Chapter 5 #2
Bryce started by talking about the funeral, the plots his father bought for all of them, and orienting his mother’s headstone to catch the morning light.
That was some seriously sweet shit. He also talked about how he couldn’t stand the idea of going home while all those mourners were at his house for the reception.
Tracey brought her drink to her lips and took a sip.
She looked really uncomfortable, and I wasn’t quite sure why.
Maybe it was because Bryce constantly left her out of the conversation.
At one time, Tracey had been outgoing and had loved joining in.
She might still have been like that. But the fact was, Bryce didn’t really give anyone else an opportunity to talk.
He rolled from one topic to another, and we were clearly just his audience today.
My childhood friend spoke about his mother, how she doted on him as a child but let him have the space he needed to be a man when he grew up.
Giving Tracey the side-eye, he pointed out that they didn’t make women like his mother anymore.
He even worked his way around to talking about our college days and how much fun we had.
When our food came, Bryce got sidetracked with eating, so I jumped in to lead the conversation while he feasted on his T-bone. Since Tracey was just picking at her food, I tried to draw her into the conversation.
“Tracey, do you remember that stretch of spring when you talked us into helping out with a fair on campus? You wrangled both of us into hauling folding tables across the quad.” I felt myself smile as I remembered it.
“The fair concessions were vastly more lucrative when people had a place to set their food while they ate.”
Bryce remembered. “You charmed that stubborn activities director out of equipment for a charity soccer match. We raised the most money that year.”
Tracey’s eyes lifted to mine, and a genuine smile lit up her face. “I almost forgot we even did that,” she said. “I think that I still have my college yearbook with pictures of that fair.”
Bryce set his glass down on the table. “You were really motivated to set up the concession stand,” he said. “You even used my car to haul supplies back and forth that weekend.” He smiled but was much less enthusiastic than we were.
I attempted to break through his sour mood. “I remember that night we ate cold pizza sitting on the base of the pirate statue. You made a bet with me, and I lost. You won five bucks that night.”
Finally loosening up a bit, Bryce smiled. “The bet involved you folding a box with one hand.”
I laughed. “I remember that now. I gave it the old college try, didn’t I?”
He stopped with his fork almost to his mouth and teased, “Tried and failed, my friend.”
Tracey laughed. “You always tried to show off,” she said. “I never understood why you did that.”
“When your best friend is a chronic overachiever, you gotta work twice as hard to get noticed,” I responded. Looking at Tracey, I told her, “You were the shining star between the three of us, the one with looks and a brain for numbers. No one noticed me or Bryce when you were around.”
Bryce poured himself another drink. “We are not here for a trip down memory lane,” he said roughly. “Tracey’s actually shit with numbers. She spends too much, and then she regrets it when she gets caught with the goods. We had to put her on an allowance. She operates better with firm boundaries.”
Tracey’s smile slowly went away, and I hated to see that. Not willing to let Bryce diminish her, I reminded her, “The fair was successful because you kept track of all the expenses on spreadsheets. Do you remember?”
Her mouth tugged up again, but she did not meet my eyes.
Bryce looked between us. He told a long, drawn-out drunken story about closing a deal because the other man had issues he exploited.
He called that good observation. Bryce was clearly affected by his mother’s passing because he was coming off like a total narcissist today.
The evening dragged on, and when we finally decided to call it a night, Bryce was three sheets to the wind. We had to get on either side of him to help him out the door and into my vehicle. Tracey and I didn’t talk on the way to their place, and Bryce was too drunk to hold a coherent conversation.
We pulled up in front of their house, and I climbed out of the SUV with Tracey.
We managed to get Bryce out of the vehicle together.
Tracey rushed ahead, turned on the entry light, and unlocked the front door.
She seemed very accustomed to taking care of her drunken husband.
It made me wonder if this was her life now.
We took him to the sofa, and she did her best to make him comfortable. She knelt down, untied his shoes, and slid them off his feet. By the time we stepped away, his breath was deepening, and he started snoring.
She walked me to the front door and told me, “Thank you.” Her voice was not the same as the one I remembered from our college days. Now, it was heavy with the responsibility of caring for two children and an alcoholic husband.
I tried not to sound judgmental when I asked, “Do you do this often?”
“Some nights are harder than others,” she stated quietly. “Today was the hardest day so far.”
Before I could respond, she said, “Look, you should probably go. It’s getting late. Thanks for coming.”
“Anytime you need anything, just let me know.”