Page 135 of Something Like Winter
When Tim went back downstairs, he noticed a pungent smell in the air, like burning plastic. And Ryan wasn’t alone. Stephen wasn’t with him, thank god, but another of his friends was. He and Ryan were giggling incessantly, even when Tim walked in the room.
“What?” Ryan challenged.
“What are you doing?” This caused a fit of laughter. “Seriously, what are you smoking?”
“Pot,” Ryan said.
Tim had smoked enough to know what marijuana smelled like. He marched over to the coffee table where a glass pipe leaned on its side.
“Are you fucking kidding me? What is this, crack?”
Tim grabbed the pipe and headed for the kitchen. Ryan chased him, pulling on his arm. “Give it back! It’s not yours!”
Tim threw the pipe in the trashcan with enough force that it shattered against the champagne bottle. When Ryan saw this, he started screaming shrilly, like a child throwing a tantrum. Tim wanted to backhand him, but instead he grabbed him by the arms and started shaking him.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill yourself? Huh? Fucking answer me!”
Tim let go of him in disgust. Ryan slumped to the floor in a sobbing heap. This was too much! He had to get out of here. Now.
“I’m leaving,” Tim said. “When I get back, your friend better be gone and you better be sober.”
Ryan glared at him. “Where are you going?”
“Out. Alone.”
Tim whistled for Chinchilla—not wanting to leave her alone with someone on crack—and loaded her into the car. Then he went back in for a blanket and one of her favorite bones. She would need to crash in the backseat for an hour, if tickets were still available at the Twilight Theater box office. Tim had his own dragon to chase, and right now he needed a fix.
* * * * *
Busted. So very busted. Tim was at his third showing ofCon Man’s Heart.During the previous show, the night he had fought with Ryan, he was sure Ben had noticed him. He certainly kept looking in his direction, but by the time the lights went up, Tim was already gone, not wanting to leave Chinchilla alone so long.
During tonight’s show, Ben was staring in his direction so intently that one of the other actors had to prompt him. Tim couldn’t help grinning. Nothing like a ghost from the past to make you miss a line. The smile was his first in days. Nothing Tim said or did made a difference anymore. Ryan kept partying, seemingly set on self-destruction. All Tim could do was steer clear.
After losing himself in the show as much as possible, Tim left the theater when Ben’s last scene was over. He checked his phone once he was on the street, always expecting the worst. This time it came in the form of text messages.
i know were u r
From Ryan, of course. But he couldn’t really know, could he?
con mans hart? how appropriate
Tim glanced around, expecting to see Ryan’s accusing glare. The play was over now, people leaving the theater, but he didn’t see Ryan. When were these messages sent? He checked the last one and sighed.
hows benjamin?
Tim dialed Ryan’s phone, disconnecting when he got his voicemail and trying a few more times before giving up. This relationship was a nightmare, a mess he couldn’t crawl free from without Ryan doing something stupid. Ben was Ryan’s opposite. Giving instead of selfish, reliable and steadfast instead of unpredictable and insane.
Tim could use his help now, ask Ben what he would do if he were foolish enough to get in such a situation. He realized after a second that he could. Ben was just yards away, probably in a dressing room ungluing his beard this very moment. Tim could pop in, say hello, and ask for some quick advice. Chances were, Ben wouldn’t even speak to him. But Tim wanted to try.
He turned around and made his way to the back of the theater, where he imagined a metal door guarded by bouncers, a flock of fans desperate for a glimpse of the star. The door was there, but Tim was alone. Feeling like an idiot, he pounded on the door a few times until a man with thinning hair and trimmed beard—this one real—opened it.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Ben. I’m an old friend of his.”
“Oh.” The man looked taken aback. “Well, he’s already in reception talking to someone. If you go around front again—” He checked his watch. “Actually, the doors might be locked by now. Um. Follow me.”
The man led Tim through the theater, a strange world full of hallways, scenery pieces, and props, but he barely paid any attention. This was a terrible idea. He knew he looked horrible. Not only was he out of shape, but he hadn’t bothered to shave this morning, and lord knew he hadn’t slept much recently. He could at least chew some gum to hide the smell of beer on his breath. But it was too late. The man opened a door to the familiar reception room and bar.
