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“Why did we break up, Petra?” Dre asked after a long silence.
Petra turned to face them. “You know why. Do you really want to rehash all that?”
“I do. But you’re right—I do know why. I remember every word you said. I’m unreliable. I’m impulsive. Self-destructive, as I recall. I’m terrible with money. And I’m too angry. Did I leave anything off the list?”
They had, in fact. But Petra didn’t want to put a match to this oil spill, so she shook her head. “That’s enough.”
“And you’re right. I am all those things. But every fucking one of them also describes your new twink boyfriend, Petra. In just a few weeks, I’ve seen that. All the things you hate about me, you apparently love in him. You have no idea what that feels like, to watch the woman you love love somebody else for the very same reasons she broke your heart.”
“That’s crazy. Jake’s not like any of that.”
Was he? Unreliable? He’d bailed on her twice at the beginning, so ... okay. But not since. Since they’d had their date, he’d been steady. On this run, he’d texted her throughout the day, just to check in. That was the opposite of unreliable.
Impulsive? Okay, yes. He could be impulsive. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, and she hadn’t seen the kind of scary impulsivity Dre was capable of.
Self-destructive? He’d told her his father had called him self-destructive, but Petra hadn’t know him long enough to have seen it for herself—if she would ever see it. And his father had hurt him, saying that.
Terrible with money? He had a big, expensive truck, and a big, expensive bike, but she’d seen no sign that those were purchases beyond his budget. They probably were beyond the means of a man who worked in a gas station, but she had no idea how much he made doing Bull things.
Too angry? No. He’d had been in a fight the night they’d met, and he’d punched that guy who’d moved on her and scared her at the Dawghouse, but otherwise, Jake was quiet. With her, he was gentle.
She’d noted the difference between his public and private selves. In public, he wore a ... well,personawas the best word she could think of. The swagger and attitude. But in private, he was deeply attentive. Quiet. Curious. And vulnerable, though he didn’t like that about himself.
All Dre knew was the swagger, because they weren’t interested in knowing more. “You don’t know him, Dre. You only see the surface.”
“And you’re gonna tell me there’s more to him than that.”
“Yes. He’s not like any of the things you say.”
“Right.” They drew the word out and packed it full of contempt.
All at once, Petra was over it. She didn’t want to lose Dre, but right now Dre was being impossible, and Petra had no slack left in her tether. What was happening to her father was too, too huge and terrifying and painful. It overwhelmed her compassion for her damaged best friend.
She had been there for Dre for years. Taking care of them. Covering their debts when they couldn’t. Supporting them as they worked to overcome the massive trauma of growing up in an actual cult, being subjected to the cult version of conversion ‘camp’ and tortured physically and psychologically to try to force them to be Andrea and not Dre.
She’d given them a home. A job, and an offer to be herpartner, toownpart of the bar. She had been there for Dre every step of the way. She loved them; she simply could not be their lover.
There was, among all the reasons Dre had listed for their breakup, one other. And it was a fundamental difference between Dre and Jake. Any other similarities, imagined or real, paled beside it.
“Jake has never hurt me, Dre. He doesn’t have the pathological fury you have. I know where your rage comes from, and it’s always broken my heart. It made me tolerate things I never should have. I should have ended things between us the very first time, but I hurt for you, so I let you hurt me.”
Petra’s voice broke, and she paused, looking up at her friend. Dre’s expression was stony, impenetrable, and Petra understood that she was no longer looking at a friend.
Oh god, she couldn’t keep having this day. She wanted Jake to be here now. She wanted to go home with him and hide in bed.
But that wasn’t possible, and she had more to say, so she screwed up her resolve, settled her heart, and said it.
“Jake has never hit me, or pushed me, or thrown anything at me. He’s never called me a cunt, never destroyed things I love. He’s never forced himself on me. He puts himself between me and harm, he doesn’t cause it. That’s the difference.”
Dre stared silently. Petra had no more to say, but she didn’t break eye contact.
Finally, they said, “Anything that’s still upstairs, you can have, or sell, or fuck, burn it for all I care.”
They turned and walked away.
Petra watched them go. When the door to the back swung closed, she dropped into the armchair at her side and stared up at Gertrude Stein, as painted by Pablo Picasso.
Dre had given her the print, and Petra had found the elaborate frame at an estate sale. This bar had been Dre’s vision as much as Petra’s.
