“Oh, borderline?”
“Hey . . .”
“Real words, May.”
“He wants me to come by before I fly out. To thank him, I guess. And I sort of feel like I should go there to say thank-you in person.”
“With your vagina?”
“Ugh. It’s gross again.”
“Is it good, at least?”
“Actually . . . yeah, it is. It’s really good, and then that shower. I probably shouldn’t even be talking about this with you, because. . . well, Grant.”
“See? Selfish,” Tyson says, and rattles his glass.
“Funny. You’re killing it tonight. Really, the whole set is murderous.” Tyson pops his fake collar. “But seriously, I’m not selfish. I’m not. It’s not being selfish. It’s self-preservation.”
“What does that even mean, May? And don’t think you can run circles around me, girl child. I’m magna cum laude, Princeton. Facts.”
“You know exactly what I mean, Tyson. You’ve got your own stories as proof. Your parents, that mother, the rejection, the reckless shots are your heart, at your core. That’s real shit. Destructive, hard-knock, real shit. But you’re standing. You’re not cowering on a ledge somewhere timing when to jump. You did that through self-preservation.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice. But I already know I’m selfish. You need to see that you are too. Own it, May. It’s not always a bad thing. It’s not this evil way to be; like kicking puppies and hoarding cake. That’s not what this is; it’s not about being wrong and horrible, cooked all the way through.”
“I am, though. I am wrong and horrible, all the way through.”
Tyson tosses his head back and drains his drink, letting the few shrunken ice cubes roll around his mouth like mints. His eyes linger on me, on my entire face. His silence is forceful and deliberate—or it’s not. Maybe it means nothing more than a man gnashing on ice, but it’s making me uncomfortable. Finally he cocks his head to the right, crunching up the last slithers of ice, and speaks.
“Best, you keep us all at arm’s length. For years, at a distance. That’s how you move through this world. We don’t know you any other way. But I see shit, I know shit, and I’ve been living in this city longer than I haven’t. You’re not evil or horrible or wrong. I put my good name on that.”
My eyes start their flicker dance, a ridiculous strobe moving around the room. I feel the quiver in my chin first. It spreads too quickly to my bottom lip.
“Do not upset the first-class sunset I just painted on that lid, May. You will not like the words that will exit my mouth if you fuck that up, boo-boo.”
We both fold over into cackles. Tyson can be sweet. I know this. He doesn’t hug it out, though. Doesn’t like people brushing up on him. I know this as well. He tops off my drink before pouring a straight shot of vodka in his own glass.
“Let me give you some lash and lip and get you in that closet to set this shit off.”
“Thanks, Tyson”—I break form and clasp his wrist—“thank you.”
He doesn’t tense up or even pause, but briefly meets my eyes and smiles.
The minute Lindee catches us from across the room, as we come through the door, my nerves kick in. She heads over our way. I grip Tyson’s leather arm tighter.
“Easy, May. I got you,” Tyson says, patting my cold hand. “In a minute you’ll be luxuriating on one of those plush benches. You can serve haute realness from the seated position.”
“It’s not the boots; my feet are fine. It’s Lindee. She smiled at me just now; a big, toothy Hee Haw grin. She doesn’t throw those things around like candy. Something’s up. Fuck—is this an intervention?”
Tyson slows his stride. He gently takes my hand from the crook of his elbow and holds it, turning to look right at me. “Honey, you okay? You’ve been all in your feelings the whole day. Is this going to be a situation or are you just having a moment?”
The sneer and edge from his voice are gone. He’s warmth right now—his hands, his face, his whole mien; it’s warmth. I don’t know what to say because I don’t know what to say. Maybe this is a situation. All the panic, the fainting, the lapses in good judgment, in good choices, they were all moments charging up to this one unavoidable, uncontrollable, ugly situation.
Tyson rubs my hand. He’s waiting for words. I don’t have them. But I do notice his coat now, and I can’t believe I didn’t see any of this earlier. It’s buttery smooth, deep black, thick but thin. He said it was vintage. It looks like Benjamin’s.
“May, for real, you all right? We can always fake and flake this shit. My homeboy Bobbito lives like three blocks from here, and there is always something crunk and fabulous happening for the kids at that loft.”
“No, I’m good, Ty. Just had . . . a moment. And we can’t leave now; they saw us. I’m trying to move back over to their good books, not the other way.”
“I heard that. Purgatory ain’t no kind of fun.”
“Purgatory?” I say with a squawk. “Wait, how do you know about purgatory?” I shake my head. “Don’t think you know fact one about Tyson Turner, people. Do not bet on it, because you will lose.”
“Truth. Try your very best and you will indeed still lose, whippersnappers. Done at the door. Word and good night, okay?” Tyson daintily pulls some pretend blinds down over his faux window and laughs. Dramatics are requisite: another part of Tyson Turner’s code. “Now let’s get them shramps, please. They be callin’ me, sis. Reposition your swag and let’s roll.”
I take Tyson’s arm again and we walk over to Kendra, Lindee, and crew. Lindee pops up, waving me over to her end of the table. A collection of stumpy candles are gathered low on the table beneath her, illuminating the pretty ropes of gold necklaces draped along her chest. It makes everything about her shimmer. She looks beautiful, but strange. She’s still grinning as Tyson and I glide over to the empty bench seats next to her. Lindee’s eyes seem brighter, her hair shines—she’s happy. When she hugs me, it’s tight and dense, and the sugary perfume from her hair shimmies up my nose and nests somewhere high in my sinuses. I pull away a little. I need to get another look at this one’s face. Maybe they finally fooled me. But she speaks with that twisted mouth and confirms that it’s really Lindee.
“Where’s Statutory Steig?” Lindee says softly, but directly in my ear. “Was excited to see the old perv maneuver the narrow aisles here with his walker.”
I lean away from her and let my eyes speak for me.
“Come on, Best. You’re not the only fact finder in the game. I’ve watched CSI.”
Tyson pokes his face in the slim space between us. “Hi, Miss Lindee Singh. Figure I need to show my manners first, ’cause you working that caste system hard.”
“Hello, Sir Turner, I was getting around to you.” They do their thing: air-kisses, curse words, then compliments. “Fly hat. A Homburg, right? The feather, though; that is fire,” Lindee says to Tyson, barely touching its brim.
“You know how I do.” Tyson gives her a short hat-tip. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the boot, Miss Singh. Just vicious.”
“So, are you the stand-in for old man Nik Steig?”
When I told her the Nik stuff, I assumed it was under our usual strictest-confidence rule. Clearly I can’t assume anything anymore. And I’m a bit stunned that she actually said Nik’s name all loud and in public like that.
“Never that, darling,” Tyson shoots back. “I’m always the selection, never the substitute. Don’t get it jumbled. Speaking of selections, are you going to introduce us to your new amuse-bouche over there.” Tyson uses the slightest purse of his lip to gesture at Lindee’s now-boyfriend, the lived-everywhere director New Mark.
The ball of stress clogging my throat dislodges and starts to dissolve. I can always count on Tyson to throw sugar into Lindee’s hot snark soup, making it less bitter.
“Mark, this is Sir Tyson Turner. He’s the most legit makeup artist in the game today. If you’ve seen a killed brow arch
at the movies, then you’ve seen his work. And this is our sister from another mister, the fabulous Best Lightburn, but you already know all about her and her work.” Lindee comes in close to Tyson and me, but yells anyway, “Mark follows you on Twitter, Best. Clicks on all your flirty sex-story links and everything”—she reaches back to Mark, seated, and rubs his shoulder—“so really I should be thanking you.”
Ew.
“She’s already started messin’ about with the highballs,” Mark says, rising. “Dark ‘n’ Stormys, can’t trust ’em.” He’s quite tall, like Grant—well over six-foot. That’s where any sameness ends. Mark is long, but lanky, and is a few shades darker too. He reminds me of my Sri Lankan neighbor when I first moved here, Nishad. They have very similar hair—deep black, rumpled, flooded by waves and curls. New Mark is wearing thick-rimmed, Ray-Ban Wayfarers, but it’s hard to tell if it’s because he’s an authentic nerdboy or doing faux artist (fartist, as Grant calls them). He steps from behind the wide table, closer to Tyson and me: “Mark De Silva.” His voice booms over the music, and he greets Tyson with a firm handshake and moves quickly and somewhat apprehensively into the bro-hug. I get a two-cheeked kiss and shoulder-pulse combo. “Jokes aside, I do really enjoy your work, Best. Even before I found out you two were mates. It’s brill; you keep it fun. I like that.”
The accent—it’s exactly how I imagined Nishad would sound, if I had ever found the stones to talk to him. I would usually wait, watching through my cloudy peephole, for Nishad to clear the stairs before I even unlocked the first of the eighty bolts on my door. I don’t know what my problem was. Just fear. Fear that the other giant shoe would finally drop, torpedo-style from the skies, and flatten me for good.
“Um, are you exchanging vows down there?” Kendra yells from the other end of the table. She walks over to us, slow, almost slithering. “Hi, honey. You look gorgeous,” she says to me in one breath, and moves to kiss Tyson. “Your handiwork, I already know,” Kendra tells him. “But this girl is a diamond. Your work is easy.”
“Sweet of you, Kendra,” I say, unsure if I should take the compliment or prepare for a sucker punch to the neck. “Are we that late?”
“Why, ’cause we’re drunk already?” Kendra laughs. “You already know that the Singh girls are cheap dates. Cheap, slutty dates. Right, Flav?”
Tyson and I swap looks and clench our teeth at the mere mention of Flavio. The man is many things: talented, handsome, freakishly fit and rippled, and a bubbling pot of hot, dirty sex boiling over. He’s also the chief corruptor of Kendra. Nearly every bad idea (cocaine weekend in Vegas) and messed-up call that she’s made (threesome with his photo assistant Emma) has Flavio Di Luca’s grand and loopy signature all over it.
“Hey, Flav,” Tyson and I sing in limp unison. He nods and jabs a peace sign in the air in our general direction.
“He’s so hot and bothered right now,” Kendra says, draping herself over my shoulder. Her mouth is pressed up on my ear, and it’s moist and warm and gross. “I promised to give him a mini–hand job under the table if he quits speaking Italian with those randoms at the next table. I just might do it too. He’s been good these last weeks.”
I give Tyson our sign, which is really just the universal distress signal—it’s all about slight, but deliberate eye movements.
“We want whatever the hell you’re having, Miss Kendra Singh,” Tyson says, peeling her off of me in his smooth, artful way. “Glass us up, honey.”
“That waiter will be back around again, any minute. He likes our table.” Kendra pulls my hand. “Come sit with us. Tyson, you can hold down this end and talk pretty faces and camera angles with New Mark.”
With a sweep of her arm, she’s made Flav and the two others next him—that assistant Emma and Kendra’s work wife Melinda—slide down the bench to make room for me. I try to stop it, tell them it’s fine, I’ll sit wherever, but Flav does his grand gesturing thing with his arms and chest and chin and before I can close my mouth, I’m ensconced. Flav’s veiny arm drapes around me as he continues yapping with Emma, and Kendra is inching her face up to mine, grinning like a fool, her eyes glassy.
“So, Montreal, huh?” she says.
“Yeah, Montreal. I leave in a few days.”
“Your parents must be, like, shitting themselves with excitement. When’s the last time you went home?”
“Not that long ago. They’re fine. No one’s shitting.”
“You know what I mean. It’s hard to get you to go anywhere.” Kendra’s smile droops. She looks like she’s thinking it through, focusing on selecting the next group of words carefully. I’ll give her more time with that.
“You got plans?” I say it so quickly it sounds like a belch.
“This year my mother kinda shook up the snow globe with something different. They’re going to India for a month. Her oldest niece is both graduating from med school and getting married. So it’s a big-deal trip. She leaves in a few days too. She told us about it at Thanksgiving, but was quietly planning it for months. Guess anybody can be slick. Right?”
The weighty pause has crept back in. She’s looking at me. Her smile’s completely gone and she’s irritated. She has a tell: biting the corner of her lip. “It’s like you and your boss, right? Who knew the Wizard was down for on-the-sly booty? We can all be sneaky bastards.”
“Can you lower your voice? Why would you—and Lindee—want to bring that up here, now, with everyone around?”
“Oh, because a reporter might be lurking behind us or squatting under the table so he can report on all your little secrets?”
“Why are you doing this? I apologized. I sent you an e-mail and tried to reach out to set things straight between us.”
“I know. I got your e-mail and Lindee told me about the call, about Montreal and the interview and Grant’s offer and the Richard Gere thing with your boss—”
“So why are you still punishing me?”
“Punishing you?”
“Yeah, punishing. It feels like you’re trying to be mean and punishing me for something I’ve already apologized for and keep apologizing for. Just get it all out now.”
Kendra shakes her head. “It’s our holiday party, Best. Now’s not good.”
“How is this a holiday party with all this bullshit between us? It’s mad tense right now. You’re being out-of-line rude. Let’s get it all out in the open and squash it.”
Kendra rolls her eyes. “Have a drink, Best.”
“That’s not going change this, Kendra. All of this, the looks down the table to your sister, the stiff convo—what, are we going to chat about snow accumulation next?”
“What do you expect?”
“I expect that, as my friend, we can talk about this and move through it.”
“The time to talk is later. It’s not now. I’m having a good time. All I’m looking to move through right now is another glass of that Shiraz.” She tilts her head past me. “Flavio, amore mio, is there another pour left in that bottle?”
“No, it’s finito. Empty. Permesso, I go to the bar immediately for more of this for you and the table, cara mia. I’ll return quickly, okay?” Flav leans over me, like a pile of coats, to kiss Kendra before jabbing my forehead with his pelvis as he wedges his way out of the tight table. I’ve never been clear on whether Flav like-likes me and does things like that to keep it confusing or if it’s all steeped in unfettered disdain.
Kendra’s grin has returned as she sways to the Usher retro set blaring above our heads. I catch a glimpse of her sister. She’s doing something similar, shimming in her seat. The Singh girls are happy, possibly in love and content, at the same time, for the first time. Watching them, blissed out and free, I feel the sharp pinch. It hits my face first then picks up force rolling down my chest. I’ve fucked it up with them and I don’t know how I’m going cut through this rigid space between us.
“Kendra, I’m sorry.”
Her eyes are still closed, her empty glass moves with her, the last two sip
s of deep burgundy wine bump around its bowl.
I touch the back of her arm, easy, lean into her, and start again, louder. “Kendra, I’m sorry.”
She brings her groove to a crude stop and opens her eyes, looking right at me. Her face is straight. There’s no joy there anymore. It’s something else, something blue and heavy—regret, maybe? Pity? Either way, it’s a cold stare and it’s intended for me. My mother had a name for this kind of thing: dead lion. She was looking at me like a dead lion. And what do you say to a dead lion?
“I know you are. I know you’re sorry. You’re sorry that things are weird now, but that’s about you, again, as usual. It’s about you. See? This is what I mean. I told you this wasn’t time. I’m having fun, finally. It’s our holiday jam, our time to get together, be merry and bright, and once more here you are forcing the stars to shine on you.”
“That’s not true, or fair.”
“Look, my sister and I have been your friend, all the way. We’ve let you in, happily. You, you’ve kept the doors closed, blinds pulled, making us push our way in, and we’re done. Who wants to keep doing that? Connection, bonding, friends, it’s not meant to be this way: pushing, difficult, agitated. This doesn’t feel good. We all have things we’d rather not share or rather not remember, but when you’re in something with someone, they’re in it with you. They want to be there, in the mush of it with you. It’s not meant to feel like work. This—” she moves her empty glass back and forth between us—“this is work, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Flav returns with his bad timing. He has two opened wine bottles in hand and two long-necked beers tucked into the pit of his cardigan’s droopy pockets. “The beer is for my friend there”—he points his elbow to his Italian neighbor—“his football team is shit. He needs to drown them in this.” He hands a bottle of wine to Kendra.
“You mean drown his sorrows, Flav,” she says, chuckling.
“No, this team is so shit. Fuck the sorrows. Drown the men.” He winks at us both.
Kendra starts her pour.
“Need some air,” I say. “Did you want to step out for a smoke?”
The Thunder Beneath Us Page 17