eyeliner is doubly dramatic with her hair slicked. “Go get ready.”
I smooth my hair down and pull half in front of
each shoulder, gripping the ends. I look down at my jeans then at my backpack,
trying to remember what I packed.
Cori bites her lip. “Want to borrow something?”
“Oh, no. Well, if you…”
She grabs my hand and pulls me to her bedroom. Her
laughter is our music. In just a few minutes, I’m wearing a mini-dress made of
something like crushed velvet and knee-high black boots.
Cori has three beers before I finish mine, and it
takes me nearly to the end before I remember the letter.
“I love your bookshelf.”
“Oh?” She gives her bookshelf the kind of glance
you give a stranger who looks benign, but seems to be following you.
“I fell asleep reading one of your John Steinbecks.”
This is when I remember. “I found an envelope inside.”
She makes no move to touch the letter. “I forgot
that was in there.” Cori lifts her bottle and drains the liquid.
I feel silly with my arm extended, balancing a faded
white rectangle between two fingers. It slips and falls to the floor. Cori doesn’t
move toward it. I bend, awkwardly in my mini-dress, and retrieve it. Picking it
up takes two tries since my fingernails are so short. I set it on the counter.
“Do you like John Steinbeck?”
“No. Not really. Too depressing. I don’t really
get him,” she answers. I turn the book over and smooth the cover. “You should
keep that one.”
I look up at her quickly.
“No, really, you can have it,” she insists.
I try to judge why she would give me a book from
her collection so flippantly. There will be a hole in the row now. I look back
to the shelf. When I start making enough, books will be at the top of my
necessities list.
“Naw, I’ll just borrow it.”
“Whatever.” Cori starts to talk about the clubs
we’ll visit tonight, but I don’t really listen. She casually approaches the
letter, opens a drawer and uses her empty beer bottle to slide the letter
inside. She closes the drawer with her hip and looks at me as though nothing
unusual happened—and she didn’t just avoid touching an envelope.
Chapter 12
Cori tosses her fourth empty bottle and opens a
cupboard. It looks like the shelves behind the TorchLight’s bar where rows of
assorted glass sparkle.
“When are your friends coming?” I’m content, but
she seems agitated. The waiting bugs her.
“One hour ago.” She walks to the wall clock and
moves the hands from the current time, 8:57, back to eight o’clock. She turns
and looks at me. “Any minute.”
Do I tell her she’s had enough? Cori waltzes the catwalk
back to the kitchen and sits on the barstool next to me. “You didn’t drink your
last shot.” She holds the vodka bottle poised above the rim of my glass.
“I didn’t like it.”
She bursts with a congested sound in the back of
her throat: stifled but insincere laughter. “Fine, I’ll make you a Manhattan.”
She reopens the cupboard of glass and crystal.
While she mixes another drink for me, she finishes
my vodka. I peruse the kitchen, opening cupboards. Apparently, all she does
here is drink. No water glasses, no plates, no Cheez-Its.
“Cori, do you really live here?”
Her smile is bitter. “The high life.”
Fine. I don’t care what she does here. I walk to
the front window and push aside the floor-length, brocade curtain. Beyond the
pool, beyond Cori’s Miata, I see the rounded back end of Hayden’s truck. I drop
the curtain back in place.
He’s not following me.
It might not even be his truck. Hayden’s wasn’t shiny
and purple when he came to my house. And really, I couldn’t tell what shape or
color the truck was when my dress got stolen. He could have painted it any
color by now. From beyond the range of the street lamp, Hayden emerges. He
wears black fatigues, boots and a black T-shirt. He moves like a cop. His eyes
scan, his back is straight, alert.
“What?”
I turn to Cori,
I smooth my hair down and pull half in front of
each shoulder, gripping the ends. I look down at my jeans then at my backpack,
trying to remember what I packed.
Cori bites her lip. “Want to borrow something?”
“Oh, no. Well, if you…”
She grabs my hand and pulls me to her bedroom. Her
laughter is our music. In just a few minutes, I’m wearing a mini-dress made of
something like crushed velvet and knee-high black boots.
Cori has three beers before I finish mine, and it
takes me nearly to the end before I remember the letter.
“I love your bookshelf.”
“Oh?” She gives her bookshelf the kind of glance
you give a stranger who looks benign, but seems to be following you.
“I fell asleep reading one of your John Steinbecks.”
This is when I remember. “I found an envelope inside.”
She makes no move to touch the letter. “I forgot
that was in there.” Cori lifts her bottle and drains the liquid.
I feel silly with my arm extended, balancing a faded
white rectangle between two fingers. It slips and falls to the floor. Cori doesn’t
move toward it. I bend, awkwardly in my mini-dress, and retrieve it. Picking it
up takes two tries since my fingernails are so short. I set it on the counter.
“Do you like John Steinbeck?”
“No. Not really. Too depressing. I don’t really
get him,” she answers. I turn the book over and smooth the cover. “You should
keep that one.”
I look up at her quickly.
“No, really, you can have it,” she insists.
I try to judge why she would give me a book from
her collection so flippantly. There will be a hole in the row now. I look back
to the shelf. When I start making enough, books will be at the top of my
necessities list.
“Naw, I’ll just borrow it.”
“Whatever.” Cori starts to talk about the clubs
we’ll visit tonight, but I don’t really listen. She casually approaches the
letter, opens a drawer and uses her empty beer bottle to slide the letter
inside. She closes the drawer with her hip and looks at me as though nothing
unusual happened—and she didn’t just avoid touching an envelope.
Chapter 12
Cori tosses her fourth empty bottle and opens a
cupboard. It looks like the shelves behind the TorchLight’s bar where rows of
assorted glass sparkle.
“When are your friends coming?” I’m content, but
she seems agitated. The waiting bugs her.
“One hour ago.” She walks to the wall clock and
moves the hands from the current time, 8:57, back to eight o’clock. She turns
and looks at me. “Any minute.”
Do I tell her she’s had enough? Cori waltzes the catwalk
back to the kitchen and sits on the barstool next to me. “You didn’t drink your
last shot.” She holds the vodka bottle poised above the rim of my glass.
“I didn’t like it.”
She bursts with a congested sound in the back of
her throat: stifled but insincere laughter. “Fine, I’ll make you a Manhattan.”
She reopens the cupboard of glass and crystal.
While she mixes another drink for me, she finishes
my vodka. I peruse the kitchen, opening cupboards. Apparently, all she does
here is drink. No water glasses, no plates, no Cheez-Its.
“Cori, do you really live here?”
Her smile is bitter. “The high life.”
Fine. I don’t care what she does here. I walk to
the front window and push aside the floor-length, brocade curtain. Beyond the
pool, beyond Cori’s Miata, I see the rounded back end of Hayden’s truck. I drop
the curtain back in place.
He’s not following me.
It might not even be his truck. Hayden’s wasn’t shiny
and purple when he came to my house. And really, I couldn’t tell what shape or
color the truck was when my dress got stolen. He could have painted it any
color by now. From beyond the range of the street lamp, Hayden emerges. He
wears black fatigues, boots and a black T-shirt. He moves like a cop. His eyes
scan, his back is straight, alert.
“What?”
I turn to Cori,
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