MY WRITING

SHORT FICTION

CASSIE’S VALENTINE

Saturday night. My favorite time of the week. Man, I can’t wait for Billy to pick me up and take me out for some tequila shots and sweaty dancing. Friends with benefits, that’s what Billy says we are. Meaning sometimes we end up in bed. But no strings. Me, I’m pushing forty, but not dead yet.
I’ve been putting in sixteen-hour days for the past two years, getting my B and B fixed up. Used to be our B and B. Jake, my ex, convinced me that buying a run-down motel in the Joshua Tree desert would save our marriage. Then he ran off with that waitress from the health food café. Some save that was.
Well, I showed him. Picked out everything here, from the paint to the turtle soap dishes in each guest room. Spent hours stripping wallpaper, nailing up desert art. Made this place into a thing of beauty. Turned out to be the best divorce therapy ever.
So, where’s Billy? I’m ready for my night out.
I duck into the bathroom, check myself out in the mirror one last time. Loving the blonde streaks I’ve added. Kind of a punk look. Barb-wire tattoo on my bare shoulder. Got that a month ago. Don’t mess with this gal.
Ding dong. Billy finally. Why is he ringing the doorbell? Usually just comes right in. I pull the heavy oak door open. Oh damn. Not Billy. Two men with luggage. Must be the last of my weekend guests. They’d called to say they got stuck in LA traffic. Duh. What do you expect when you leave the city on a Saturday afternoon heading out to the desert? A fast cruise, just you and Jack Palance riding high into the sunset? No way.
I plaster on my hostess smile. I know what’s coming. Listen to them complain about all the traffic, how long it took to get here. Blah blah blah. Then the questions. Did you decorate this yourself? What is there to do out here in Joshua Tree? Can you tell us some good places to hike? Good places to eat?
Sometimes I just want to shout: “Read the damn guide book. I’m not your mother.” So tired of taking care of everyone. No one takes care of me anymore. And I’m doing just fine. Well, most of the time.
“Howdy. You must be Cassie. I’m Tyler.” This guy towers over me, looks like an up-ended tree stump. Gray straggly hair pulled back in a sad pony tail. Fat suspenders holding up jeans below his chamois shirt. A lump of a man.
“Yes, c’mon in.” I start into the living room, but the other guy stops me, puts his hand on my arm.
“I’m Karl,” he tells me.
Like I need to know this. He’s short, real skinny with a groomed salt-and-peppered beard. Are they a couple? I’m curious but don’t say anything as I lead them inside.
“Gosh, this place is real pretty.” Karl makes eye contact. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
He walks over to the stone fireplace and touches the silver Mexican crosses I’ve nailed up. What does he think? I hired Martha Stewart to be my personal decorator? Like I have that kind of money. Men can be such idiots. At least with Billy, I can count on a fun drinking partner and good sex. Works for me. Relationships are over-rated.
My cell phone buzzes. Billy calling to ask where I am. He’s been waiting for me at the honkytonk bar up the road. Oops. I thought he was picking me up. Then he offers to come and get me. Good, ‘cause I plan on getting pretty drunk tonight.
“Are you a scotch drinker?” Tyler pulls an unopened bottle out of his duffel. “It’s single malt.” He waves the bottle. “Brought back from Scotland.”
Never turn down a free drink. Maybe it will take the edge off. Tomorrow, as it happens, is Valentine’s Day. Also my anniversary. Seven long years ago, my ex and I figured we’d drive all night and land in Las Vegas just in time for sunrise. Got married in an Elvis Chapel, complete with a pompadoured preacher. Should have known better. Elvis wasn’t exactly a great role model for marriage.
“Sure,” I tell Tyler. “Why not?”
I bring out three shot glasses, but he insists we drink the Scottish way. Whatever. Eight-ounce glasses, one ice cube. He pours in a good splash, then one ounce of water. Says some Scottish version of “Cheers.” Down the hatch. Damn. Burns all the way. Nice.
“So, Cassie, tell us about you.” Tyler pours himself another shot. “How’d you end up here?” Gives me a nod and gulps his drink. Is he hitting on me? Jesus, just another dirty old man.
“Well, it’s a long story.” I’m sick of doing this with every new guest. Better change the subject. Get him to talk about himself. That usually works. “How about you two?”
“Hmm…let’s see…where to start?” Karl reaches for the bottle of Scotch, pours himself a drink. He leans back on the couch and smiles at Tyler. His eyes are bloodshot. Probably started drinking on the way out here.
“Tyler and I met almost thirty years ago.” He swallows the Scotch.
Oh, great. Now I have to listen to The World’s Greatest Love Story. I wish Billy would hurry up. I hold my glass up and motion to Karl to pour me another one. Might as well make it worth the wait. I run a hand through my hair and watch Karl pour my drink. I sip it this time and let him tell his story. The Scotch’s fire spreads its glow.
Karl tells me they met in college. Went separate ways but meet up every so often for vacations. Huh? What is this, Brokeback Mountain? I mean, I don’t care if they’re gay. Whatever. Just kind of a sappy story. I glance at Tyler. His cheeks flush, and he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.
Karl sighs and puts down his glass. His fingers tremble. No, his whole body is shaking. Oh my god, he’s crying. What the hell? Where’s Billy? Get me out of this drama. I just want to have a fun night out.
Tyler comes back in and walks over to Karl. He sits down next to him on the couch, and puts his big tree limb of an arm around Karl’s shoulder.
“Sorry about all this, Cassie.” Tyler holds on tight to Karl, gives him a squeeze. “Must be the Scotch.” He smiles at me the way my dog does when she’s left a puddle on the rug.
“You see, Karl and I made this promise to spend the weekend out here together. Tomorrow will be the first Valentine’s Day since Karl’s wife died last year.”
Karl looks up, his cheeks wet. My hand tightens around the glass of Scotch. I can’t breathe. Damn it. I don’t want to care. Don’t want to feel his pain.
“Oh. I’m…so…sorry,” I stammer. My eyes hurt. Please stop. I don’t want to hear any more. But Tyler goes on.
“I lost my own wife five years ago.” His cheeks glisten. He won’t let go of Karl. Now I’m crying too.
“So Karl and I decided we shouldn’t spend this Valentine’s Day alone. We’d rather be with each other.” He hugs Karl again. “That’s what good friends do.”
I can’t seem to stop crying. I rub my tattooed shoulder, embarrassed. No one says anything for a while. But somehow I feel so close to Karl and Tyler. Maybe Billy won’t show. I just want to stay here, full of scotch, broken open by the love of strangers.