Sutton looked confused. “What are you doing here? Eliot said you quit.”
Joanna shrugged. “Kind of got fired is more like it,” she said. She gestured to her shorts. “I was out for a jog and thought I’d see how progress was going. It looks great. You look great.”
Sutton blushed, brushed at the front of her costume. “It’s a little retro-femme for my taste,” she said.
“You pull it off,” Joanna said, but then trailed away as the tension felt heavy in the air. This was how it always was between her and women she fell for. Was it this way for other girls with men? She could talk so easily to Stephen, but then again she didn’t see Stephen as anything more than a friend. She could feel blood begin to rush to her own cheeks, certain she’d said too much, had laid her cards too boldly on the table. What if she’d misread Sutton all this time? Or worse, what if she’d read her correctly? She wasn’t any more ready now than she’d been with Alyria.
“Thank you,” Sutton said.
The music stopped abruptly, and Joanna could hear Stan giving animated instructions, punctuating his point by pounding his foot in a specific spot on the stage over and over again. Joanna’s replacement stood with her hands tucked into her stomach, nodding vigorously, looking overwhelmed. She almost felt sorry for her—Stan could overwhelm even the most seasoned community theater actor.
“I should probably get back to my run,” Joanna said, edging out of the aisle.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah,” Sutton said. “I suppose I should get . . .” She gave an awkward backhand wave toward the stage.
“See you.”
“Okay.”
Joanna had stepped out of the aisle and started back toward the jogging path, her heart already heavy in her chest. This was a mistake. Coming here was such a colossal screwup. How could she have expected it to go well? How could she have expected it not to break her heart to see Sutton again?
“Hey, Joanna?”
She turned. Sutton hadn’t moved from her spot.
“You sure everything’s okay?” Sutton asked. She took a few steps toward Joanna.
“Yeah, everything’s great.”
“You sure? It’s just that I asked around and nobody’s heard anything from you in like over a month. You’re not, like, sick or anything, are you?”
Joanna felt a sad grin tug at one corner of her mouth. As happy as she was that Sutton had cared enough to ask around, she was suddenly embarrassed that people were talking. She didn’t know what exactly she’d expected—that she could really just disappear for a month and nobody would notice?—but she found that she didn’t like Sutton to think of her as weak, flawed. She wanted to be everything to Sutton, even if she knew she would never allow herself to be anything to Sutton.
Of course, had nobody noticed that she’d disappeared, how would she have felt about that? To be so disposable.
“I took a . . . sabbatical,” Joanna said lightly. “I’ve been away.” Not technically a lie. She’d been away from everyone else. It was a sabbatical of sorts. It had been meant to be a time of rest.
“Oh, I bet that was nice,” Sutton said. “I would love to do something like that. Did you go somewhere fabulous? A beach, I hope?”
“Nah. It was—”
Fortunately, the music ended onstage, and Stan began bellowing for the whole cast to assemble onstage, bailing Joanna out.
“Oh, shoot,” Sutton said, biting her lip and turning toward the stage. Joanna’s heart leapt—Sutton’s lip-biting habit was part of what had attracted her so much. “Stan is on the warpath today.”
“Sounds like it,” Joanna said. “You probably shouldn’t get caught talking to me. I’m not his favorite person right now.”
Sutton rolled her eyes. “Who cares what he thinks, anyway? He’ll get over it. Word is he’s doing Grease next summer. You have Pink Lady written all over you. Maybe even Frenchy.”
Joanna felt herself blush. “More like Riz. But I doubt he’ll forgive me between now and then.”
“Well, I hope you at least try. You’re really good. And . . . I really miss you,” Sutton said. Stan barked her name, standing on the stage and shading his eyes to look into the house.
“Nobody’s paying you to gab, Adelaide!”
“Nobody’s paying me at all, Stan!” she yelled back, and then turned back to Joanna and giggled. “It’s fun to give it back to him sometimes.”
Sutton turned and edged her way down the row of seats, back to the middle aisle. “Come back, okay?” she hollered over her shoulder to Joanna before jogging back to the stage.
Joanna stood in the grass, her heart beating so hard she could feel her pulse in her toes. She watched as Sutton’s hair fluttered behind her, as she took her place back on the stage, as she seemed to turn her eyes directly to Joanna, even from there. Joanna’s legs felt too weak to climb even the shallow hill back to the walking trail. She wanted to sit back down, to watch Sutton dance and listen to her sing and think about all the things that they could be together, all the subtle hints that Sutton had dropped. She was into Joanna—Joanna could feel it. She could hear it, Sutton’s desire, thrumming beneath her sentences, could feel it beating against her face every time Sutton turned her eyes to study her.
She knew it, yet at the same time, she was afraid to allow herself to know it. She wanted Sutton, but what was more, she wanted the ease Sutton showed in her expression. She wanted to be proud of who she was. She wanted to own it.
But she could never be proud. She could never be at ease.
Slowly, she trudged through the grass, the sounds of the cast’s curtain call giving way to the delighted screeches of children playing tag, swooshing down slides, being pushed in their swings by their devoted mothers. She stopped at the tip of the trail and watched as one mom hoisted her chubby daughter to catch hold of monkey bars, standing below, a palm’s reach away from her daughter’s body as the girl inched along. She gazed at the smile on the woman’s face. It was so easy. It was so filled with love.
Joanna plodded along the trail, head down, watching the concrete as it slipped past her shoes, at first in a walk, and then in a jog that felt like escape more than anything.
Maybe that was all she wanted. Maybe it was just the love she was craving. That was what had been missing for her, and for so long, and maybe she was just unclear. It wasn’t that she was in love with Alyria and Sutton—it was that they were easy and comfortable to tag that love onto. Love was a complicated thing, after all—you couldn’t just go around attaching yourself to everyone. You had to be comfortable with the person you loved. She’d been confused, was all. She’d been mixed-up. She could have that love, that sticky-faced-toddler-kiss love that she’d seen in the mother’s eyes at the playground. She could have that—she just had to get her act together.
Immediately, she missed Stephen with a depth that felt endless, and was practically washed away by the guilt of having hidden from him all this time. She missed his jokes, his devotion, even his kiss. It had been so soft, so full of goodness. He would never hurt her, she knew that. She’d wanted to confide in him, had wanted to tell him her biggest secret. What bespoke love more than that? She loved Stephen, and he loved her back. He had admitted it, but even if he hadn’t, he’d shown it. For years.
She’d just been too blind, too caught up in this gay thing, to see it.
Her jog turned to a run as she rounded the last curve. She could see her car at the end of the straightaway, and she pushed, kicking back her legs as hard as they would go, shoving out thoughts of Sutton and Alyria and letting memories of Stephen in. So many memories she almost felt light-headed.
She reached her car, gasping, pacing, feeling tingles rush up her legs and into her lungs. She walked a quick few laps around her car, hands on hips, until her breathing slowed and her throat felt scorched, but in a good way. She felt as if she could conquer anything now. She could be nor
mal. Normal was good.
She pulled her cell phone out of her hoodie pocket and thumbed it on, scrolling through the contacts list.
“Hey,” she said after a few seconds. When she heard Stephen’s voice, she smiled. “I heard you tried to steal my job. I do believe I owe you a drink. Can you come over tonight?”
SEVEN
It disgusted her that she had a “jail outfit.” But Karen had been through this so many times with Travis, she actually did have a pair of loose jeans and a crew-neck sweater that she considered her jail ensemble. There were rules about what you could wear into a jail, even as a visitor, and she didn’t want to have to think about what those were every time she went in. She didn’t want to think about her son being the type of person inhabiting a place where women couldn’t be free to just dress however they saw fit.
Not to mention, the first time she’d worn it there—his first assault, that time on a convenience store clerk who’d suggested Travis buy the box of crackers he’d been eating near the restrooms—she’d been so upset, it was an outfit forever marked with hopelessness and parental guilt. She’d not known, back then, how quickly she’d become accustomed to visiting her son in jail. She’d never have guessed.
She’d told herself the last time—drugs—that she was done coming back. That if he should get himself in another predicament, he was on his own. She’d even considered getting rid of the jail outfit altogether. But Kendall’s last phone call had been disturbing.
“Well, it’s not good, Mom,” she’d said. “They’re calling it assault and battery for now, but the stupid guy is, like, not waking up, or at least that’s what his skanky wife is saying. She probably just has him faking it so they can, like, sue or something.” She’d laughed, as if this were some silly lark. “Like we have anything they can sue for. Anyway, so they’re really going hard after Travis this time. That’s why they set that ridiculous bail.”
Yes, Karen knew what a sore subject bail was going to be. She hadn’t planned to pay it anyway. She’d gone through her savings, twice, to bail Travis out over the years. She’d second mortgaged her home. She’d racked up credit card debt. And what good did it do? Just more bail to be paid a few years or, twice, a few months later. Fortunately, this time they’d set it beyond her financial reach, so she didn’t even have to pretend she’d come through. There was some amount of freedom in being broke, even if it was just freedom from her son’s debts. And God knew Travis and Kendall didn’t have two pennies to rub together, so Travis was out of luck. “I’m sorry I couldn’t pay that,” she said.
“It’s fine, whatever,” Kendall had said, but Karen could hear the sour notes beneath the words. “But first they set that bail, and now they’re saying they’re going to go for maximum sentence on the assault charge, and that’s if this guy doesn’t really go and die. Travis is in a bad place right now. Like, mentally.”
“I’m sure he is.” Karen examined the corner behind her bedroom door. She could see dust buildup there.
“No, I mean I think he might do something.”
“He can’t do anything. He’s in jail,” Karen said. “And if he’s smart, he’ll stop doing things. What he needs to do is clean up his act and get a job so he can take care of his son, but if you can get him to understand that, you’re doing better than I, and more power to you.”
“Mom. You aren’t getting it.” Again, Karen could hear something sour beneath her words—something accusatory. “I mean, I think he’s going to do something to himself.”
Karen sat forward. “Like what? Did he say something to you?”
There was a pause. “Not exactly. Oh, I’m getting another call. I’ve got to go.”
And then she’d disconnected. And had gone silent for two days. Gamey. So freaking gamey. Sick and gamey and her son deserved better, Karen had ranted to Antoinette the next day at lunch, even though she knew in her heart that he didn’t. What good woman would attach herself to a man like Travis? No, she was doomed to a lifetime of sick and gamey, because that was what her son deserved, and that was what he had given her. Payment for a lifetime of devotion.
So many times, Karen had thought about Travis dying. Being shot in a drug deal or killed in an adrenaline-fueled car wreck or beaten to death in a bar fight. She’d thought she’d come to terms with the possibility some time ago. He was clearly on a destructive path; where that took him, she would just have to accept. But hearing Kendall’s prediction that he might do something to himself made it more real than ever before, the possibility that she might lose her son. And there was something about the suddenness of a car hitting a concrete pylon versus the slow torture of a depression-filled suicide. He was still her baby, even though he’d turned out so terribly wrong.
So after two days of waiting to hear from Kendall, she couldn’t take it anymore. She’d found her jail outfit in the back of her closet, taken a PTO day, and headed down to the jail.
And now she tugged at the crew collar of her sweater uncomfortably, feeling a bead of sweat escape from under her bra strap and roll down her back, as she sat across from him, separated by a Plexiglas wall. He held the phone to his ear, but wasn’t saying anything through it.
“Are you sure you’re not going to do anything stupid?” Karen asked, for the third time, holding the mouthpiece of the phone away from her mouth. God knew how often they cleaned those things. It looked like never.
“Hell, no, I’m not going to ax myself because of that asshole,” Travis spat. “I told you already.”
She breathed as much a sigh of relief as possible, given where she was. It was impossible to ever be totally relieved with Travis, and she’d more than once considered parenting him to be something like sinking to the bottom of a pool and never coming up again, your lungs so full of air it was an aching desire in your chest just to let it out.
“Kendall had me worried,” she said.
“Don’t listen to that crazy bitch.”
“Travis,” Karen said. “That’s the mother of your child.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, I know. I’m just pissed off is all.”
“Well, it’s not her fault you’re back in here.” She knew better than to take it any further. Travis would simply shut down, shut her out. She’d learned that a long time ago. “So have they said anything about when your trial will be?”
“Naw, they’re just yanking my chain all the time,” he said. “They’re probably waiting for that guy to die so they can send me away forever.” He paused, scraping at something on the Formica with his thumb, his eyes turned squarely down, away from his mother. “Or worse,” he added.
Karen had been steadfastly trying not to think of the “or worse” part of what could happen to her son if the man died. There were lots of things you could soothe your children out of, but “death penalty” was most decidedly not one of them. They didn’t seek the death penalty for manslaughter, did they? “Well, we can just pray he wakes up soon,” she said. “Surely there’s progress we just haven’t heard about.”
Travis sighed, leaned back to cross one leg over the other, and put on an air of casualness that never quite reached realistic. “Whatever,” he said.
Karen checked her watch—time was just about up, which was good, because she couldn’t see where else this conversation could go, and she felt so very weary of this. This worry, this pain, this vigilance. She just couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe she should track down Doug, see if he was up for it. She took the first twenty-six years; let him have a crack at the next twenty-six.
She left the jail, crossing the street at a jog, her sweater draped damp and heavy over her. She’d told Travis good-bye, but hadn’t cried. She hadn’t even kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the glass as she’d always done in the past. She slid into her car feeling so very, very numb to it all.
And hot.
She aimed her car toward home, unsure what to do with herself. She ha
dn’t needed to take the whole day off. Not really. Not for a quick jail visit. She never took days off, because she couldn’t handle the guilt. She took hours off, here and there, for doctor appointments and haircuts and trips to the DMV, but whole days were reserved for illness, which she rarely succumbed to now that Travis was grown. She had no real idea how to take time off.
She cranked the air conditioner up to full blast, but it wasn’t touching the heat that had been baked into the gray vinyl seats. Her sweater felt like it was melting into her at this point. Choking her. Shrinking around her armpits and biceps and neck. And she was thirsty.
She pulled into the next gas station parking lot she passed, nosing her car into a spot outside the front door. She got out and lunged for the door, nearly knocking into a person coming out.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, and then realized she knew the man whom she’d almost run into.
“Karen! Hey!”
Marty Squire stood directly in front of her, clutching a fountain drink in a foam cup at his chest. He’d traded his usual fastidious dress code for something much more casual—a pair of faded blue jeans with a dime-sized hole fraying the front left pocket, a USC T-shirt, and a logoed baseball cap.
“You caught me playing hooky,” he said, holding up his drink as if presenting evidence. He gave her a glance, undoubtedly wondering why she was dressed so outrageously matronly, and on such a warm fall day. The very thought of him asking questions made her ears ring with embarrassment.
“Yeah, me, too,” she said. She tugged on her collar. She could feel sweat gluing her hair to her temples. “Just stopping in for a drink.” She started to shove through the door, but was forced to take a step back as a young man came out of the store. Awkward, she waited for the man to go on his way, and then went on through, offering Marty a shy wave. “See you.”
She bought two bottles of water, and surprised herself by downing one of them while standing right next to the counter, as busy people buzzed up to the register to pay for gas, cigarettes, sodas. The cold water calmed her, made her feel much better. Goose bumps even popped up on her forearms. She felt more settled about going home. She would put on some yoga pants, perhaps work in the yard a little. Or maybe pour herself a glass of wine and pop in a movie. Possibly take a nap. None of those things felt like something she should be doing on a Friday afternoon, but she was going to try to make herself relax. Stop thinking about Travis, stop thinking about Kendall, just stop thinking.
Second Chance Friends Page 7