……………………………….Dallas
I headed to the twilight bar at my old hotel, felt welcomed in it's shadows, caressed by the different hues of the alcohol.
I slid onto the leather bar stool, ran a shaky hand through my hair. All the choices, I couldn't decide. Martini? Screwdriver? Bourbon and water? Rum and coke? Harvey Wallbanger? Zombie? Suffering Bastard? Long Island Iced Tea? The names ran through my head, a soft deadening litany. Candy pink cosmopolitan?
Ah, fuck it.
"Martini, two olives,"
I let out a shaky sigh, watched the bartender's shiny black vest flash with the muted light, watched the gin and vermouth splash into my glass. Olives. Perfect.
I sipped, so happy to be drinking I couldn't quite be upset about the happiness, and I caught a glimpse of my haggard face in the mirror behind the bar.
It was like Johnny and I had switched places. He was more or less okay and I was fucked up, every turn a wrong turn, every decision leading to failure.
"Rum and coke," a familiar voice said next to me. I turned, saw the shock white of Dallas Winston's hair, and flinched as he slapped the money down on the bar.
"Dallas," I said, my actual level of surprise at seeing him not reflected in my voice at all.
He got his drink and headed to a table. I followed.
"Haven't seen you in awhile," I said. He nodded and drank half his drink in one long swallow. Licked his lips. Drummed his fingers on the table.
"I came here cause Darry said you'd come here," he said finally, boring into me with those weird light blue eyes. I was halfway through my own drink, watched Dallas shift in his chair, fiddle with the napkin. Whatever was wrong I was fairly certain I couldn't be of help, couldn't think why he'd sought me out.
"Look, uh, how's Johnny?" This question, always this. Dallas' blond eyebrows knitted in consternation and I got it. He thought Johnny was worse.
"He's fine, I mean, he's better…" Dallas glanced sidelong toward the doors then back to me.
"I was worried, I thought I was too hard on him. Shoot, I shouldn't have yelled at him like that. It ain't like…" He lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag. Left me to imagine the end of his sentence.
"Dallas, Johnny's better. They even said he'll be able to leave the hospital soon,"
He finished his drink and only looked mildly reassured.
………………………………..Trajectory
My trajectory had become my motel, the Curtis house, Clyde's temporary office, and the twilight bar. I traveled like a small planet this orbit. Did I imagine the growing suspicions of the Curtis brothers, in their narrowed eyes a growing belief that I couldn't save Johnny? Did I imagine a thinly veiled disapproval from Clyde, his unwillingness to voice his concerns? Perhaps. Reality had become a bit subjective. Only with Johnny did I feel I was doing the right thing. I guess that's all that mattered.
As he got better, and he did, court loomed. His eyes lost that glazed look. His voice, still quiet, lost that flatness. His parents' infrequent visits still upset him, but not as they had. He was able to handle it somewhat. He seemed to take things one day at a time, and when I visited I looked at him with awe and envy. I felt like I'd already lived the entire trial and all its myriad of possible outcomes so many times I was dizzy, and felt 127 instead of 27.
