Birdie (17 page)

Wes's face shifts from desire to confusion. "What?"

I climb off of him and open the passenger door. Shutting it forcefully, I wrap my arms around myself and try to regain control. After a few moments, I hear the driver's side door slam and Wes comes around to my side of the truck.

"I did not come to sleep with you," he says after a few beats of incredulous quiet. His arms are outspread and he's giving me an exasperated look.  "I could have had you twenty different ways to Sunday the other night when I carried you home from that bar. Don't ask me stupid questions."

"Wes, I can't...I don't...we can't just do this."

Wes starts to say something, then stops and presses a frustrated fist to his mouth.  He walks towards me, then turns and walks away, before turning and walking towards me again. "You called
me,"
he finally shouts. The morning is still gray and has the early chill to it. Somewhere there is a distant barking. It makes this exchange feel surreal.

I shake my head but Wes isn't finished with me yet. "You called me, Birdie. We haven't spoken in three years and the second you're in trouble, the second you really need someone, you call me. Not Lacey. Not Darla. Not
Jeremiah
. Not even Tim. You called me."

I can't look at him. I'm crying openly now, my tears erratic and sloppy, catching up with my insides.

"And I came because I would never turn my back on you. I came because you needed me. I came because I still love you."

I wince at his words. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone."

"Bullshit. I call your bullshit. Who would've driven you to Nacogdoches?"

"I would've driven myself! I would have eventually." I pushed my hair back with both my hands and blow out an irritated breath. With each exclamation I'm gaining more of myself. My heart stops hammering. My palms dry. "I just called...I don't know. I didn't think."

Wes gives a humorless laugh. "It suits you. Not thinking. You try to rationalize everything so it fits neatly in your life. Everything has to
match,
right?"

He has that condescending look in his eye. Jesus, he still knows how to needle me. "Fuck you, Wes."

"No thank you. That would've been one step above necrophilia the other night. Not my style."

We glare at each other, arms crossed and expressions hurt. But the tornado inside me is calm and I grip onto that strength.

Wesley finally speaks first. "I would have to be absolutely insane to open this wound again," he says evenly. "I don't deserve this. The next time you need a hero, call your boyfriend. Call anyone but me. I don't want to see you again. Ever."

He tosses my keys to me, turns and walks in the direction of his car.

Birdie

"You're an idiot."

Lacey slams the plate of subpar frozen pizza down on the blue tiles in front of me. I jump from my position of head-slouching-in-hand.

"Thanks for the observation,
friend,"
I say, rolling my eyes.

"Yeah, as your friend I'm telling you the truth. You're an idiot. I haven't seen a single guy you've dated come even close to doing the shit Wes did for you."

"Well, we tried and it failed."

"No, he tried and you killed it. With a shot gun. And then this morning you doused it in gas and lit a match to make sure it was dead. You're an idiot."

I glare at her over my pizza. "It wouldn’t work."

She's not letting it go. She puts her feet up on one of the extra dining room chairs and I do the same opposite from her. She leans back, looking like she's trying to think of a different approach to my stubbornness. Her chewing looks thoughtful. I hate this look. This look normally precedes her victory in an argument.

"Race is only a big deal if you make it one," she says around a mouthful of cheese. She strings the remaining bit that tried to stay with the pizza slice around her finger and adds it to her mouthful.

I make a face at her. "We're not having this conversation."

"He doesn't care. No one cares. Only you care."

"People used to look at us."

"You weren't dating people, you were dating him."

"His mother cared."

Lacey grins. "You weren't dating his mother, you were dating him."

"Come off it, Lacey."

"No, I won't come off it. He's pissing her off anyway. He's not going to Bowman
.
He's a history major, not a political science major. He's working as a student assistant for this professor. Every time he calls home, her hopes wither a little further. He's already not living the life she had mapped out for him. I guarantee you he won't marry the girl she wraps up for him with a bow. He's not Grant."

I stare at her. "Are you two best friends now?"

She sighs. "I gave him a beer and caught up with him while you were passed out. He'd had a pretty rough night. Driving from Austin in the middle of the night. He was scared, Birdie."

The conversation takes an uncomfortable turn and I feel heat prickle my skin. I rub at the tightness in my chest. "I don't even know why I called him. I was so sad. I couldn't think straight."

Lacey scoots her chair around to give me a hug. "I would've driven you, you know."

I let myself rest on her shoulder. "I know, Lace. I should've called you."

"No, I'm not saying you called the wrong person. I'm just saying you have people who love you."

“I love you too,” I tell her.

She smiles. “I know you do, idiot.”

Wes

My cell rings, vibrating
like mad in the passenger seat and I’m finally calm enough to scoop it up and answer it.

“Oh my God, Wes, were
were
you?”

Katy, from my study group. She’s the one in the group who hangs around, lingering last as other members rub their eyes and call it quits. I knew she liked me early on. Unlike Birdie, she doesn’t just use her eyes. Her whole face shows everything she feels at every moment. Right now I can picture the surprise as she asks me why I skipped out on the history final.

“I had an emergency,” I tell her. “A family thing.”

She doesn’t know me well enough to press for more and I don’t offer more. Instead she says, “Maybe Professor Pike will let you take a make up.”

I shrug my shoulders even though she can’t see the motion. “I’ll pass the class without it.” Even though I sound nonchalant, the resulting C and blow to my GPA stings a little. I feel myself starting to get worked up again. “I’ll call you when I get a chance, Katy. Okay? I’m driving right now.”

I hang up without an answer and curse softly. I can't take it out on Katy. I'll have to apologize next time I see her. She's a nice girl.

I am so angry at Birdie, I have to keep checking the speedometer to slow my speed.

"It's time to just get
over
it," I mutter to myself. In my head I take all the inside jokes, the knowing looks, the talks on top of Tim's trailer, the way she kissed me and I burn it because it means nothing if I have to hold those moments for both of us while she tosses them out like a pile of garbage. My arms are tired and I'm not doing it anymore.

In a fit of anger and a bit of recklessness since I'm going twenty over the speed limit, I pull up her number and delete it from my phone. When I get back, I'm tossing the picture of us I kept, the only memento I held onto. I am done. I am more than done.

Whatever connection Hummingbird Clements and I had finally snaps as my trucks puts distance between the two of us for the last time.

Wes

The Lott mansion looms
over me. Not much has changed. The neatly squared hedges still line the front circular drive and the trimmed grass still meets the crisp, white sidewalk in a straight line. The lawn is short and deep green, even in the dead of January when everything else is brown and asleep for the winter.

I drive my car around the corner and pull into the back metal gates. I can see from the assembled vehicles in the massive driveway that Grant’s already here. I can also see Stephen’s blue gray Corolla and my stomach drops. I was already nervous walking into this house after barely speaking to my parents for the last two years. Throwing Stephen into the mix tosses in a new wild card. As the only family member that ever takes up for him, I’m sure to be at battle on all fronts now with Mom and Dad.

I walk into the house cautiously.

“Wesley!”

Greeta, our long time maid and someone I consider close family, sees me first and holds out her arms for a hug. I give her a full one, picking up the short, Mexican woman and swaying from side to side to make her laugh.

She hits me lightly on the shoulder as I set her down. “Okay, you’ve grown taller than me. Stop rubbing it in.”

My smile is bright. Her standard response to my standard greeting. My voice lowers as I ask, “How bad?”

Her expression sobers. “Stephen showed up here twenty minutes ago. I’ve been keeping myself busy in every other part of the house. Ay yay yay.”

I step further into the hallway that leads to the kitchen and open the liquor cabinet. I rummage around in the dim light for a moment before I seize a bottle of scotch and two shot glasses. I pour two healthy shots and hold one out to Greeta. She hesitates a moment. My eyebrows raise slightly in question before she sighs and buckles, grabbing my offering. We down them together.

“I’m ready,” I declare, taking her empty glass and setting them both down on the cabinet surface.

“Careful, mijo,” Greeta warns before sinking further in the dark places of the house.

I push my way through the kitchen and into the dining area. No one is there, so I turn and head into the formal living room where everyone is rigidly seated and Dad and Grant are sipping on their stiff drinks.

I walk over to Mom and give her a light kiss on the cheek. “Happy Birthday,” I tell her, handing her a small box. She pats my hand as she accepts it, but her eyes are sad. Stephen is not in the room but he can’t be far the way Dad and Grant are glaring. Grant’s girlfriend, Becca, is the only one unaffected. She comes to me and gives me a hug and kiss.

“So glad you could make it!” she exclaims as if she were the one hosting this dinner. And I suppose that much is true. Everyone else has dropped to bitter silence. It chokes the room. Becca is one of those problem-solver types, picking up the rope where slack exists.

I decide not to tiptoe around the elephant. “So, I saw Stephen’s car here.”

Dad and Grant’s scowls deepen and Mom looks into her wine glass. Not good.

“Yes, I am,” his voice calls out. I hear him before I see him. He enters the room. His hair is longer than before, brushing his shoulders. He didn’t bother tying it back. It slicks away from face with days of unwashed oil building up on the strands. He’s in jean shorts and his white cotton polo is a little dingy. And he’s smiling. That sick smile I loathe that he puts on his face to project calm control but which is really a façade for when he’s high off his ass.

I walk over and grab him roughly by the upper arm. Even I can’t defend him this time.

“Come on,” I bark.

He shakes me loose. “She’s my mom, too,” he slurs. He walks over to her, takes the wine glass out of her hand and chugs it before turning to glare back at me. “But no one bothered to invite me. To call me. Everybody likes to conveniently forget that I’m a Lott, too. Stephen “Black Sheep” Lott. Stephen “Don’t Fuck Up My Campaign” Lott. Stephen “You’re Dead To Me” Lott.” He laughs darkly at the last one.

“I wonder why, asshole,” I hiss. I’ve never seen him this bad. He shoves me in the chest and I shove back harder. He’s already wobbly, so the push sends him stumbling back over an ottoman, Mom’s red wine sloshing everywhere. He curses as he rises and lunges for me.

Grant sets down his drink and steps between us, grabbing Stephen by the front of his shirt and shoving him back down onto the couch. Stephen runs a hand through his slick hair and stares down at the carpet. For a moment I think he’s sad and then I realize he’s trying not to vomit.

“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter running a hand down my face and covering my mouth.

“Your Mother refused to put him out,” Dad says sternly from his stance by the fireplace. “You haven’t spoken to us after we had our disagreements over your choice in career and the girl you were dating. She was afraid turning your brother away when at last you deigned to show your face here would keep you away for good.”

I shoot a quick glare at my father before crouching down in front of Mom. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” I apologize. “And I promise that won’t be the case from now on. You do not have to put up with
this
-” I gesture to the pitiful excuse of my older brother still moaning into his hands “-to make amends with me. I’ll take care of it.”

Mom looks at me worriedly as I stand and jerk Stephen to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“To drop him off at the police station. He can sober up in a cell and then they can do whatever they want with him.”

Stephen wrenches out of my grip, windmilling his arms forcefully. “The hell you will!” he shouts. He straightens his polo and spends time training his bloodshot eyes on all of us. “I’m outta here,” he finally says. “Thanks a lot, little bro. Guess everyone’s turned their back on me now.”

He stalks off through the hallway by the kitchen – the way I just came in – and slams out the back door.

I sigh. “We have to call the police,” I say, picking up the phone. Dad crosses the room in three steps and yanks it from my hand.

“No police. I don’t want them here. Grant’s up for office this year.”

“Dad, he can’t drive!” I exclaim exasperated.  I can feel old anger climbing, filling my chest. The family versus the public image. It’s like internal bleeding. Heaven forbid we let anyone cut into the perfect shell, the beautiful façade to fix the hemorrhage on the inside.

It’s during our stare down over the phone that I hear the metal crunching. My car is blocking the way out. That idiot is ramming into it.

Grant’s running for the back door at the same time I am and we both get stuck in the jam momentarily before we burst through it. More sounds of collisions fill our ears as Stephen rams and reverses, hitting all of our vehicles like he’s in his own personal demolition derby.

Grant screams back into the house. “Dad, call the fucking police!” He sounds scared and I glance into his eyes and briefly see the concern he has for our older brother.

I step into the driveway and feel Grant clutching a handful of fabric on my shirt. “Wes, no!”

I pull free and look back at him. “I’ve always been able to get through to him,” I say. “If he gets out before the police get here, he’ll kill himself or worse, someone else.”

Another ram pushes my car back even further, creating a slight opening in the gate.

I step cautiously between Grant’s and Mom’s car, waving my arms.

“Stephen!” I yell.

He responds by peeling backwards into my car again. Fucker.

I hit the hood of Grant’s car angrily. “Stephen, stop, damn it!”

His car sits idle and I find my opening. I jog over to the driver side and pound on the window. Stephen rolls it down lazily like I’m coming over to tell him about a low tire.

“Yes?” he asks casually.

“Stephen, get out of the car. Come inside. It’s freezing, you’ve made a mess of this driveway, and you’re going to regret it all in the morning. Let’s go before it gets any worse.”

“You were always the one who still cared about me,” Stephen says, hitting the steering wheel forcefully with the palm of his hand. “And now you’re just like them!”

“I still do! Why do you think I’m out here?”

“So I’ll stop ramming into your stupid car.”

“I don’t care about my stupid car! I don’t want anything to happen to you. Please. Let’s go inside.”

He sits quietly for a moment, like he’s thinking. My chest is heaving up and down from the adrenaline. A calmness is settling over him so I reach for the driver side door handle and tug. It’s locked. He looks coldly at me. Then everything happens so fast.

He slams his foot on the reverse to back the car up but doesn’t hit mine. Then with tires squealing, he pulls forward again, angling the car towards me. I turn reflexively and the car catches me on the calves before I’m thrown upwards come crashing down on the hood, my back shattering the windshield. He stops short and I roll limply off the car and onto the cold pavement.

I can hear Grant screaming my name and it’s only seconds before he’s on the ground next to me, his hands gingerly touching my body. Stephen is wailing this horrible, broken sound that’s getting fuzzier as my vision blackens.

And then everything stops.