Chapter 9 - The Lot Under the Fluorescents
The double doors sighed shut behind us and the night air hit hard.
After the chlorine and the heat inside, the parking lot felt like walking into a freezer. My jacket was damp at the shoulders and cuffs, and it went stiff in the cold. The fluorescents buzzed over the empty asphalt, throwing that white-blue light that made everything look washed out. Our breath showed. Ivy's teeth were chattering before we got ten steps from the building.
I kept my hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, steering her toward the truck. Her bag thumped against my leg. Her towel was still around her shoulders, and her hair was dripping down the back of her parka. She hadn't zipped it. I stopped under the light and knelt to do it for her.
"Hands up a sec," I said.
She lifted her arms. I zipped her to the chin and tucked the towel tighter. Her goggles were still around her neck, the strap twisted. I loosened it and slipped them off carefully so I wouldn't pull her hair.
"You hold these," I said, and set them in her lap once I got her in the back seat. "Don't drop them."
She nodded and curled both hands around them. That was the first time she'd held still since we'd come back for them.
Tamsin came out a few seconds after us. She hadn't put her coat on. Her cream sweater was dark in spots where the water had soaked through at the hem. She hugged her arms across her chest and looked at the lot like she was surprised how empty it was. Only three cars left. Mine, hers, and Rourke's old Civic over by the side exit.
I got Ivy buckled. The click sounded too loud. I checked the strap twice, the way I always did, and brushed water off her cheek with my thumb. She was watching the glass doors behind me. I didn't have to turn to know what she was looking at.
Rourke was there inside the lobby. I could see him in the reflection on my truck window. He'd gotten a white towel from somewhere and he was holding it to his nose and mouth with one hand. His other hand was on the door frame, like he needed it to stand straight. He wasn't coming out. He was just watching us.
Tamsin stopped a few feet from the truck. Her shoes scraped on the asphalt. She glanced at Ivy, then at me, then back at the doors.
"We can't do this here," she said quietly.
I shut Ivy's door halfway, leaving it cracked so she wouldn't feel locked in, but so she wouldn't hear every word either. The dome light stayed on and lit Tamsin's face from below. Her mascara had smudged at the corner of one eye.
"She's cold," I said. "She needs to get home."
"I know. I'll ride with you. We can talk—"
"No."
It came out flatter than I meant. Ivy shifted in her seat. I lowered my voice.
"You take your car," I said. "I take her in mine. We talk at home."
Tamsin's mouth tightened. She looked down at her hands, then up again. The cold was getting to her. She was shivering hard now.
"It meant nothing," she said. "It was stupid."
One sentence, fast, like she'd rehearsed it on the walk out. I felt something pull in my chest, not anger exactly, just that drop you get when you know you're being managed. I breathed in through my nose and let it out slow. My breath fogged between us.
"I don't believe that," I said. "Not tonight."
She stared at me. For a second I thought she was going to argue, and then she just nodded once, small. She glanced toward the lobby again. Rourke hadn't moved. The towel was still pressed to his face.
"Don't look at him," I said. "Look at me. When we get home, Ivy goes to bed. You and I stay in the kitchen till we figure out tomorrow."
Tamsin swallowed. "Tomorrow what?"
"Tomorrow I call the director. Tomorrow you don't go to practice."
She didn't answer right away. A car went by out on the county road, headlights sweeping across the lot. Ivy turned her head to follow it, then looked back down at the goggles in her lap. She was turning them over and over in her hands.
"Dad?" she said through the cracked door. "Can we go?"
"Yeah," I told her. "Give me a minute."
I turned back to Tamsin. She was crying now, quiet, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. No sobbing. Just tears and breathing.
"Keys," I said. "You got them?"
She patted her pants pocket and nodded.
"Drive slow behind me," I said. "Don't stop anywhere. Straight home."
She nodded again. She started to reach for me, then stopped when I didn't move. She dropped her hand.
I closed Ivy's door all the way and walked around to the driver's side. My hands were shaking from cold more than anything else. I had to try the door handle twice. When I got in, the cab smelled like wet towels and old coffee. I started the engine and turned the heat up full. The vents rattled.
In the rearview I could see Ivy buckled in, goggles safe in her lap, towel still up around her neck. She was looking out at her mom standing alone under the light.
Tamsin stood there a moment longer, arms wrapped tight around herself. Then she turned and walked to her car, heels clicking on the blacktop. She didn't look back at the doors. Rourke stayed where he was, a dark shape behind glass with white at his face, watching us leave.
May you like
I backed out and headed for the exit. Her headlights came on behind me a few seconds later. I kept my speed steady all the way to the road, checking the mirror to make sure she turned out after me. She did.
Neither of us sped up.
