Retail Therapy (21 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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“What expenses? You're on a budget now. You two can't afford all this cacky you buy. From now on, you are not to open your designer handbags.”
I winced. “We'll starve!”
“You can use cash for bare necessities. Like milk. Or bagels.”
“Starbucks,” Alana added.
But Marcella was shaking her head. “Time to start brewing your own at home, honey. Those designer javas cost, and you don't have that much cash in the bank, right? You gotta prioritize. Make a budget and stick to it.”
I slapped my forehead. “I am so bad at numbers.”
“Not a worry. I'll help you,” Marcella offered. “We'll help each other. Believe me, this is the first step to fixing all the crap in your lives.”
“I believe, I believe!” Alana laughed.
I wasn't quite so enthusiastic. “I don't even know how to make coffee,” I lamented. “Though I guess I'll have a lot of time on my hands to learn in the next few weeks.” A lot of time.
Alana's cell phone rang, and she spoke with enthusiasm. “Guess what I'm doing? Going on the MBP with Hailey. No, it's not a cruise ship. Mm-hmm. You don't know what it is? Marcella told us all about it. Well, maybe I'll tell you about it someday. What's that?” She glanced up at us. “Trevor wants to know if we'll meet him and X at the Uptown Comedy Clinic.”
“For starters, I don't think you can afford a night out,” Marcella said.
“Can't we use our optional cash for it?” Alana asked. “I could really use a little lift.”
“Give me that!” Marcella snatched Alana's cell phone and started barking at Trevor. “I have two financially overextended girls here, and I've got to tell you, the only way they will meet you tonight is if the evening is free. You promise? 'Cause if I cab it all the way up there and find out you're lying, I'm going to be steaming mad. OK, then. Yes, honey. We'll see you then.” She flipped the phone closed and handed it to Alana. “All set. The night's on him.”
“Wow. You really handled that.” I slid my unnaturally flat wallet back into my silver Fendi satchel, feeling vulnerable. I was glad that Marcella was taking care of things, though she couldn't be with me twenty-four hours a day. How was I going to manage?
How would I survive without credit?
What emotional lows would I fall to without shopping therapy?
I couldn't stand to think about it. There would be time to worry tomorrow. And tomorrow and tomorrow.
Tonight ... everything would be paid for. Time to celebrate like it was the last party on earth. For Alana and me, it was!
40
Alana
T
he uptown club was one of those high-energy places where you feel obliged to laugh and applaud because the lights are so bright and everyone else is having a roaring good time and you can't stand to be the only sourpuss in the crowd.
Yes, the club was hopping, popping high energy, and Trevor was wavering, waxing, low-energy drunk. The big news was that Xavier was flying out to Los Angeles in two days, a trip to start developing his comedy show now that the cable network had picked up his pilot.
“The networks usually do this in the early spring,” Xavier told us in the bar outside the club as we lingered in the smaller room. “But in cable, anything goes.”
“Right,” I said, realizing that Xavier's departure was Trevor's excuse for falling into the bottle.
“I'm proud of you, bro.” Trevor clapped a hand over Xavier's cheek, nearly falling off his stool. “Really proud. Stand-up, bro.”
“That is so exciting!” Marcella raved. “I can't believe we're all gonna know a famous comedian with his own show on TV.”
“Yeah.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “Aunt Nessie always said you were a real comedian.”
The hostess corralled us out of the bar and showed us to a table inside. The comics hadn't started, and with the lights up, I spotted a few acquaintances in the crowd. Lydia Jackson, the daughter of one of my mother's friends, would no doubt report back on everything from the stiletto heels on my feet to the sheen on my face. Izzy Daniel, an ex of mine, grinned across the room, that big, warm smile that lets you know you're looking fine. Izzy wasn't a bad guy, just a little too into his blues creations to suit my lifestyle. Not that I didn't enjoy sitting on his mattress and listening as he wrote songs, but there were other activities on my calendar, the more basic being eating, sleeping, and showering. I waved across the room, hoping he would stay on the other side, then realized he was with a woman—Izzy had a girlfriend. And from the way they seemed to be joined at the hip, things were serious. Well, good luck to her!
I forced a smile for the two women I'd met on the bar circuit, Nayasia and Sharon. Sisters, I think. They always dressed to kill, with matching accessories, shoes, earrings, etc. I'd give them an A for effort, but the overall effect was way too pat and monochromatic. Everything red with patent accessories. Or a profusion of plum. For some reason, their look reminded me of the hookers who work Ninth Avenue late at night.
Did I mention that people just don't know how to dress themselves?
The sisters rushed right over to our table and made a fuss over me, though I smelled the real lure. When you travel with three attractive black brothers, you get a lot of female attention. The sisters had no way of knowing that one of the guys was gay, another wasted on booze, the third wasted on ego.
“And who are these gorgeous escorts of yours?” Sharon asked. Tonight she was decked in peach, an unfortunate shade that made her look like the spokesperson for the Society of Easter Bunnies. Also, though I hate to sound catty, I would swear there was polyester in her skirt. Meow.
I introduced everyone, rising to the standards Mama had drilled into me as a child.
Nayasia wasn't so polite; she quickly scooted into the chair between Trevor and Kyle, leaving Marcella stuck with her Seven and Seven and a sardonic “can you believe this chick?” expression. Trevor managed to pull himself together enough to impress Nayasia. Or maybe she was smelling his mother's millions in the form of southern fried chicken. Hard to say.
 
 
After the show started, Xavier disappeared to the bar, and I sat between Marcella and Trev. Marcella found every joke hysterically funny, and Hailey laughed along, but I was distracted. Something about Xavier's success was bothering me, especially when I compared it to my lack of success as a hand model. It was all so unfair. Why couldn't I get a great offer like that?
Excusing myself, I pushed away from the table. I needed some fresh air. Maybe, if I cleared my head, I could come back and have some fun again.
But Xavier snagged me on the way out. “Where you going, girl?”
“What do you care?” I said as I passed through the bar.
Outside the air wasn't so fresh. Steamy. Superheated. With more than a hint of fragrances you don't want to think about. I sighed as X came out the door and nudged my elbow.
“What's up with you, Alana? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were having some sort of existential crisis. No, wait. It's a financial crisis, right? Well, that explains it.”
“Right,” I said sarcastically. “It's all that simple.”
“Hey, simple as it is, people understand being broke. It's good material.”
I spun toward him. “Don't even think about working it into your comedy act. I'm still furious over that princess routine. How could you, X? I mean, really.”
The streetlight reflected blue on the side of his face, the overall effect smoky and ethereal. Underneath all that wickedness, X was a handsome brother. “Oh, chill, Alana. I can't believe you still haven't gotten over yourself. You've been one of my greatest sources of inspiration this summer. People love the princess routine.”
“Do they? Well, score one for you, X. Your gain, my mortification.”
“Now why do you have to take it so personally?”
“Maybe because it is personal?”
“Yeah, well, they say there's truth and pain in good comedy.”
“Oh, now you're saying that princess bullshit is true?”
He shook his head. “Girl, I can do no right by you. I never wanted to hurt you. You're always so tough. Like one of those Hummers on the road.”
“You're calling me a Hummer!” A little squeak popped into my voice, and I swallowed hard to squelch it.
“Lord,” he said, “shut me up before the woman kills me.”
There is nothing worse than a wiseass brother. “You're comparing me to a big-ass car?”
“It's not a car. It's a utility vehicle. Used to be for the military. Schwarzenegger was one of the first civilians to have one in this country.”
Actually, there is one thing worse: a wiseass brother who thinks he knows everything. “Let me ask you something, X. Why did you follow me out here?”
“Now, see? You're assuming that it's all about you?”
I folded my arms. “The truth?”
He turned his head away. “I don't know what it is about you, Alana, but I just can't say no to the challenge. I mean, what does it take to get close to you? How much time? Let's see, I've known you since we were kids, so that's no good. Or is it candy and cards? Or what?”
“That's an odd question. You make me sound heartless.”
“No, that's not what I meant. But the thing is for me, this TV thing in LA is a big deal. And, hey, it may totally flop, but before I go, I just wanted ... I don't know, a sense of where we stand.”
I nearly choked on that. “We?”
“You and I.” He turned toward me, so close my elbows touched his shirtsleeves. That was when he put his hands on my bare arms, and I was surprised at how soft his palms were, how gentle his touch. So unlike the vicious barbs that flew from his mouth.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to resist the good feelings his touch evoked, wondering if my own life would ever make sense to me again. I hated this man, and yet I wanted him to move closer, to pull me into his arms, to kiss me.
The door squealed open behind me, and Hailey sucked in a desperate breath. “It's Trevor!” she cried. “Something's happened.”
 
 
That night, for the first time in my life, I rode in an ambulance.
After Trevor had passed out in the men's room and couldn't be awakened, Kyle had dialed 911 right away. The ambulance came, and in the blur of flashing lights and a rolling bed from which Trevor's feet dangled over the end, the paramedics established that he was still breathing, at least.
“He's been drinking?” the female attendant asked. It seemed like a rhetorical question. “And I found this in his pocket.” Xavier handed her a prescription vial. Small, but it appeared to be empty.
“Will he be OK?” I asked.
The woman made a note on her clipboard. “They'll probably pump his stomach. Can't really tell you much more, except he'll be at Columbus Hospital. Anyone riding along?”
“I am.” I tried to climb into the back, but Xavier was already in there with the other attendant.
“You can ride up front, with me,” the woman said.
I climbed into the front seat and burst into tears. Without a word, she handed me a box of tissues, then put the truck in gear and plunged into the steamy night, sirens blaring.
 
 
At the hospital, the medical team took over, leaving Xavier and me stuck together in a nasty public waiting room. If the slippery plastic chairs weren't bad enough, there was always the clientele—arguing couples, punked-out friends of kids who'd overdosed, and the few normal people who kept their eyes averted. When X put his arm around me and pulled me close, I didn't object. In fact, it felt good to rest my head against his shoulder. I could almost close my eyes and doze off and pretend I wasn't here. Almost.
After a few hours of waiting, a young doctor summoned us to the desk. “Trevor overdosed on prescription painkillers,” he said, taking his time to look us in the eyes. “That, combined with alcohol. I understand he has a history with this?”
I nodded.
“We're going to keep him for observation. He'll probably be groggy till morning, but you can go up to his room with him if you like. Tomorrow he'll receive a psych evaluation and we'll take it from there.”
“But he's going to be OK?” I asked.
The doctor paused. “No promises. Has Trevor ever tried counseling? Detox?”
“A few times,” Xavier answered.
The doctor nodded. “I would like to see him try it again, but that's always difficult. It's got to be his choice. He's got to be ready.”
“He'll get there,” Xavier said with a confidence I didn't feel. “He will.”
When we got to Trevor's room, a nurse was there cleaning him up with a washcloth, though he was still passed-out. She finished up, found us an extra chair, then told us to try and let Trevor sleep awhile. Not a problem, since he was snoring like a bear and X and I were feeling giddy with exhaustion.
I pulled my feet up on the chair and snuggled into a blanket. I think I dozed for a while, but then Xavier was talking to me, asking me what I remembered from our high school. Did I think Trevor was using drugs then? Had it happened after Trev's father died? Was Xavier wrong to cover for Trev, wrong to take care of him?
“I think that might make me the evil codependent,” Xavier said. “I worry that my going out to LA set him off, but I can't not go. I mean, for me, it's a lifelong dream.”
My eyes still closed, I admitted that I wasn't an expert, that we needed some professional help. “Do you think Trevor will do rehab again?”
Xavier yawned. “I hope so. He told me he's sick of getting advice from everyone. All these people who say they love him, telling him what to do. I told him he's lucky to have people who love him.”
“Sometimes I could just kill him,” I said. “I used to get so jealous. He's the savior of the family, but he keeps blowing it.”
“Tell me about it.” Xavier talked about growing up on the fringes of wealth, living with a family that had it all but personally never feeling any sense of entitlement. “It was like, I had to get out there and do it, prove to Aunt Nessie that I was worth her investment.”
“That's why you worked all those hours at McDonald's?” I frowned. “And here I thought you liked those funny hats.”
“It was the Big Mac that kept bringing me back,” he teased.
We talked for hours, a sort of stream-of-conscious, sleep-deprived conversation. By morning, I was aware of the strange bond I had with X. Underneath his obnoxious attitude lurked a lightning-speed brilliance, a quick mind, and a slightly twisted sensibility I couldn't resist.
OK, in my semiconscious state, I had to admit I found him attractive.
“Let me ask you a hypothetical question,” he said. “If you knew a guy who was headed out to LA with a big job and a fat expense account, would you hook up with him? I mean, would you find that kind of thing appealing?”
“If I had more energy, I'd smack your face. Are you asking me if I'm a whore?”
“No! No, never mind. It was just hypothetical.”

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