dense or drunk to catch on. “What do ya mean?” he asked in a loud voice. Then, holding it out for the world to see, announced, “I have your credit card!”
Ryan stood up, chest swelled, like he was ready to throw a punch. But in the next second, he gathered himself in a way that seemed more sinister than your garden-variety bar fight.
“What do you have there?” he asked me as Miller handed me my card.
“My credit card,” I mumbled, wedging it into my back pocket.
At this point, Lucy gave Miller a hug and said, “Good to see you, Miller. I like you so much more after a big win! Or maybe it’s just that you aren’t dating Shea anymore.” Her voice was playful.
Miller grinned but said, “Don’t be a bitch, Lucy.”
Lucy made a face, put one hand on her hip, and said, “Omigod, did y’all hear that? Miller just called me a bitch.”
“No, I didn’t,” Miller said, still grinning. “I just gave you some really good advice. Don’t be a bitch!” Then he raised his glass, leaned back, and bellowed up at the ceiling, his voice filling the bar, “Fuck Texas!”
At which point, everyone erupted in a chorus of “Fuck Texas!” Except for Ryan—who reached out and grabbed my forearm.
“Can you c’mere for a second?” he said, pulling me by my arm toward the restrooms in the back. Clearly it wasn’t a question or an invitation; it was a command.
“What are you doing?” I said, though I knew exactly what he was doing.
“Care to tell me why Miller has your credit card?” he said as he dragged me along with him.
“I left it at the bar the other night. I told you that,” I said, my heart racing.
“Yeah? So how did he end up with it?”
“I guess he … got it from the bar,” I said.
“I thought you said you didn’t see him?”
It occurred to me to layer my lie with another lie, tell him that Miller had come in after I’d left, but I knew the jig was up. Ryan was way too savvy and determined not to get to the bottom of things. “Okay. He was here. I saw him the night before your game.”
“So you lied to me?” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
The admission must have both surprised and further outraged Ryan because he shouted, “You’re what?” Then he squeezed my arm harder. I tried to pull away, more concerned about a potential scene than anything else, but I couldn’t break free.
“I’m sorry. He did come into the bar that night … But that was it.” I pulled away again, but like with those Chinese finger traps, the harder I pulled, the tighter his grip became. “I can’t control who walks into a bar!”
He took a step toward me, backing me against a wall. “You freakin’ lied to me!” he yelled, jabbing his finger into my chest.
“I know. And I’m sorry,” I said, cringing as I made eye contact with a girl headed to the ladies’ room. She was staring at us, taking it all in.
“You’re sorry?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You say that a lot, Shea. Don’t you?”
“But I am sorry,” I said, feeling pathetic and ashamed. Not for lying but for being trapped like this, in a bar no less.
“Bullshit!” he yelled. “You’re not sorry!”
“I am, Ryan. I really am. I only lied because you were so upset about the game … and I didn’t want to make it worse. And nothing is going on … I just saw him at the bar. And he got my credit card. That was it.” I was talking as fast as I could, but nothing seemed to work.
“You just saw him?” he shouted louder as another girl stared, along with the guy she was with.
“I mean we talked … in a group … that was all.” The more I babbled, the more enraged he became. And, at one point, he grabbed my other arm, our chests inches apart, so I had no choice but to look directly into his face, veins bulging everywhere, his features distorted with rage.
“Yet he got your credit card? Huh. And how, exactly, does that work?”
“I left my card. He got it for me. That was it. Do you really think he’d hand me the card in front of you if something were going on?” I was frantic now, my cheeks on fire.
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I think he would. I think he absolutely loved disrespecting me in front of everyone.”