Authors: Lynne Jaymes
One True Thing (12 page)
He makes a low, almost growling noise in response and then walks away from me toward the bike. “And we’d better go now, or you might start something we’ll both regret.”
In one smooth motion he mounts the bike and kicks it to start. I grab my helmet and swing my leg over the seat, feeling like this is already my place in the world, right here pressed up against his back. We fly back down the road toward McCarthy’s and I watch the night sky shift and glitter above us as we ride alone in the dark.
“Should we get another pitcher?” Mitch asks, waving the empty in front of us on the table.
“I’m good,” Ty says, shaking his head. “One more beer and I’m going to have to leave my bike here all night.”
“I’ll have another one,” Nina says. “We can cab it back to my place.”
“Go ahead,” Ty says to me. “I’ll make sure you get home safe.”
Mitch gets up from our table to brave the crowds at the bar. “Hang on, I’ll come with you,” Ty says.
“You two seem to be getting along,” Nina says to me, taking the last sip of the beer in her glass. She and Mitch were halfway through the pitcher by the time we got here tonight and I can tell she’s a little drunk.
“I guess so,” I say glancing at Ty. Even if I didn’t know him, I’d pick him out of the crowd as something special. He’s taller than most of the guys in here and doesn’t wear the uniform of Wranglers and cowboy boots that so many of them pull out for a Saturday night. I notice a table of girls watching him as they wait at the bar and feel a pang of jealousy. Ty could get any girl in this place—I just have to make sure he wants to go home with me.
Nina laughs. “Why were you guys so late?”
“We went for a drive, just up the highway.”
“That’s it? Just a drive?” she demands. “Because you both looked awfully pleased with yourselves when you walked in here.”
I can’t help but grin, remembering the stars on top of that hill. “Maybe a little bit more than driving…”
There’s a commotion at the bar and the crowd seems to ripple and sway in one long movement. I can hear angry shouting and see people being shoved into the chairs. Mitch turns toward our table with a full pitcher, his face clouded in anger as the shouts pound at his back. He doesn’t get more than two steps before someone pushes him from behind, sending him sprawling into our table, spilling the beer all over me and Nina.
“What the—” Nina shouts as we both jump up, a river of beer spilling over the table and dripping onto the floor.
One big guy in a trucker hat leans into Mitch. This guy’s no student—he must be one of the locals and has to be at least thirty. “That’s right motherfucker!” His eyes are bulging in his red face and flecks of spit fly out of his mouth when he talks. “We don’t need no nigger-lovers in this town. Take your bitch and get the fuck out of our bar.”
Mitch turns and shoves the guy as hard as he can, despite the fact that he must outweigh him by fifty pounds. “Shut the fuck up!” he shouts, as the guy takes a few steps backward.
“Yeah?” the guy says, pulling himself upright. A couple of his friends appear behind him, looking for a fight.
Mitch’s eyes are blazing. “You ignorant asshole! Who the fuck are you to say anything to me or my girlfriend?” He lunges forward but Nina grabs Mitch’s arm.
“No!” she shouts at him. “It’s not worth it.” She brushes the beer off the front of her skirt and grabs her bag. “Let’s go.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Ty says, appearing from behind the crowd and before anyone can react, he pulls back and punches the guy in the trucker cap square in the jaw, sending him straight to the floor.
“Get him!” one guy shouts, and I see Ty duck one punch before I lose him in the crowd of swinging, swearing, drunk, college guys and locals.
“Oh shit,” Nina says, as we press ourselves into the back wall, trying to stay out of the way.
“Ty!” I shout. I don’t see him anywhere. My heart is racing—how could he be so stupid? Those guys could kill him. I see a flash of his blue t-shirt just as the bouncers come and pull everyone apart.
“You okay?” Mitch says, walking over to us, his shirt ripped and his hair messed up, but otherwise looking okay.
“Yeah,” I say, searching the bar for Ty. I finally see him yelling at one of the bouncers, pointing at the big guy and his friends who are being led outside. The bouncer grabs him by the arm and pushes him away and I can see the hesitation as Ty decides how far to take this.
“Ty!” I shout and he turns to me, finally giving up with the bouncer and walking over, his face red and the veins in his arms throbbing. He looks like he’d give anything to throw another punch. There’s a cut on his cheekbone just under his left eye, and I can already see it swelling. “You’re hurt,” I say as he reaches us.
Ty puts one hand absently to his face. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You need to put ice on that.”
“What in the hell were you two doing?” Nina demands. “You should know better than to take on a bunch of drunk rednecks!”
For the first time, Ty looks slightly sheepish. “I couldn’t let those assholes say those things. Sometimes you have to try and fix what’s wrong.”
“None of that is worth getting in a fight over,” Nina says, her eyes blazing with anger. “You should know better—you could have been seriously hurt. What if one of those guys had a knife or a gun?”
“But they didn’t,” Mitch says. “And you didn’t hear the kind of crap they were saying.” He glances over at Ty. “Thanks man.”
Ty shakes his head. “You can’t let people get away with that shit.”
“You folks need to go,” the bouncer says, walking up to our table. “We can’t have no fighting in the bar.”
“We didn’t start it,” Mitch says.
“Doesn’t matter. Bar policy.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Nina says. We pick our way over the growing puddle of beer to the front door.
“Wait here,” Ty says, sticking his head out the door and looking around before turning back to us. “I think they’re gone.”
I grab Ty’s hand and he finally cracks a tiny smile. There’s something sexy about the cut on his cheek and knowing that he’d throw a punch for me.
We walk out to the parking lot and it looks like the guys have left. “Probably scared the cops were going to show,” Mitch says.
There are still a lot of cars in the parking lot. “They might not have gone far. We should get out of here,” I say.
“Let’s go home,” Nina says, leaning on Mitch. “Are you okay to drive, Ty?”
“Yeah,” he says. “If I wasn’t before, I’m sober now.”
“Goodnight,” Nina says, giving me a hug. She turns to whisper in my ear. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
We walk around the corner of the building where he parked the bike and Ty stops short. “Holy shit,” he says under his breath.
I don’t see anything at first. “What?”
Ty moves forward and I get a look at what he’s seeing. It’s lying on its side, the headlight broken and several dents in the gas tank just the right size for cowboy boots to make. Ty leans over and grabs the handlebars, lifting it gently back on its wheels, a stain of oil and gas spreading out below it. For the first time tonight I see fury in his eyes as he runs one finger over the chipped red paint.
“My bike.”
I look out the window at the same scene that was there the last time I looked out the window—scrub trees, big rolls of hay and cows. Lots and lots of cows. It feels like we’ve been driving across the entire state.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket, my heart sinking already.
“Crap,” I say, reading the text.
“What?” Jenna asks, taking her eyes off the road to look at me.
“Gary, the guy at the bike shop. Like I thought, it’s going to cost at least a thousand to fix the Triumph, they’re going to have to do all new bodywork on the tank…” I can’t even finish the sentence. A thousand dollars. Where am I going to get a thousand bucks?
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Me too.” I know I’ve been a total shit since last night, but seeing the bike on the back of the tow truck kind of did me in. I’d rather they’d beat the crap out of me than take it out on my bike.
“How’s the eye?”
“It’s okay.” I touch a finger to my cheek and feel the bump that’s still there. At the game this morning I couldn’t even tell coach what had happened and lied that I got hit in the eye with a ball while Mitch and I were working out at the cages. If he finds out that we were in a bar fight, even one that wasn’t our fault, we’d be in deep shit with the athletic department.
“That was really brave of you taking on all those guys,” she says.
I give a short laugh. “Brave. Yeah, right. I got a black eye and a beat-to-shit bike to show for it.”
“No, I mean it. I didn’t get a chance to tell you last night, but it was nice that you stood up for Nina and Mitch like you did.”
“Well I couldn’t leave him hanging out there by himself,” I say. And I can’t tell her the real reason I took a shot at that guy. When I was a kid, Mom always told us to walk away from a fight—that fists weren’t going to change anybody’s mind. But I always hated it. Hated that ignorant assholes could get away with spewing shit at anyone they wanted and there was nothing I could do about it, that we were supposed to just take it and walk away. Well, Mom’s not here and for once, there was something I could do about it. I just wish the fight hadn’t ended so quickly.
“I’m sorry everything ended that way,” she says, hinting at the fact that maybe there could have been more to my night than her going home with Mitch and Nina while I got dropped off by a tow truck driver an hour later.
“Let’s forget it,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Let’s pretend that last night never happened. My bike is safe and in one piece in the carport back at the apartment, I got hit in the face with a ball at practice and we had a great night at the bar with our friends. Deal?”
“Deal,” Jenna agrees. She glances out the side window. “See that water tower over there? That’s Grand Junction.”
I look over at the big round white tower. I’ve been so preoccupied with last night that I totally forgot to be nervous about visiting her folks. It came up awfully fast, but with her dance schedule and my games, this was the only weekend that would work. I know Gramps would probably react like the guys in the bar if he knew the truth about me, but I still decided to come because it felt important to Jenna. I feel a little bit like a lamb being led to slaughter, but I owe her at least this much.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Jenna asks, glancing at me. “Because we can still call it off. Turn around and drive home.”
I look over at her, watching her profile as she stares at the road ahead. Her hair is loose and tendrils play around her face because she likes to drive with the window cracked open, something that with any other human being would drive me crazy. Jenna’s not wearing any makeup and it seems that the closer we get to Grand Junction, the younger she looks. I think about last night and what I would have done if one of those guys had laid a finger on her. It’s a good thing none of them did, because I’d probably be sitting in a jail cell right now. “I’m totally okay with this,” I tell her. And for once, I mean it.
I’m rewarded with a smile. “Okay. Good.”
“Is there anything I should know? Any rituals I should be aware of? Animal sacrifices? Bloodletting?”
“No. Just the usual speaking in tongues before Sunday supper.”
“Excellent,” I say, watching the water tower grow closer in the distance. “I’m used to Sunday dinners with family.”
Jenna glances at me. “Do you have a lot of relatives at home?”
I hesitate. I rarely talk about home because it’s too hard not to talk about Mom. “Tons. Mom grew up in San Francisco so her entire family’s still there.” Sunday dinners at Aunt Nadine’s house are legendary and usually take a doctor’s note in order to miss. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles along with a few honorary relatives cram into their second-floor apartment on Potrero Hill every weekend to watch whatever team is playing that season on TV and eat until nobody can possibly manage another bite. It’s usually hot, loud and goes on for hours. I really miss it.
“It’s great that you still see them,” Jenna says, with an intent look that makes me feel horribly guilty.
“Yep,” is all I say as we roll into town.
Grand Junction is one of those towns that the bus passes through on our away games. Stopped at one of the few streetlights in town, I look over at the imposing brick courthouse that sits in the middle of a grassy square. On all sides of the square are raised sidewalks covered by awnings that front stores and a couple of restaurants. This town doesn’t look as deserted as some we’ve passed through—there’s an antique store and a florist, a chiropractor and a boot shop. On the far corner is an old stone bank that now has a sign for barbeque hanging out front.
“That’s Gramp’s shop,” Jenna says, pointing to one of those old 1940s gas stations on a corner. “He sold it a couple of years ago, but still hangs around there most days.” There’s a 1956 Ford F-100 parked out front that looks totally cherry. The exact truck I wanted when I turned sixteen, but I got a bus pass instead.