be late, okay?

I’m going to worry until

you get home.
He’d probably

worry a lot more if he knew

just who I’d lined up to score.

The car’s running great, and I feel no

sense of fear, despite the large quantity

of fine Mexican methamphetamine

beneath the front seat. It’s a forty-

minute drive home, at the speed limit,

and I have to admit getting away

from Red Rock, Brad, and the girls feels

like freedom. Guess I’m finding space I like.

On a lark, I hit Trey’s number on my speed

dial. I about drop the phone when he actually

answers, and on the second ring.
Hey, you.

Must be ESP. I was just thinking about you.

My first thought is, He’s thinking about

me! [My first thought is, Yeah, right.]

We talk for ten minutes and every doubt

about what he feels for me dissolves.

There are a few uncomfortable moments,

like when he asks,
So, what’s up with Brad?

The Bree in me has a ready smart-ass answer,

which I quickly squelch in favor of telling him

Brad fixed my car. [Oh, he fixed more than

that, didn’t he?] But Trey’s next query, about

“availability,” elicits an “Oh, duh” moment.

When I tell him, “No problem,” he says,

Cool. I’m thinking about a quick trip over

the mountain. You’ll be around, won’t you?

Well, where else would I be, especially with

him coming? My heart hammers, blood

pumping wildly until I pull into Mom’s driveway

and realize he’s coming more for glass than for me.

When Scott opens the door.

Hello, Kristina.
Cool as sleet.

He gives me a noticeable up-

down-and-sideways, and if he’s

half as savvy as he thinks he is,

he has to know the score.

Regardless, he steps aside, lets

me in. Jake comes out of the

kitchen, carrying Hunter. How

long since I’ve seen him? Two

months—just after Christmas—

and he’s grown. Changed.

His hair falls in long dark waves,

almost to the bottom of his neck.

His coos and gurgles sound

suspiciously like words:
M-m-m-a.

When he spots me, he smiles, and

beyond his lips are two little teeth.

I reach for him and he draws

back, seeking safety in Jake’s

arms. Anger flares, but only

briefly. After all, thanks to Mom,

he knows Jake better, trusts

Jake more than he trusts me.

Your mother had to run into Reno,

says Scott.
Jake, why don’t you

put Hunter in his walker?
I

follow them into the family room.

Comfortable in his baby bumper

car, Hunter rises up on his tiptoes.

He scoots across the hardwood,

laughing. Finds the TV, punches

at buttons without success.

He’s determined. Determined,

like the person he so resembles,

the one I’ll see much too soon.

And that’s fine by me. Nothing

to say to her, anyway.

Nothing.

Next stop, Grade E. We set up

the meet at his house.

Not far.

He opens the door and his eyes

practically pop

clear out

of his skull.
Wow. You look

great.
See? What

did I tell you?

Guys like girls thin. “Uh, can

I come in?” He steps

out of my way,

ushers me back to his bedroom.

Mom won’t be home

till later,

so we’re cool.
We sit on his bed,

and that makes me

slightly uncomfortable.

When I open the baggie,

give him a taste, he

just about

goes ape shit.
That’s what

I’m talking about.

Where

did this come from? Local?

He’s right where

I need him to be.

So I say, “I can get more.

But it isn’t cheap.”

He makes a buy.

A half ounce. And he says,

I’ll be calling for more.