Not After Everything (6 page)

It's Friday, and Sheila's scheduled a “face-to-face” with me for tonight. She does this occasionally. She'll talk about how I need to appreciate her more and she knows I'm going through a lot and she's trying, but I need to try harder and then we'll have makeup sex and things will just go right back to how they were.

As soon as I round the corner by the auditorium lobby area, a wad of tinfoil hits me on the chin.

“You've got good aim for a chick,” I say, bending over to pick up the trash.

“
For a chick?
You really do think the world revolves around you, don't you?” Jordyn glares at me.

“Most of the time it does.”

“Why are you here?”

I head to the bench farthest from her and make myself comfortable. “Eating lunch,” I say around a huge bite of my pathetic sandwich. I had to use the last of the sliced turkey for dinner and the remaining roast beef was barely enough for half a sandwich today, so it's mostly mayo, mustard, and lettuce. I can barely taste the meat.

“Look, Tyler, I don't really have much of a choice where I eat. I don't have a place in our little social hierarchy. I don't have a table I'm welcome at in the cafeteria. This is my only option.” She sighs heavily. “You know, you didn't used to be such an asshole.”

“I thought I was a motherfucker.” I grin at her before taking another bite.

She gives me the finger. Then she plugs some earbuds into her phone and turns her back to me.

“How original,” I say.

She gives me the finger again, and turns up her music so loud, I can hear it leaking out of her earbuds.

There's no point in saying another word because I know she won't hear me. But my presence alone is enough to drive her crazy, and that works for me.

After I finish my sandwich, I head to the drinking fountain at the other end of the lobby. As I gulp the water, I glance back down the long space to see Jordyn still pouting with her back to where I was sitting. She doesn't even know I'm not there anymore. I could leave and she'd probably still be pouting for another half hour because she's too damn stubborn to simply turn and see that I've left. I can't help but laugh.

Somehow she must've heard me, because she glares back at where I was, only to realize I'm no longer there. But she's also finished eating and now she has to pass me to dispose of her trash. So, of course, I step in her way, forcing her to acknowledge me. She throws her trash straight at my head and says, “Fuck you!” loud enough for the few students in the hallway by the gym to turn toward us. She's really left me no choice. I pull the cord of her earbuds and say, “No thanks,” before heading to the door.

I so badly want to turn and see her reaction, but it would ruin the moment. Better to just watch the people around me cracking up. But when I get to my car and think about those people laughing at her and how she was just complaining about our school's social hierarchy and not having a place . . .

I bury the thought and get in.

• • •

Sheila's waiting for me at the entrance to the parking lot after school.

I take her bag and head toward her car. I can feel her eyes on me for the entire walk. I can feel her willing me to apologize. And I can't for the life of me remember what it is I've done.

“So . . . I'm sorry, Sheila,” I say as soon as we're both settled in the car, hoping a blanket apology will suffice. After she still doesn't speak, I finally make eye contact.

She raises her eyebrows. “For . . . ?”

I rack my brain. What the hell did I do? I honestly can't remember. “For being an asshole?”

She grunts in frustration. “Jesus! You don't even remember why I'm mad, do you?”

“Sheila, I have a lot on my plate at the moment.”

“You had time enough to chat up that goth freak.”

Oh, that's right. She's mad because she thinks I had lunch with Jordyn. “Really? You're still mad about that?”

“Still? It just happened!”

“On Monday!” My voice is a little louder than it needs to be. I take a deep breath before continuing. “First of all, I don't feel like I owe you an explanation and—”

“You don't feel like you owe me an explanation? I'm your freaking girlfriend!”

“And second of all, I didn't have lunch
with
the goth freak. I had lunch in her spot. She had lunch elsewhere.”

“Then why did I see you talking to her?”

“You saw her yelling at me. That does not qualify as a conversation.”

“Whatever.”

I stare at her, wondering if this is really how it ends.

“You know what? I can't do this anymore. This is way too much work. I don't think we actually even like each other anymore. I think we're only still together because you don't want to be the girl who dumped the guy with the dead mom. So now you don't have to. I think this is it for us.” I offer her a halfhearted smile as I open the car door. “See you around, I guess.”

I'm parked two rows over, facing Sheila's car, and I see her crying into her phone as I start the engine. I should probably feel bad as I watch her cry, but all I feel is free.

The only thing I'm regretting as I put the car in reverse is that I could've really used a good lay tonight. I should have waited to break up with her until after the makeup sex. But that would make me even more of a prick than I already am.

• • •

Dad's not home. If he was going to come home after work, he'd already be here, so it looks like I'm free for the night.

Captain keeps looking at his leash, but I don't feel like going for a run. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like being alone. I wonder what Dr. Dave will have to say about
that
tomorrow.

Too bad he's my psychiatrist. I think he'd be cool to go hang out with.

Man, what's wrong with me that I'm thinking about hanging out with my shrink socially?

I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts. I guess I could see what Marcus is up to, but it probably involves Twelve, and there's nothing lonelier than being a third wheel. That's when I come across Ali Heart-over-the-
i
Hightower.

Why not? I send her a text:

Hey, it's Tyler. Remember me from the photo shoot? Just wondering if you're busy tonight?

My phone chimes almost immediately.

Of course I remember u!!! :) I can get out of my plans if u wanna hang.

I text her my address.

<3 I'm coming now . . . And maybe later? ;)

Whoa. Marcus would love her.

Ali doesn't expect much conversation. She's made it pretty clear this is a booty call, which is an entirely new experience for me. I pop in one of the Christian Bale Batman movies to create the illusion we're going to do something other than just have sex. It makes me feel a little less sleazy. Before the plot even gets going she's got her shirt off and her hand down my pants.

She's very flexible. And very vocal. Very. I find myself wishing I'd closed the window. But then she takes my body to places I didn't know existed and so what if the neighbors hear.

She doesn't linger when we're done. She just kisses me and gets dressed and swears she's not normally like this. Then she leaves. The movie's not even over.

And now I feel even lonelier than I did before.

“I broke up with Sheila,” I say to Dr. Dave as soon as he takes his seat.

“This is a good thing?”

“I feel pretty freaking good. I met this chick last week at my new job and she, uh,
consoled
me last night.”

Dr. Dave flips open his notebook and writes as he talks. “You got a new job?”

“Yeah. With this cool mountain-man photographer.”

“This is good, Tyler.”

“The only problem is this chick from school works there. We sort of used to be friends. And then she moved away after sixth grade and gothed out and now she hates me because I didn't recognize her.”

“What's her name?”

“Jordyn.” I crane my neck to see what he's writing in his little notepad. “
Y
-
N,
” I correct him.

He adjusts the notepad so I can't see it and then grins at me. “Consoled, huh?”

I shrug like it's no big deal.

“Show-off.”

“You're just jealous,” I say.

“You're not wrong. I would have killed for that when I was your age.” He laughs. “So you think it's okay to shit where you eat?”

“What?”

“How long before you get fired for having sex with this Jordyn?”

“Oh, god. No. It wasn't with Jordyn.” I cringe. “The girl was a client.”

He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. I assumed.”

“Jesus.”

“This reaction is a bit extreme, no?” He's laughing at me.

“Please change the subject,” I beg.

“Fine.” He flips the page in his notebook. “Let's talk about your dad.”

“Nice try.” I laugh now. I've told him that my dad's an asshole and that's all there is to say, but he's always trying to get me to “explore my anger toward my father.”

“Let's talk about football then.”

“You're a real piece of work, Doc.”

We settle on the subject of Sheila. He's proud of me for finally letting her off the hook. He thinks I was being a prick to her. And I guess I kind of was.

• • •

Jordyn shows up to the studio a minute after me wearing a particularly terrifying scowl, and, of course, that goddamn leather jacket. When she passes me to unlock the door, I see the origin of her extremely bad mood. The word
slut
is written across her back in giant white letters. That totally sucks. She probably even paid for that jacket herself, unlike most of the privileged assholes we go to school with.

She lets the door slam on me. I don't take it personally. I'd be that pissed if someone did that to something I obviously love.

She checks the voicemail, scribbling the messages so hard, the pen goes through the paper a few times, and then she growls because she has to listen to the message again. When she's finally done, she slams the headset down—it's probably broken. I mentally map out the nearest office supply store because I will surely be tasked with finding a replacement.

I kind of hover nearby but keep my distance. I'm afraid to step into the circular counter area for fear she'll, like, hit me or something.

Plus I feel completely useless when she's here. She doesn't let me do anything. She's made it abundantly clear that she knows I'll just mess things up and she'll have more work to do.

I head to the kitchen and clean a coffee mug. It's literally the only task I can find.

When I return to the front, I decide to brave the counter area. I need to check the schedule so I can anticipate what furniture Henry will want moved.

I go to the computer I'm allowed to use—the one Jordyn doesn't—and see that we don't have anyone scheduled until two p.m. Why did they have me come in so early? Not that I'm complaining. I need the money.

I decide to make a coffee run, mostly just to get out of the suffocating awkwardness. I have twenty bucks in my wallet. Twenty bucks that will have to last me the rest of the week. I really need to ask when I'll get my check.

I order a black coffee and when the barista asks if that's all, I find myself ordering a tall white chocolate mocha, Jordyn's drink of choice. It's more than I wanted to spend, but I'll just snack on whatever's in the kitchen for lunch and live on ramen and beans this week.

I set the coffee next to Jordyn, who clasps her sketchpad to her chest like it contains top secret military codes or something, and head back to my computer. She doesn't thank me, not that I expected her to, but she does drink it.

I waste time on the Internet reading about how screwed up the world is, until I notice that Jordyn's not attempting to murder her keyboard anymore.

Taking a deep breath, I brave it. “So what happened?”

Nothing.

I go over to examine the jacket, now hanging on the back of her stool. “Damn. What is this? Permanent marker?”

“Try oil-based paint marker.”

“Shit.” The leather is old and worn-in and the white paint has worked its way deep into the pores. “Who would do this?”

She jumps up from the stool and gets in my face fast. “Basically, you did this!”

I stagger back. She's small but very scary.

“Your little cheerleader bitch did this because you were talking to me! So the way I see it, you owe me a fucking jacket! Too bad it's irreplaceable!” She storms off toward the kitchen. “ASSHOLE!”

Shit. Sheila did this? Because she thought I was talking to Jordyn?

I pull the jacket off the stool and really look at it. The label is in Italian. It's the smoothest leather I've ever touched. It must've been really expensive.

I could kill Sheila. Who does that? Who does something this mean to a complete stranger?

I have to sit down. I'm shaky and I'm starting to feel sick.

Why did I have to mess with Jordyn at school? I should have just left her alone. But I had to push her buttons. I had to get her to treat me . . . I don't know. I'm such a selfish prick.

And the really messed-up thing is that it feels nice, her being angry at me, me feeling bad. It feels good.

I know what I need to do. I need to replace it. And there's only one way I can possibly make that happen: Dip into my emergency funds. I've got close to a thousand dollars stashed away in the box with Mom's pictures.

I look behind me, then write down all the information on the tag and tuck it into my pocket just before Jordyn returns.

I want to apologize. I want to tell her my plan. But I know she doesn't even want to hear the sound of my voice right now.

I head to the kitchen in search of “lunch.” A Coke, an apple, a yogurt, and a handful of chips. I eat over the sink. And even though Henry told me to help myself to anything in the kitchen, I jump like I'm doing something bad every time I hear a noise.

Henry should be here soon and then I'll have a purpose or at least a distraction. I just hope Jordyn doesn't tell him to fire me. I haven't heard back from any of the other places I applied. I'll be so screwed if I lose this job.

• • •

When the door chimes, I head into the studio.

Henry greets me with his usual shoulder pat and asks how I'm doing. I lie and tell him I'm good.

“Did you bring the clothes I asked you to bring?” he asks.

“They're in my car.”

“Go get 'em so I can see what we have to work with.” He heads to his storage closet and punches in a code—this is where he keeps all his cameras and lenses.

“You really don't have to do this, you know. I mean, it's nice of you to offer, but . . .”

“I told you. I need to test the new kit. You're doing
me
the favor. Now, go get your stuff and don't make me ask you again.”

I feel like such an asshole.

Jordyn's face contorts in confusion when I return from my car with my clothes. I can tell she wants to ask, but she's still too pissed.

I hope she doesn't come investigate while he's taking pictures.

Henry smiles widely. “You remembered about the blue, I see.”

I nod. But actually I didn't remember him saying anything about blue. I just like blue.

“Start with the blue shirt.”

I shrug, pull my T-shirt off, and put the blue shirt on.

“Yep. Looks good, but did you dig it out of the bottom of your hamper or what? We've got an iron back in the kitchen.”

I feel my face get hot. I'm not sure how to tell him that the one time I tried ironing after my mom died, I ruined my shirt. It's not that I don't know how to use an iron, it's that . . . Okay, whatever, I don't know how to use an iron.

All of this must be transparent on my face, because Henry bellows, “Jordyn! Help us a minute?”

Great.

She stomps out from the front and awaits instructions, making sure to only acknowledge Henry.

“It seems this poor boy here needs a lesson in ironing. Maybe you can educate him while I set the lights?”

“Why?”

“I'm testing out the new kit, and my friend Tyler Blackwell here doesn't have any senior pictures. I can't allow him to use those generic crap pictures in the yearbook. So he's doing me a favor letting me test my new toys, and I'm doing him a favor so he doesn't look back twenty years from now and curse himself for not getting real pictures.”

I didn't think Jordyn could look like she hated me more than she did with the jacket thing, but I was wrong. If she were able to make my head explode from one simple look, I would be blissfully out of my misery.

Jordyn makes a gross throaty noise but she doesn't decline or question his request. She glares at me the entire way to the kitchen. Before I can overthink it, I find myself following.

Jordyn shoves me into the cabinet to get me out of her way. She retrieves the iron from the nearby closet. Then she slams the iron onto the ironing board and throws the cord at me. I catch it, much to her disappointment, and I search around until I locate the nearest outlet.

The moments until the iron is hot are spent in awkward, silent hostility. I'm afraid to look at her. Occasionally Henry grunts or makes an excited noise in between clicks from the next room.

I see Jordyn shuffle closer to the iron in my peripheral vision so I finally look up. She gives me a look that says,
Well?

Apparently the iron is ready. I turn toward the studio to get the rest of my clothes, but her voice stops me. “You didn't think to get your stuff while you sat here staring at the floor for the last five minutes?”

“I just . . . I . . .”

“Oh. I forgot I'm dealing with a football player.” She turns back toward the iron.

As soon as my shirt is unbuttoned, I playfully throw it at the back of her head, hoping I might snap her out of her bad mood. She grabs blindly, somehow managing to catch the shirt before it falls to the floor. Then she turns to glare at me, but when she sees my state of undress, her cheeks and ears turn the faintest shade of pink, and as she attempts to lay my shirt the proper way on the ironing board, the material slips through her fingers. Her discomposure is killing me and I'm trying so hard not to laugh. At least she doesn't seem to be pissed at me anymore.

After retrieving the rest of my stuff, I get uncomfortably close to her so I can see what she's doing. I'm sure I'll be expected to take it from here.

“Do you mind?” She elbows at me not meaning to make contact, but she hits me in the stomach, which I flex. (What? It's instinct.) Her ears flare red again when she realizes I'm still shirtless. Her whole body stiffens and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing. But I
am
kind of regretting not putting on another shirt now. I mean, she does have a hot iron in her hands, and my bare chest might make an awfully tempting target.

I take a few steps back and clear my throat. “You gonna show me how to do this, or do you just want to play maid today?”

She sets the iron on its end and gestures for me to take it, meeting my eyes with the best “fuck you” glare I've ever seen.

I pick it up and await instructions.

“Oh, please. You really expect me to believe you've never ironed before?” she says.

“I didn't say that.”

“It was implied.”

“I told Henry I suck at it. And that's true.” I set down the iron and go to get my evidence.

She quickly picks up the iron and places it on its end, looking at me exasperatedly as I hold up a white shirt to show her the triangular scorch mark on the back near the left armpit.

She slowly shakes her head at me.

“So you see why I might be a little gun-shy?” I say.

“Well, maybe if you didn't set the iron on the fabric and walk off, you wouldn't have a stupid-looking burn on your armpit. And you obviously don't learn from your mistakes.” She glances at the iron she just picked up.

And now I feel like an idiot.

I scoot past her back to the ironing board and accidentally brush against her, taking absolutely no pleasure this time when my nakedness makes her bristle. It's just not fun anymore. When I finish, I make a show of setting the iron on its end.

“You're not finished.” Jordyn grabs my arm. I tense, partially because I'm uncomfortable having her touch me while I'm still half naked . . . but mostly because I'm . . . not.

“You really think I'm ready to tackle buttons?” I gesture at my white shirt for emphasis, hoping she didn't sense my temporary lapse in judgment.

“Oh my god. You're such a
guy
. It's not rocket science. Here.” She pushes me out of the way and picks up the iron. Then she gently brushes the pointy tip between the buttons. The clacking of iron hitting plastic makes me nervous.

“Won't the buttons melt?” I don't think she understands just how much I can't afford a new shirt.

“Only if you set the iron on them and walk away.” She bugs her eyes out at me, and I laugh.

When I finish the blue shirt, I pull it over my shoulders and quickly button it, feeling a huge sense of relief that I'm no longer half naked—I should have just grabbed another shirt to begin with.