Dirty Blood

“C’mon, Tara, you didn’t even give tonight a fair chance,” George said, his blue eyes a mixture of pleading and irritation.
I returned the pool stick to the wall rack and tried to think of a fair answer before turning to face him again. I was careful to keep my voice down; the tiny pool hall was crowded for a Tuesday night. The smoky haze, a permanent fixture in the dimly lit room, gave the illusion of privacy around our corner table, but the couple next to us was already glancing over, trying to look as if they weren’t listening.
“George, you were an hour late picking me up because you were working on a press release with your agent.” I stepped closer. “Your agent,” I repeated, shaking my head. “Seriously. You haven’t even graduated yet, much less secured a scholarship. Why do you even need an agent?”
He ran a hand through his hair, evidence of his impatience, though he was careful to keep his tone light, in an attempt to win me to his way of thinking. “I told you already, my dad set it up. And a lot of the pros got one early, especially the big timers. And I’m sorry I was late, but I’m here now and I’m focused on us.” His expression became accusing and he added, “More than I can say for you.”
I rubbed at my temples, trying in vain to massage away the stress headache that had become a trademark of our relationship. “I’m sorry, George, but I’m not the one who messed things up. And I don’t fault you for a change in priorities. Football is important to you. That’s fine, but it’s pushing out everything else, including me. It would make it easier for you to just admit it.”
“You’re wrong, I can do both,” he insisted, shaking his head vigorously. His loose blond hair shook with it.
“You’ve cancelled on me three times in the last week,” I argued. “Not to mention standing me up two nights ago.”
“Tay-” he began, using his nickname for me.
I put my hand up to silence him. I couldn’t do this anymore. “Just stop, George. Stop with all the excuses. It’s just not going to work. You should go. I’ll find my own ride home.”
George stared back at me and I waited for him to argue some more. The tone of regret in my voice had been obvious, but so was the finality of my words. Finally he sighed.
“I’m going to find a way to fix this,” he said quietly.
I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. Reluctantly, he grabbed his jacket and left. I watched him until the door swung shut behind him and then turned back to our half-finished game. I went to the wall and retrieved my stick, as if the breakup I’d just initiated didn’t bother me one bit, and lined up my next shot.
I ignored the curious looks from the nosy couple beside me and focused on sinking the three ball. Only a small twinge of regret ate at me while I finished the game. I hadn’t wanted things to end with George. We’d known each other since sixth grade, and in a lot of ways, he was my best friend. I cared about him. But he’d changed in the past few months. At first, it was so slow I’d barely noticed. We’d go two days without talking—a record for us at the time—which gradually turned into a missed date or a last-minute change of plans. Then he got an agent, and it was only downhill from there. And while I hated thinking I was throwing away everything we’d ever been to each other, I wasn’t going to be a “back burner” girlfriend, either. A girl had to have some self-respect.
With the game finished, and my pride still somewhat intact over letting a pool hall full of strangers witness my breakup, I called my friend Angela for a ride home.
“Hello?”
“Ang, you busy?” I asked, doubting she was.
There was a second of hesitation and then, “Um, Dave and I are having dinner.”
“Dave? That guy from pre-calculus?” I knew my surprise came through, maybe a little too loud and clear, and I felt bad for the way it sounded. “That’s great,” I hastily added. And it was great. Angela had been harboring a crush on this guy for months. And it wasn’t that she couldn’t get a date; she was really pretty with her long dark hair and sexy-librarian-style glasses, but she was mortifyingly shy.
“Thanks. We just ordered, so … Is everything okay? Are you already home from your date?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Never mind.” I decided against interrupting her. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And I want details.”
Angela giggled and I pulled the phone away from my head to stare at it like maybe it had just morphed into another life form. Angela never giggled.
We disconnected and I dialed Sam. Even if she was out, I wouldn’t feel nearly as bad interrupting her. Sam was always “out.” Unfortunately, it went straight to voice mail. Darn. I hung up without leaving a message. No point. She rarely checked it anyway.
The only option left was to call my mom but I quickly dismissed that. No doubt she’d have questions as to why I’d gotten myself stranded in the first place. Which would lead to what happened with George, which was something that, even though I loved her, I didn’t really feel like discussing with my mother. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t listen. The problem was she’d listen too eagerly. My mother was a classic worrier, and because of that, she hovered. She always wanted to know every single detail of my day, down to what I’d had for lunch and who did I stand next to in gym. And it seemed like the older I got, the worse her worrying became. No way was I calling her.
With all my transportation options exhausted, I sort of regretted letting George leave. Only sort of, though. If he’d driven me, it would’ve extended the argument or his pleading attempts to change my mind, which in the end would’ve pissed me off. And I was still hoping to maybe salvage our friendship.
I turned in my rack of balls to the bar attendant and walked to the door. I stood there, staring out the foggy glass of the front window, and considered my last resort. There was a bus stop a few blocks away. Not ideal in the middle of February in northern Virginia but it was all I had. I yanked my arms into my coat sleeves and headed for the back hall, past the restrooms, to the back door to head through the alley. This shortcut would shave at least five minutes off my travel time, which was five fewer minutes I’d have to stand in the cold. I despised the cold.
I slipped out the metal door and pushed it closed behind me, making sure it clicked. A few yards to my right, a streetlamp cast a yellow beam onto the asphalt, but I turned left, toward the bus stop, and into the darkness. My eyes were slow to adjust, but the dark didn’t bother me. I’d made this shortcut dozens of times. I passed the free parking lot on the right, wishing I’d driven separately so that my hand-me-down Honda—and its wonderful heater—would’ve been waiting for me instead of the drafty city bus. Matter of fact, I wished I hadn’t come at all. George’s tardiness would’ve been the perfect excuse to change my mind. Especially when we both knew our relationship already hung in the balance, precariously leaning toward breakup before we’d even made it out tonight.
It was quiet and my boots thudded loudly against the sidewalk. I hurried to reach the bus shelter, hating the bite of the cold air, and glad that the surrounding buildings were high enough to keep the wind to a minimum. I drew my coat tighter around my neck against the chill that seeped its way into my skin, giving me goosebumps from head to toe.