and protected his head with his
hands. Something cracked—something plastic and hard.
“Leave her the fuck alone!” Millie berated
him, and Trisha realized that she was striking him with what looked
like a clock radio. “Get the fuck outta here, Dave, before I call
the cops!”
“Christ, Mills!” He was spitting and
sputtering. As the truth seeped into her consciousness, Trisha’s
limbs gained sensation enough to thrust her to a standing position
and down the ragged wooden steps. She stood in the grass in her now
icy bare feet, staring at the loser crouching in the gazebo.
Dave. It had to be. Dave,
Rusty’s high school friend. D.J.? D.J.! Fuck! He’d tricked her!
How had this happened?
Trisha’s thoughts were electric, snapping and biting at her from
every direction. She put her hands to the sides of her head and
pressed to make them stop. What the hell was she going to do? It wasn’t as if she
could have possibly known. How could she have known? She had never
met him, just heard about him from Millie, all those weeks of
complaining. She couldn’t have known. No. No!
Millie stormed into the gazebo, collected
Trisha’s boots, and tossed them at her. They hit Trisha in the gut
and fell to the ground.
“Let’s go,” Millie said, breathless.
Trisha glared at her. “You didn’t tell me who
he was! How could you not tell me who he was?” She raked her
fingers through her hair in despair. This just might be an
irreversible clusterfuck.
Millie folded her arms and leaned forward.
“You came out here on your own, my friend. I don’t fucking keep a
leash on you! And just to let you know, I sent him to come find you
so that you could ask him all the damn questions you wanted about
your big man Rusty. I was doing you that favor I didn’t want to do.
Remember that? Now do you see why I want nothing to do with this
fucker? He’s a douche bag!”
Dave had charged out of the gazebo and was
making his way across the yard and toward the house. He didn’t look
at either of them as he passed, but rolled his shoulders as though
they hurt, muttering and grunting.
It took Trisha several tries to get her boots
back on. Her head felt full of weights, balls of lead that slid
back and forth and tilted her off balance.
What kind of a friend sabotaged your
relationship like that? What had Rusty done to that guy to deserve
this kind of backstabbing? Or maybe Dave just didn’t give a shit at
all about his friends. Maybe he just went after what he wanted. If
that was the case, Trisha was screwed. He’d throw this whole thing
back in Rusty’s face to deal with the burn of rejection.
Trisha looked at Millie. Really looked at
her. The narrow eyes, the paralyzed jaw, the pumping nostrils.
Millie was furious, and Trisha didn’t know why.
“You’re so wrapped up in yourself,” Millie
said, “you can’t see a damn thing. You just follow along after
anyone who gives you attention, like some pathetic dog whose owner
beats him over and over again. And while all that’s going on,
you’re blind to everything else. You turn your back.”
Trisha’s mind was spinning, unable to pin
down any understanding of what Millie was accusing her of. What the
hell was she talking about?
“I’m so fucked up.”
Was she crying? Was Millie crying?
“I’m so fucking fucked up, and your head’s
been up your ass.” She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands,
and smeared her black eyeliner across her cheekbones. “You don’t
bother to pay attention to anything! You and your dysfunctional
affair—”
Trisha widened her eyes. “Shut up!” she said,
and looked around nervously. A few dark heads had gathered in the
window over the sink in the kitchen to gaze out at the
commotion.
“— sleeping with a
prof—”
“SHUT UP!” Trisha swiped at the air as though
to rake Millie’s face. She was closer than she had ever been to
getting physical in
hands. Something cracked—something plastic and hard.
“Leave her the fuck alone!” Millie berated
him, and Trisha realized that she was striking him with what looked
like a clock radio. “Get the fuck outta here, Dave, before I call
the cops!”
“Christ, Mills!” He was spitting and
sputtering. As the truth seeped into her consciousness, Trisha’s
limbs gained sensation enough to thrust her to a standing position
and down the ragged wooden steps. She stood in the grass in her now
icy bare feet, staring at the loser crouching in the gazebo.
Dave. It had to be. Dave,
Rusty’s high school friend. D.J.? D.J.! Fuck! He’d tricked her!
How had this happened?
Trisha’s thoughts were electric, snapping and biting at her from
every direction. She put her hands to the sides of her head and
pressed to make them stop. What the hell was she going to do? It wasn’t as if she
could have possibly known. How could she have known? She had never
met him, just heard about him from Millie, all those weeks of
complaining. She couldn’t have known. No. No!
Millie stormed into the gazebo, collected
Trisha’s boots, and tossed them at her. They hit Trisha in the gut
and fell to the ground.
“Let’s go,” Millie said, breathless.
Trisha glared at her. “You didn’t tell me who
he was! How could you not tell me who he was?” She raked her
fingers through her hair in despair. This just might be an
irreversible clusterfuck.
Millie folded her arms and leaned forward.
“You came out here on your own, my friend. I don’t fucking keep a
leash on you! And just to let you know, I sent him to come find you
so that you could ask him all the damn questions you wanted about
your big man Rusty. I was doing you that favor I didn’t want to do.
Remember that? Now do you see why I want nothing to do with this
fucker? He’s a douche bag!”
Dave had charged out of the gazebo and was
making his way across the yard and toward the house. He didn’t look
at either of them as he passed, but rolled his shoulders as though
they hurt, muttering and grunting.
It took Trisha several tries to get her boots
back on. Her head felt full of weights, balls of lead that slid
back and forth and tilted her off balance.
What kind of a friend sabotaged your
relationship like that? What had Rusty done to that guy to deserve
this kind of backstabbing? Or maybe Dave just didn’t give a shit at
all about his friends. Maybe he just went after what he wanted. If
that was the case, Trisha was screwed. He’d throw this whole thing
back in Rusty’s face to deal with the burn of rejection.
Trisha looked at Millie. Really looked at
her. The narrow eyes, the paralyzed jaw, the pumping nostrils.
Millie was furious, and Trisha didn’t know why.
“You’re so wrapped up in yourself,” Millie
said, “you can’t see a damn thing. You just follow along after
anyone who gives you attention, like some pathetic dog whose owner
beats him over and over again. And while all that’s going on,
you’re blind to everything else. You turn your back.”
Trisha’s mind was spinning, unable to pin
down any understanding of what Millie was accusing her of. What the
hell was she talking about?
“I’m so fucked up.”
Was she crying? Was Millie crying?
“I’m so fucking fucked up, and your head’s
been up your ass.” She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands,
and smeared her black eyeliner across her cheekbones. “You don’t
bother to pay attention to anything! You and your dysfunctional
affair—”
Trisha widened her eyes. “Shut up!” she said,
and looked around nervously. A few dark heads had gathered in the
window over the sink in the kitchen to gaze out at the
commotion.
“— sleeping with a
prof—”
“SHUT UP!” Trisha swiped at the air as though
to rake Millie’s face. She was closer than she had ever been to
getting physical in
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