Page 48 of Dirty Diana
He picks up on the third ring.
“Did I wake you?” I ask.
“I’m up,” Barry lies. “Or I should be. Too much karaoke last night. Oh my god, you were right, I invited Rod and he said yes and guess who has the voice of an angel?”
I laugh for what feels like the first time in days. “I’m sorry to call so early. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Outside your house.”
“Easy there, stalker.”
I laugh again.
“Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming down.”
When Barry comes outside, I’m standing on his front lawn. He pulls a baseball cap down low over his bedhead curls, then adjusts his hoodie like he’s on the staff of an English estate and the lord of the manor has just pulled up. He’s wearing his signature white platform sneakers, unlaced. His face falls when he sees my red, swollen eyes. He doesn’t need to ask, he just opens his arms and I fall into them.
“What a dick,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a total, complete idiot.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say. Sniffling. “We tried?”
Barry looks somewhere over my left shoulder, like he wants to say more, but stops short. “What’s next?” he asks hopefully.
“I hear Dallas is all the rage.” I keep my voice light.
“Don’t let Jasper ruin Santa Fe for you.”
“It’s not just him. I’m done with Santa Fe.” Barry flinches. “I mean, I think Santa Fe is actually done withme.” I laugh.
Barry shoves his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He doesn’t say anything for a long minute and instead makes a lap around my car. He peers through the open window at the odometer.
“How are your tires?”
When I don’t answer right away, he says, “Follow me.” He jumps in his van and I follow behind him in my car. He pulls in to a Shell station, and I pull in after him.
“Dallas is a long day’s drive,” Barry says. He tests the air in each of my tires and refills the water in my cooling tank, and when he thinks I’m not looking, stuffs two twenties in the glovebox.
“Barry.” I can’t pretend I didn’t see.
“Have one decent meal on the road. You’ll pay me back.”
“Thank you.” Before I hug him, I search the car for something to give him in return. I pull a box of my favorite charcoal pencils from a bag.
“What are these?”
“You can use them. To make stuff.”
Barry shakes his head. “I’m not an artist.”
“Just a muse?” I tease.
“Exactly.” His eyes light up. “Like Camille Claudel.”
“Okay, but she was a muse and an artist.”
Barry rolls his eyes. But with an arm around his shoulder, I point our bodies toward his catering van. “You make stuff every day.”
