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Tiffany crossed her arms and surveyed the scene. “So this is what you’ve been doing all day?” she asked. “Getting high and eating pizza?”
“I’m not high,” I said. “But I am eating pizza.”
Gary giggled. “I don’t know why I’m laughing,” he said. “He really didn’t smoke.”
“We made another sale today,” I told her. After moving our coffee table into its new owner’s house this afternoon, a neighbor of his had asked for an armoire. I hadn’t known what the fuck that was, but I’d said yes right away. I needed the money. “We’ve been working on it all afternoon.”
“Oh.”
“Can I get you something to drink, Tiff?” Gary asked.
“You’ve been smoking for an hour straight,” I told him. “I don’t think you could move if you tried.”
It was clear Gary wasn’t planning on doing even that. I got up from the couch. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
She shifted feet. “Sure. Can I see the new piece?”
“Not much to see, but sure.” I took Tiffany to Gary’s small backyard. The tarp he and I had laid out covered the whole patch of grass. “Don’t step on this,” I said, bending over to fold back the corners. “There are nails and shit.”
She looked over the large box we’d moved against the fence. “You already did all that?”
“It wasn’t too hard. The devil’s in the details.” I winked at her, piling wood off to one side of the lawn. When she didn’t smile, I asked, “How was work?”
“Fine.”
“You in a mood or what?”
“I don’t know.”
I topped a can of stain. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“They filled that assistant manager job I told you about.”
“Ah. Fuck.” I pulled Gary’s work bench up and sat, my elbows on my knees. “Come here. Sit.”
“It’s dirty.”
Tiffany hadn’t been born in makeup and heels. She’d built those things up around herself for a reason. She was, surprisingly, more fragile than Lake. When we went out to eat, she’d flirt with male waiters and bartenders. Not to upset me, but because it was the only way she knew how to communicate with men. This kind of stuff, this no-bullshit face to face, was harder for her.
I patted my lap. “Then sit on me.”
I was dirty, too, but she perched on my knee. I took her little black purse out of her hands to stop her from fidgeting with it and set it on the ground.
“That’s Prada,” she said.
“Don’t know what Prada is and don’t care. It’s a fucking purse.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled, put an arm around my neck, and kissed my cheek. She wasn’t ever afraid to just touch me. Sometimes it annoyed me, sometimes it was welcome, but if she felt it, she did it, and I liked that. She smelled like a field of flowers after I’d spent too much time around paint cans, pot, and freshly sawed wood.
“There’ll be other opportunities,” I said.
“I know, but . . . it just sucks to keep getting passed up.”
“So how about that community college application that’s been sitting on the counter for a month?”
“It might be too late for fall semester,” she said. “I think I missed the deadline.”
“I’ll help you,” I said. “We’ll get the application in somehow if that’s what you want. Is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should focus more on the modeling. I know it’s been a while since I got anything, but it’s because I’ve let Nordstrom get in the way.” She played with the collar of my t-shirt. “I mean, if I start school on top of work, I’ll barely have any free time. What if my agent wants me to run to a go-see and I miss the call because I’m in class?”
I rubbed my forehead. Sometimes, I was certain, she was sabotaging herself. She wanted to be the victim so her dad would come in and save her. No matter what success she found, it’d probably never be enough for him, so why not do the opposite? “If you want it, Tiff, you have to be the one to make it work.”
“I don’t know if I do.”
“That’s fine, but that goes for modeling, too. You can’t just sit back and hope. You have to do the work, or you have to be okay knowing it’s going to take you longer to work your way up at the store, or modeling, or whatever. There might be some positions you can’t get without a degree.”
She kept her eyes down. “Maybe I’m not cut out for school, though.”
“College isn’t like high school. You get to learn about stuff you actually care about. Hell, you could go to fashion school and make your own damn Prado bag if you want.”
That got me a smile. “It’s Prada.”
“Whatever.”
She made a face. “Crap. To top it all off, we have Lake’s birthday dinner tonight. I wanted to have good news to share, but I don’t.”
