Chapter 6 Fishbowl Theory
SIX
Fishbowl Theory
I’m in the snack food aisle of HEB at the intersection of Lake Austin and Exposition.
I have a hand basket, and Westley Miles is pushing a half-filled cart.
I’m passing through on my way to dairy, and he’s setting up camp in front of the potato chips.
His chin-length hair is pulled back in a small ponytail, and he’s dressed a lot like I am, in utilitarian shorts and a t-shirt I recognize.
It’s a faded Texas Rangers shirt. Blue with the red team logo on the front.
The tattoos are still a total trip to see on him.
I wonder what his mom thinks about them.
“I wondered where you went,” he says. “Just think, all I had to do was go grab some groceries, and here you are.”
I glare at him without really meaning to. “Yeah, I'm here almost all the time. I'm surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”
“How's it going?” he asks, not engaging in my sarcasm.
Still wary of him and his small talk, I answer with, “Fine.”
“Are you staying at your old house?”
I laugh. Well, scoff might be a better word. “No. I got a new place.”
He looks at me a moment, sizing me up like he’s thinking something over. “The Rangers are playing the Padres tonight. You free? We could watch the game at Abel’s.”
I hesitate a lot less than I should. “Yeah. I'll meet you there.”
“First pitch is at seven.”
“See you then.” With that, I leave him by the chips, already forgetting what I needed from dairy.
Cain & Abel’s is a sports bar across the street from the University of Texas with several wide-screen TVs showing the various events of the day. While we had fake IDs senior year, we never tried getting in here, preferring to hang out in people’s dens. Usually West’s because his mom worked nights.
He’s already sitting at the bar with a beer. I take the empty stool next to him. “Been here awhile?”
“No. You?” he asks with a grin before looking up at the TV. “Sorry about the other day,” he adds.
The other day almost two months ago? “Yeah. Me too.”
Once I get my drink, we find a table by the back wall where we have a decent view of a screen with the Rangers game.
“So where are you staying?”
“A house on Mountain View.”
“I’m over off West Lynn. Your brother’s living with you?”
“It's just me for now. But if he wears out his welcome where he is, I have a room for him.”
“Is he the reason you're staying?”
I sigh. The sooner I sit through his inquisition and answer all his questions, the sooner he and I can both move on—whatever that looks like. I put my beer down and meet his curious eyes. “More or less. He has one more year of high school.”
“I guess since you bought a house in Tarrytown you made out okay in the will. Or did you get a job?”
What kind of question is that? I grind my teeth and glance at the door. “Both.”
“Where are you working? Doing what?”
“ACC. Teaching.” ACC is the community college where I’m currently covering someone on maternity leave for a summer course. It’s not much of a job, but it’s technically employment.
“Oh, here we go…” He leans back in his chair with his drink in hand. “Now you have to tell me. You have to have at least a master’s to teach college. Give it up already. What is it? Poli-Sci? International diplomacy? What?”
“Art History,” I say, ready for him to laugh.
But he surprises me. Which isn’t really that surprising. He was a classic jock, but he still used to be my biggest fan. I was his, too. He nods, looking almost proud. “Good. Good for you.”
I give him a tight smile and think of the old saying about how you can’t go home again. I understand it now. It’s not so much about home. It’s about the “you” part. You change too much, and, yeah, home does too.
“Did you put yourself through school?” he asks.
“Yeah, I worked. I got student loans. I probably owe about forty-five thousand still.” I realize my mistake one second too late. The words are out, and he pounces on them—the bitterness, or something like it, back in his tone.
“Not anymore though, huh?”
I don’t answer. I just look at him.
He shrugs like he’s gonna go ahead and go there. And he does. “How much did you get?”
The question feels so inappropriate. Up there with asking a woman how much she weighs.
You know what, though? Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better to finally see someone for who they actually are so the stupid ideal you have of them in your head dies a timely death. People are assholes. Friendship is a Hallmark myth.
“A lot,” I say, because I can play this game, too.
“Like what?”
“You really want to know?”
“I'm just making conversation.”
“Interesting angle. But if you want to know that bad, I got everything.”
“What's everything?” he asks with what seems like genuine interest.
“The company stock, the estate, the life insurance, all of it.”
“And what'd your brother get?”
“A trust fund.”
His brows lift. “Holy shit. So, you're talking millions.”
I level my gaze with his. “It was billions.”
The word doesn’t shock him quite as much as it did me that day on the hospital patio. “What are you gonna do with all of it?”
My gaze travels to the front door again. “Keep some, give some away. That's what rich people do, right?”
“I’ve never known anyone with that much money. You won the fucking lottery.”
“Right?” This little reunion was fun while it lasted, but I’m over it, and my glass is empty.
“You want another?” he asks.
It’s my turn to shrug. I do want to give this a chance. I showed up. I answered his intrusive questions, so maybe he can answer some of mine.
He goes to the bar since we have yet to see a waitress. I check the text I got while he was being nosy as fuck. My mood lifts slightly when I see Tristan’s name.
Tristan
Not that I’m doubting your outstanding memory, but I don’t think Connor’s heard from you yet.
To which I respond:
I’m getting around to it.
Tristan
How long do you think it’ll take? Six years? Seven?
I grin then pull up Connor’s contact info and send him a quick text with my address and an invitation to come by soon. And that I hope all is well, or something like that. Then I go back to the dialogue with Tristan.
Is he checking his phone yet?
Tristan
Thanks. I’ll take it from here. iHug.
“Who are you texting?” West asks as he reclaims his seat.
“Nobody.” I put my phone back in my pocket.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
“Yeah. I do that from time to time.” In the silence that follows, West lets go of this huge sigh that could make the most optimistic person in the world lose all hope. I don’t know what his deal is, and I wonder, even after all of this, if I have any right to ask.
“Other than the bar, what have you been up to? You look different.”
He glances down at his right forearm and the tattoo there. From here, I can make out the shape of a boat and some waves, but it’s dark in the bar. “This and that. I tried college, too, here in town, but it didn’t work out.”
“How’s that?”
“I was distracted.” As if to demonstrate, his attention shifts to the ball game, and I watch him sink lower in his chair, his expression blank.
I’m about to take my chances and ask what happened with baseball and college or any of the plans he used to talk about with me, but I’m interrupted by a tap on my shoulder and a soft whisper in my ear. “Hey. Remember me?”
I almost choke on my own heart.
I turn around, and I cannot even begin to put into words how crushing my disappointment is when I see that the mouth by my ear is not Tristan’s.
But yes. I remember this woman. Her name is Jayne.
A thought occurs to me. Or maybe it’s less like a thought and more like a shift.
The thing that happens—the switch that flips—jolts me, and to be honest, it scares me. If I had to put words to the thought, they would be these: Something’s missing.
That’s all. Might not sound earth-shattering, but it is for me. I admit to toting around my share of feelings of emptiness like any other normal person, but this isn’t that. This is specific.
So what is it? What’s missing? One thing I know with absolute certainty is this: it isn’t Jayne.
“Hey, how are you?” I ask, finding my bearings in the wake of my gestalt.
“I’m great! What about you?” She smells good. Just like she did in high school. Flowers and mint. She has on a short black and white dress that’s…well, she looks good too.
“Great.”
A classic blonde with peaches and cream skin and sky blue eyes, Jayne giggles, brushing a silky wave from her eye. “Hey, West.”
I turn, glancing at my date for the night.
He seems to struggle with placing her. “Oh, right,” he eventually says. “Jason Beck’s little sister, right?”
“Yeah!” she replies brightly, and then glances between the two of us.
West gestures at the chair next to me. “Have a seat,” he says, and I brace myself.
Jayne sits down. Then the game changes.
Not the baseball game.
Jayne’s game.
She glances up at me with flirtatious eyes as a slow smile amplifies the radiance of her face.
A few innings and a few beers later, I’m in Jayne’s apartment north of campus. We’re on her couch. My fingers are underneath the spaghetti straps of her skintight dress, and I’m just about to push them down when she separates her mouth from mine and says, “How long are you gonna let it ring?”
Both of our phones are on the coffee table, and one is vibrating away—has been for several minutes, but I haven’t been paying attention to it.
“It’s not your phone?” I ask before seeking out her mouth again.
I’m a little crazed for it. It’s been a while for me, and I think about Tristan way too much, so this is good.
It’s healthy. I need it. Jayne was one of those ungettable virgins in high school, but that doesn’t appear to be the case anymore.
The kisses are satisfying and deep, and I’m almost positive they’ll lead to more.