The Best Thing for You by Annabel Lyon Page B

Joe Sumo tells Ty.

    “It’s grotesque.”
    “But good, for us.”
    “Great for us.”
    “Animal, though. Jason.”
    “I know who you meant.”
    We’re giddy as moonlight here in the backyard in the sliding late afternoon sun, still trying to process it all.
    “That’s basically it,” Liam keeps saying. “Right? For us?”
    I start picking dead needles off the cedar deck. “It’s excellent,” I tell him. “It’s the bluebird of good news.”
    “We’re lucky, though, hey. If you think we let Ty play with him all summer long.”
    “We weren’t to know.”
    “But that’s basically it, now, isn’t it?” Liam says.
    Behind us we hear the latch. Ty steps through the kitchen door, carrying a mug of something hot.
    “Hi, baby,” I say. “Is that my tea?” He hands me the mug. I tip him my gathered handful of sticky needles. “Smell,” I say, but he dumps them on the ground.
    “Come here, son,” Liam says. “I’m sure that was the worst of it, today.”
    Ty looks at the greenhouse. “I’m sure.”
    “What?” I follow his gaze.
    The tarpaulin-sheathed door opens from the inside and the landscapers come out, blinking. The younger one won’t look at us. The older one does a double take, a cartoon stagger. “Folks!” he says.
    “Son of a bitch,” Liam says.
    I say, “You’re still here?”
    “Well, I guess so,” he says, setting a boot up on my deck like we’re the trespassers.

    Getting ready for bed, I can’t relax. I walk around the bedroom, picking things up and putting them down, while Liam uses the ensuite bathroom. He keeps wandering out to check on me – brushing his teeth, popping floss. I do sit-ups, feet hooked under the end of the bed, then remember not to. “Adrenaline,” I explain. The faucet rushes. I mumble, “Psycho.”
    “Do you sleep at night?” Liam’s voice is muffled. “I have trouble.”
    I hesitate. I decide to say something, to listen to the sound ofthe words. It’s a curious, strict feeling. “He could still be lying.”
    Liam doesn’t answer. I wait, on my back, until I hear the toilet flush, the bedroom door open, and his padding footsteps on the stairs, heading down to the dorm room he’s made of his office.

    This time, a note, a missive I skim but can’t bring myself to read. I shred it and take the pieces into the staff washroom, where I flush them down the nice clean toilet. The bits of paper swirl and dissolve like sugar candy.

    I don’t remember how Liam and I met. One night at a party I realized I’d seen him around before, and that’s the night I remember, looking at his face and thinking,
Him again.
    When he started phoning a few days later, I said no. He didn’t look like anything to me.
    For a while I sang and screamed with this band. We all lived together in a house in Jericho, not far from the University, and it was exhausting. We would get home at two or three, haul the gear in, and everyone else would go to bed while I tried to stay up and eke out another hour of study. We had cash floating in and out of our pockets and people were scared of us because of what we did to ourselves, but for a smart girl trying to hang on to a scholarship it was not a good way of going around in the world. Had I been less cranky and pissed off I might have been lonely; but people spitting at me in the street and ignoring me in shops and trying not to sit next to me in buses and lecture halls made me believe I was better alone.
    Shaving half my head did not deter Liam, though. Curses and spit did not deter Liam. Can you picture how it was? Him downthere in the street and me up in my room, wondering when he would give up and go away? And then when I started to let him in? Oh, we had ourselves a romance for a while, sparks flying everywhere. We were young.

    “I’m flattered, I am.”
    He rolls his eyes.
    “Cut it out,” I say, as though he’s my son.
    Banquettes of blood-coloured vinyl, white paper napkins in tarnished chrome dispensers, tiny