It's 7:03 a.m. Lyla can't believe he's still here, sleeping, snoring soundly next to her. She can't believe she let him - whatever. She doesn't want to think about now, she can't think about this now. She feels as if a truck has run over her. Her throat is dry, her face feels tight, her head is pounding. I've got to quit the Stoli. She rolls out of bed slowly, quietly, and grabs her robe, tying it tightly around her as she heads for the bathroom. Once inside, she closes the door quietly, and fumbles around, looking for Advil, Tylenol, aspirin - anything that will ease this god-awful hangover.
She flips on the light and is taken aback at the reflection she sees in the mirror. Her face is red, splotchy, puffy. She looks like a girl who's spent too much time crying, drinking, too little time sleeping. She splashes some water on her face and finds the Advil. Thank god. She downs four of them simultaneously - who's ever died of an Advil overdose, anyway? - and drinks some water.
She puts a ponytail holder in her hair, runs a toothbrush through her mouth, and tiptoes out into the hallway, shutting the door to her bedroom. Hopefully Rancher Bob - or Bill or Jack - or whatever his name is - will wake up soon and get the hell out of here.
She racks her brain, trying to remember when her dad is supposed to be home. He's in Odessa trying to line up a third Garrity Motors location. Her dad - the Carmax of West Texas. She sighs - he probably won't be home until later this afternoon anyway, plenty of time to get Rancher Whatever-His-Name-Is out of the house. She and Tim had plenty of practice with this routine. Buddy Garrity isn't exactly the most observant dad to ever oversee a teenage daughter.
Lyla cracks a smile - painful - as she recalls the almost comical lack of awareness her dad possessed during the pendency of her relationship with Tim. She remembers how angry her father was when she, then a high school senior, had moved into the Riggins house after a particularly horrid fight over college money. As if she and Tim hadn't already been spending most of their nights in the same bed.
Lyla yawns and puts on a pot of coffee. She tries to block out the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, the unpleasant feeling of a stranger asleep in her bedroom while she sits out here, trying to figure out what the hell she's going to do with the rest of her life. Graduating from a great college, having an impressive job offer, being at the precipice of adulthood - it's not supposed to feel this shitty, is it?
She's startled by a quiet knock at the front door. Her father?, she furrows her brow trying to remember what he'd said to her before he left the house two days ago. Why the hell would he be knocking anyway? At 7-something in the morning? She approaches the door slowly, with trepidation. Do axe murderers knock on the door? Should I be looking for a baseball bat or something? One of dad's old football trophies, maybe? The knock becomes more insistent. Lyla panics as she reaches the door and sees who it is.
Fuck. Shit. Seriously? Has he ever been up at 7 a.m. - voluntarily? Outside of football season? Too late to go back to her bedroom now. She opens the door. He is standing there, looking down at her, smiling. Shyly. Sheepishly. Apologetically.
"Hi," he says softly. He looks tired but happy. At peace.
"Hi," she replies softly. She wants to throw her arms around him, to tell him she loves him insanely and is willing to give up the job in Austin, just to feel his arms around her again and have him tell her that he loves her, that he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. She doesn't. She's frozen.
"Can I come in?" he asks.
"Yeah, yes, of course," she stammers, stepping aside. "What are you - I mean, what are you doing here so early? I thought you'd still be in New Jersey."
"Took the red-eye," Tim replies, throwing himself down on the living room couch. "Came straight here. To see you," he looks up at her.
Lyla smiles; she can't help herself. She loves this man. Fuck Austin. "Thank you," she murmurs as she sits down next to him. She puts her head on his shoulder. She could stay this way forever.
Except she can't. Because there's a rancher - a cowboy - some random guy in the bedroom back there. "Tim - I, um," she lifts her head off of his shoulder and looks down at her hands. "I need to - there's - I just had sex with someone," she blurts out. Like a band-aid.
Tim is silent for a moment. She sees that he can't quite comprehend what she just said. Finally, he rises, shaking his head as if to ward off her words. "What did you just say?"
Lyla jumps to her feet. She doesn't want him to leave. She puts her hand on his arm. "I - it was so - I can't even - I'm sorry, it was so stupid. I just - I don't even know what to say. I didn't expect you. Now. I mean, this morning."
"Is he here?" Tim's eyes widen as the realization dawns on him of what his girlfriend - ex-girlfriend? - is telling him. Right now in this moment. "He's here right now?" Tim's voice rises. He gives her a careful once-over for the first time since he walked in - the robe, the messy hair, the bloodshot eyes. "Did you seriously just have sex with someone here? Here?" his voice is rough, angry. He runs a hand through his hair. He's not sure what to do next; he's not sure about anything, really.
"I didn't - I mean, I did - last night, he's - I don't know why he's still here, he wouldn't leave, and I -"
Tim's eyes are wide open now. "Are you blaming the -" he gestures to her bedroom. "The - whoever he is back there? Who is he?" his eyes bore into hers.
"I don't know," Lyla looks away from him, "I don't know - some guy - some guy I met last night at the bar - at Smitty's - at your bar."
Tim takes a deep breath. He can't think right now. His head is spinning.
"Tim, I'm sorry, I'm - I don't even - you broke up with me; I can't think straight right now, it was so stupid -"
"I broke up with you?" Tim is dumbstruck. "I don't even -" he's shaking his head. "I came here - I came here to tell you - to talk to you about. . . ." he trails off. He can't think right now. He can't be here.
"What, Tim? What?" Lyla is pleading with him. "I'm sorry. Please?"
Tim starts backing away her, heading toward the door. "I can't be here right now. I have to - I need to - I need to be away right now."
"Tim - don't go, please don't go," Lyla follows him to the door and reaches out to him. She doesn't care that she's begging. "Please. You wanted to talk. I want to talk, too. About Austin. I've been doing so much thinking about it, about this. I don't -"
"Don't," Tim is shaking his head, pulling away from her. "Please. Just. Not now. Please?" he looks back at her once, briefly, as he opens the door and steps out. She can see the deep hurt reflected in his beautiful green eyes. She's hurt him. Badly. She bites her lip. Please, she wants to say. Please. But she can't. He's asking her to back off. She has to.
