Lyla pulls her suit jacket tightly around her as she ambles home. It's pretty cold for a November afternoon. But she loves this weather. The fall. It reminds her of football. Family. Home.
She sighs when she hears the buzzing of her Blackberry as she approaches her apartment building. She pulls the device from her bag and buries her head in her email, pausing only to pull open the door to her building, and wave at the doorman - her favorite doorman, James, who's always on duty when she comes home - before tossing the Blackberry back into her bag. Friday afternoon email from the chief? It'll keep. At least until after happy hour. She checks her watch, wondering if she can catch Sara before she takes off for the bar.
When her name rings out in the lobby, she almost doesn't hear it - she's mentally balancing wardrobe choices for this evening with hanging questions about the policy meeting she just walked out of and whether she wants to walk or cab to the bar and whether Sara will be mooning over the guy she slept with three nights ago who hasn't yet called her.
"Lyla!" There it is again. Lyla is startled - she recognizes the voice, but can't quite place it. She turns toward the couch in the lobby, where Billy Riggins - Billy Riggins? - is waving at her furiously.
"Billy?" Lyla's jaw drops. "What are you - what are you doing here?" She heads toward him, clearly stunned.
"Waiting for you," Billy replies impatiently, rising from the couch. "I've been here for two hours, and that guy over there wouldn't even let me up. What the hell?"
"That's his job, Billy," Lyla raises an eyebrow. "He's the doorman. He's not supposed to just let people -" she cuts herself off and shakes her head. "What are you doing here?" she repeats.
"Nice to see you, too, Garrity," Billy says.
"Is Tim here?" Lyla asks. Hopefully.
"No, Tim actually doesn't – he doesn't know I'm here."
"Oh," Lyla is deflated. She's spent the last two months trying her hardest not to think about Tim – the fact that he isn't calling her anymore, that he doesn't seem to have much to say when she calls him, that she misses him, misses his voice, his smile, everything about him – but it's particularly hard not think about him – them – when his brother is standing in her lobby. "I don't understand," she finally says. "What – what are you doing here?"
"Can you please me invite me up to your place? I've driven for four hours to get here, and I could really use a beer."
Lyla shakes her head. Billy Riggins. Same old, same old. "Come on up," she gestures to him, and heads to the elevators.
"Nice digs," Billy calls behind her.
"Thanks," she replies dryly. She presses the elevator door button, which immediately opens for her. She holds it open for Billy.
"What's with the suit?" he asks her as the doors close and the elevator starts to move rapidly up to her floor.
Lyla narrows her eyes. "I have a job, Billy," she snaps. "What do you think is with the suit?"
"I dunno," Billy shrugs. "I have a job, too, I just don't go around all day wearing suits," he mutters.
Lyla sighs. She doesn't respond. When the elevator doors open on the 12th floor, she walks briskly to her apartment, with Billy following behind her.
"Come on in," Lyla says, unlocking her door and dropping her keys onto a table in her entryway.
"Nice," Billy says appreciatively, looking around. "Real nice," he adds.
"I don't have beer," Lyla calls back to Billy as she heads to the kitchen.
"You don't have beer?" Billy looks incredulous. "Are you joking?"
"I have wine. And . . ." she buries her head in a cabinet. "Vodka, rum . . . gin."
"How about whiskey? Do you have whiskey?"
"I don't have whiskey, Billy."
"Fine," he shrugs. "Vodka, please."
Lyla pulls the bottle of Stoli out of her cabinet and pours him a glass over ice. She hands it to him wordlessly.
"Should store that in the freezer, yunno," Billy says, accepting the glass and wandering over to her living room, running his hand over various knick-knacks and picture frames.
He pauses at an old picture of Tim and Lyla. Tim is wearing his Dillon Panthers uniform, boldly emblazoned with the number 33. He's sweaty, disheveled, with a half-smile on his face – clearly in post-victory bliss. His arm is around Lyla; she is kissing his cheek. Laughing. They look happy. In love.
"Thanks for the tip," Lyla replies dryly. She pours herself a glass and joins him in the living room. "So I have plans tonight . . ." she trails off. "Are you just popping in for a visit here?" She pulls off her suit jacket and sits down on the sofa.
"Love the flatscreen," Billy sits down in an arm chair next to the sofa.
"Billy," Lyla says impatiently. "Did you hear me?"
"Yeah," Billy tears his eyes away from the hanging television set and looks back at Lyla.
"Right. I'm here to talk to you."
"About . . . .?"
"About what do you think?" Billy narrows his eyes.
"Is Tim okay?" Lyla asks quickly, her brow furrowing in concern.
"He's not lying in a ditch or anything," Billy leans back into his chair.
"And he doesn't know you're here . . . .?" Lyla watches him curiously, waiting for Billy to fill her in on what the hell is going on.
"Nope. No one does. I mean," he raises an eyebrow, "You're not exactly popular in my household right now - my sister-in-law hates you. And my wife - well, you know how Mindy is - if Tyra hates you, Mindy hates you. So I figured it was best not to say anything."
"So why -are- you here, then?" Lyla sighs.
"It's like a mission of . . . what are those called? A mission of mercy."
"What are you talking about, Billy?" Lyla sighs again. This is getting really annoying.
"Garrity," Billy sighs, "I'm here on Timmy's behalf. My little brother, Tim. Remember him? Your old boyfriend? The guy in that picture over there?"
"Billy, of course I - what are you - I don't even know how to respond to that," she snaps. "What are you suggesting here?"
"I'm suggesting, Lyla, that Tim is miserable without you," Billy says. "He's . . . he's fucking miserable."
"He doesn't want to talk to me, Billy," Lyla looks away. "I call him, and he doesn't . . . ." she trails off.
"You messed with his head, Lyla. You shouldn't have come back to town this summer if you were just gonna mess with his head and . . . take off again."
"Is that what you think? Is that what you think I did?" Lyla asks. Her eyes are wide. Incredulous.
"Yeah, that is what I think you did. I know that Tim - I know that he wanted to come here with you, Garrity. I also know that you turned him down."
"Do you have any idea why I turned him down?" Lyla narrows her eyes. "I mean, seriously, Billy, why is it - why are you getting involved in this? You have no - you have no idea what you're talking about," she says. Defensively.
"Lyla, cut the mightier-than-thou bull shit with me, okay?" Billy takes a swig of the vodka. "I know you," he says plainly. "I also know my little brother. I know that he loves you and wants to be with you. I also know that you claim to love him, but yet, you're here, in your . . . fancy apartment with your flatscreen TV and your suits," he splutters, "while he's back home, missing you."
"My fancy apartment and my . . . suits?" Lyla raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"See, this is what I'm talking about. You just - you can't even let me - you just get all obnoxious."
"I'm obnoxious?" Lyla snaps. "I'm obnoxious? You walk into my apartment, make fun of me, and imply that I don't give two shits about Tim. And I'm the obnoxious one," Lyla smirks. "This just . . . I don't even have the words for -"
"Garrity, cut the crap. I don't give a shit what you think about me. I'm not tryin' to date you. But Timmy? He loves you. For some insane reason, he is completely, ridiculously in love with you. That kid has spent half his life chasing you, and you just keep . . . ." he trails off, shaking his head in frustration.
"You have no clue what's going on with us, Billy; you don't understand what's -"
"I don't understand?" Billy interrupts her. "Who do you think you're talking to here, Lyla? I understand everything - I've been here for everything. For -everything,-" Billy slams his glass down on the coffee table in frustration; Lyla jumps slightly. "I was here when he . . . when he got punched out by his -best friend- for you, because of you - remember that? And when he got his truck windows bashed in by his teammates? And how about when he protected you – from everyone – when you lost every superficial cheerleader friend you had. Remember that? How about when your dad - your drunk-ass dad - made a fool out of himself in front of everyone after your mom left him - who carried his ass home?"
Lyla looks away from Billy. She chews on her lip. Silently.
"You treated him like some -mistake- you made, and he was loyal to you anyway. When your dad trashed your college fund – remember that? He took you in – took you into our house, our family. He loved you. He took care of you. I mean, that kid has – he's stopped drinking for you, he's gone to church for you, dragged -me- to church for you. He even went to college for you - okay, so it didn't last - but he did it for -you.- To be better for you, to be someone that was -worthy- of you," he spits out. "I know he's not perfect, I know he's made mistakes, I get that y'all have your differences. But he loves you. He loves you like he's never loved anyone. Enough to give up -" he's interrupted by a ringing phone; they both ignore it. "To give up everything," Billy continues angrily. "After -four years- . . . even though you abandoned him - he still loved you enough to come to Austin for you. And you . . . said no?" Billy shakes his head in wonderment. "And now you wonder why he doesn't want to shoot the shit on the phone? I don't get it, Lyla. Do you love him or not?"
Lyla swallows. Hard. "I do," she says quietly. "I love him. But - you don't understand; you don't . . . ."
"Don't, Garrity. I know my brother. I know what's gone down between you, how he feels about you. I know that if you said the word, he'd be here tomorrow morning."
"I wanted . . . I wanted to give him the chance to . . . ." she trails off, shaking her head. She's so uncertain of everything now. She did the right thing, didn't she? She did it for him. For both of them. Why can't Billy see that?
"Yeah, right," Billy says dismissively. "However you're justifying this to yourself, I think it's crap. It's crap that you gave him hope again just to leave him with a gaping fucking hole in his heart. Again. It's crap that you didn't show up for -four years-, that you couldn't even be bothered to visit the guy you claimed to love so fucking much in prison. It's crap that he's always been there for you, -always- been there for you when you needed him, and that you weren't there for him when he needed you most. That you aren't there for him right now. It's crap, Lyla."
Lyla stares at Billy silently for a minute. "I -" she starts and stops. "I - I do love him, Billy. You have to know that, right? You know that, right?" she asks. Desperately. "I thought I was . . . I thought I was doing the right thing - what he - I thought - his house, his . . . land, his . . . ." she trails off.
"Fuck his house and his land," Billy says angrily. "Do you want him or don't you? 'Cause if you do, get off your fucking ass and go get him. And if you don't, stop with the noble 'I'm doing it for him' shit 'cause you're not doin' it for anyone but yourself."
Lyla is stunned. She can't speak. The phone is ringing again. She gets up slowly and picks it up. It's Sara. "I can't right now," she says quietly. Her voice is shaking. "I'm not coming. Can you . . . yeah, just . . . I'm fine. Just go without me, please." She pauses and replaces the phone. She stands there, with her back to Billy for another moment, trying to regain her composure.
Finally, she turns around to face him. "Do you . . . do you want me in his life, Billy?" she shakes her head. "It seems like you . . . like you hate me."
"I don't hate you, Lyla," Billy says. "I hate that you broke Timmy's heart. But I don't hate you. I think you . . . I think you were - to be honest - I think you were actually pretty great for Tim. When you were with him. He never . . . never gave a shit about anything before you. You know?" he smiles. Sadly. "He never - I mean, we didn't have parents, yunno? I did the best that I could . . . ." he trails off.
"I know you did," she says quietly.
"With you," Billy shakes his head, "With you, he actually started to . . . give a shit about himself, you know? He just . . . I mean, you and I both know he was always popular. Too popular," he smiles sadly, "He didn't . . . give a shit about anything. Drinking, football, all the rally girls - it was all . . . it was all a way to pass the time, to not have to try at something, not have to worry about failing. When he fell in love with you, he - I dunno - he started to care. You expected things from him. Big things. And he . . . he wanted to live up to that. For the first time. That's something. That means a lot."
Lyla nods. She bites her lip, trying to keep herself from tearing up. "I loved him. So much," she whispers.
"I know," Billy says. "I know that. I know you did. Do you still? After - after everything that's happened?"
"Yes, Billy," Lyla says. "This isn't about . . . that."
"No?" Billy raises an eyebrow. "Not even just a little bit? I mean, Tim is about as far from Bryan whatever-his-name-was as you can get."
Lyla sighs. "You're wrong, Billy. About me. About what I want. Who I am."
"You don't care that Tim went to prison?"
"Of course I care," Lyla replies shortly. "-Of course- I care. I'm - it makes me angry. It makes me furious. And sad. That he - that he threw away his - what could have been his future . . . for what? Some land?" Lyla sighs. "But that's not who he is . . . . Stepping up for you, for your family," she looks up at Billy, "that's who he is."
"You know," Billy says slowly. Matter-of-factly. He looks away.
Lyla bites her lip. She nods. "I don't . . . look, I'm in no position to pass judgment here. I've done plenty of things in life – and thanks for reminding me some of them," she smiles wryly, "that I'm not proud of." She pauses. She looks down at her hands and plays with a ring on her finger.
"You know," she starts to say something, then hesitates; Billy looks at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue - "Tim and I - we fell apart the moment he left San Antonio State. When we said goodbye - when I came home that last time . . . freshman year . . . I really thought that was it, you know? I didn't want . . . I don't know," she breaks off, shaking her head. "I didn't see a way for us. To make it," she looks back up at him.
Billy hangs his head, nodding.
"The chop shop, prison, everything . . . everything after that, it was just . . . ." she trails off again, shaking her head. "He did what he needed to do for you, Billy. He's Tim. He's the most loyal person I've ever known," she says quietly. "Please don't think I've forgotten that. Or need to be reminded why I fell in love with him. Why I love him now . . . . And I do," she looks back at him. "I do love him, Billy."
Billy looks at her. His expression has softened. "I can't believe we're sitting here trying to figure out Tim's life for him. Still," he says quietly.
Lyla smiles and shakes her head. "I can't believe we're still fighting about it."
Billy laughs. "Tell me about it."
They sit in silence for a minute.
Finally, Billy rises. "I should go, Garrity. I've said what I came here to say, and . . . Mindy's gonna flip if I don't get my ass home - real quick. Or as quick as I can make a four-hour trip that she doesn't know about," he says.
"Right," Lyla nods. "Of course." She gets up, too, following him to the door. "I um - thank you, Billy. Thanks for . . . coming. To talk to me, I mean, I know it couldn't have been easy."
"Thanks for listening," Billy says. "Probably wasn't any easier," he says quietly, sticking his hands in his pockets. He hesitates, unsure of what to do. Finally, he gives Lyla an awkward hug. More of a quick back pat than a hug. But it's a start.
"Goodbye, Lyla," he says as Lyla opens the door for him.
"Take care, Billy," Lyla says, watching him walk to the elevator.
She closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, leaning against the door. She looks around - at the glasses on the coffee table, her suit jacket discarded against the sofa.
She sighs, wandering back over to the living room, and sinking back down onto the sofa. She puts her head in her hands.
She stays that way for what seems like hours, just sitting there, listening to the noise of a busy Friday night in Austin. The life that's going on outside her windows. Blackberry messages, happy hours, dinners. Not a single high school football game worthy of shutting down an entire town. Devil Town. The place she's from. Her home.
Finally, she gets up and heads to her bedroom. She pulls an overnight bag out of her closet and goes to work. It takes her only a few minutes to throw together a sloppily-packed bag - a record, Tim would be proud - and to race out the door, down to her parking garage.
When she pulls out of her garage, she weaves through heavy downtown Austin traffic, following signs to the highway. Out of Austin. West. She knows this road well. The road home.