Fic: "Burn Your Mansion To The Ground (Five Ways Lyla Garrity Leaves Dillon)" (FNL)
Burn Your Mansion To The Ground
(Five Ways Lyla Garrity Leaves Dillon)
Thanks to likeadeuce and romanticalgirl for read-overs and help. Title from Tom Waits, "Hold On." Exactly 1250 words, because the first section I wrote hit 250 words and so then they all had to, because I'm crazy.
1.
Jason's been drinking, she can smell it on his breath and see it in his eyes, and she knows she should tell him no, send him home, ignore every word he's saying. But she doesn't know how not to hear Jason.
"Come with me," he says, leaning toward her, wobbling at the edge of his wheelchair. "Come away with me."
Two years ago she was just waiting for those words, would've shivered and melted at those words, she thinks. And then, she thinks no; no, she wouldn't have, because she had a plan, all along, and she believed in her plans like they were carved in stone, and none of them said anything about slipping away in the night.
Her hair is still heavy with spray and pins from her mortarboard, her graduation gown hasn't settled on its hanger yet. But she graduated. She's done. Maybe it's a sign.
"Come away with me," he says again, starting to smile, watching her eyes. He can see things in her, he always has.
"Where would we go?" she asks, looking over at the window, at the heavy spill of moonlight on the road.
"Anywhere." He waves his hands, encompassing everything. "Anywhere you want."
"We're not together anymore." It seems important to say it, hear it out loud, make sure it's true.
He looks at her with eyes so bright they hurt, and she said yes before he ever asked. "That doesn't change the way I always want to run away with you."
2.
She thinks his name is Dave but it might be Dale. Or Daniel. Something with a D, and she's only sure about that because D. Roberts is written on a strip of duct tape across his guitar case.
He smells like Marlboros and sweat and nothing that's had any contact with soap anytime recently. His hair is dirty. His jeans are torn.
He's nothing that Lyla Garrity has ever wanted, nothing that could ever cross the Garrity doorstep, and that makes him perfect, because tonight she's stopped being Lyla Garrity for a while. She told him her name was Rosie, just for the hell of it, just because there was a bottle of Rose's lime juice sitting there on the bar when he sat down and put his hand on her thigh.
She's drunk, fucking drunk, ridiculously drunk. She's tried being good and she's tried being Godly and neither one of them did anything but leave her flat on her butt and mad at everything.
So she'll try something else.
"You have a car?" she asks him, looking up through her lashes.
He laughs like she told a dirty joke. Jason and Tim never laughed that way at her, but it sounds right coming from him.
"Darlin'," he says--he keeps calling her that and she isn't sure if she likes it but she knows she doesn't not--"I have all your pretty little dreams."
That's a lie, but it's one she can work with. "Then let's hit the road."
3.
Lyla closes her eyes and lifts her chin, giving the makeup artist the best surface to work on. She can hear the host over in the next chair, mumbling bits of his script to himself while the stylist does his hair.
"Lyla Garrity...nineteen years old...Dillon, Texas...new face of the King of Kings Christian Ministry's missionary...no, dammit, that's too many m's."
Lyla smiles, a curve of her lips kept carefully faint enough not to move her forehead or her eyes.
An hour later, she blinks against the lights and tries not to look at the camera. She's offering her best smile, her cheer smile, twice as bright for God as for the Panthers.
"...and you're just back from spreading the good news in Mexico," he says, shuffling his notecards.
"Guatemala," she says, "actually."
"Oh, of course," he says, indifferently, and she feels her smile slip despite herself. Off to the side she can see James and Marilyn from the ministry, who have been steering her through all this, this interview and the one they have lined up for next week, the photo shoot for the ad campaign and they mentioned something about commercials, maybe, they can get air time on the local channels during the Sunday morning shows...
Her eyes narrow and she feels her jaw clench, the way her mother always told her wasn't pretty.
"You know, I'm going back down there next month?" she says, interrupting him mid-question. "Just as soon as I'm packed."
4.
They're taking Tim's truck again. She's told him ten times if she's told him once that if he loses his job because of this-- the job that she and Jason both bullied him into getting and keeping and going to every day-- she'll kick his behind from wherever she is, St. Louis or farther.
He just laughs, that soft and shadowed Tim-laugh, ducking his head to hide his eyes.
She can see Jason sitting next to the truck's tailgate, studying the boxes in the bed, visibly calculating if his chair will fit. "You cleared this with your boss in the real world, not just in Tim-land? You told him you're just driving and you'll be back in a week?"
"Yes, Lyla," he says. "Jay, tell her to calm down."
"Calm down, Lyla," Jason calls obediently, reaching up to push at one of the boxes, move it half an inch to the side. "And both of you come on, we need to hit the road."
She nods and turns to her mother, who sweeps her up in her arms and holds her tight. "Call me when you get to your aunt's house," Pam says against her hair. "And if it turns out you don't like this job, come right back home."
"I will," Lyla says. "I promise. Mom, we've got to go."
Pam steps back reluctantly. "You three be careful."
"We'll take care of her, ma'am," Tim says.
We'll take care of each other, Lyla thinks. We always do.
5.
Her roommate calls her Texas, with enough of a smirk that she knows it's not a compliment. Lyla's been called worse, though, and by people who matter more, and so it's easy enough to look right through her.
She majors in history, not because she has a particular interest in old books and dead people but because it's straightforward, something she can understand, and it's supposed to slide pretty directly into law school, which she hasn't told anyone she plans to pursue. They don't need to know until she does it.
She sends e-mails once a week, to Jason and her pastor and Mrs. Taylor, who read over her application and told her she was a shoo-in and she should keep in touch, let everybody know how things are going up there in Ohio.
Lyla writes that it's cold, that she's bundled up in scarves and thick jackets until she thinks she might disappear, that she's cut her hair off at chin-length and she likes it. She's not dating anyone, because she's here to study, not fool around. She hopes they're all well. She'll see them at Thanksgiving.
She misses Texas the way you miss a bruise, something that draws a mark on you, that reminds you with its ache of what you've done. She misses other things, too, of course, the warmth and her family and her church and the sky, but mostly she misses how there were reminders everywhere you looked, maps hidden in everything.
(Five Ways Lyla Garrity Leaves Dillon)
Thanks to likeadeuce and romanticalgirl for read-overs and help. Title from Tom Waits, "Hold On." Exactly 1250 words, because the first section I wrote hit 250 words and so then they all had to, because I'm crazy.
1.
Jason's been drinking, she can smell it on his breath and see it in his eyes, and she knows she should tell him no, send him home, ignore every word he's saying. But she doesn't know how not to hear Jason.
"Come with me," he says, leaning toward her, wobbling at the edge of his wheelchair. "Come away with me."
Two years ago she was just waiting for those words, would've shivered and melted at those words, she thinks. And then, she thinks no; no, she wouldn't have, because she had a plan, all along, and she believed in her plans like they were carved in stone, and none of them said anything about slipping away in the night.
Her hair is still heavy with spray and pins from her mortarboard, her graduation gown hasn't settled on its hanger yet. But she graduated. She's done. Maybe it's a sign.
"Come away with me," he says again, starting to smile, watching her eyes. He can see things in her, he always has.
"Where would we go?" she asks, looking over at the window, at the heavy spill of moonlight on the road.
"Anywhere." He waves his hands, encompassing everything. "Anywhere you want."
"We're not together anymore." It seems important to say it, hear it out loud, make sure it's true.
He looks at her with eyes so bright they hurt, and she said yes before he ever asked. "That doesn't change the way I always want to run away with you."
2.
She thinks his name is Dave but it might be Dale. Or Daniel. Something with a D, and she's only sure about that because D. Roberts is written on a strip of duct tape across his guitar case.
He smells like Marlboros and sweat and nothing that's had any contact with soap anytime recently. His hair is dirty. His jeans are torn.
He's nothing that Lyla Garrity has ever wanted, nothing that could ever cross the Garrity doorstep, and that makes him perfect, because tonight she's stopped being Lyla Garrity for a while. She told him her name was Rosie, just for the hell of it, just because there was a bottle of Rose's lime juice sitting there on the bar when he sat down and put his hand on her thigh.
She's drunk, fucking drunk, ridiculously drunk. She's tried being good and she's tried being Godly and neither one of them did anything but leave her flat on her butt and mad at everything.
So she'll try something else.
"You have a car?" she asks him, looking up through her lashes.
He laughs like she told a dirty joke. Jason and Tim never laughed that way at her, but it sounds right coming from him.
"Darlin'," he says--he keeps calling her that and she isn't sure if she likes it but she knows she doesn't not--"I have all your pretty little dreams."
That's a lie, but it's one she can work with. "Then let's hit the road."
3.
Lyla closes her eyes and lifts her chin, giving the makeup artist the best surface to work on. She can hear the host over in the next chair, mumbling bits of his script to himself while the stylist does his hair.
"Lyla Garrity...nineteen years old...Dillon, Texas...new face of the King of Kings Christian Ministry's missionary...no, dammit, that's too many m's."
Lyla smiles, a curve of her lips kept carefully faint enough not to move her forehead or her eyes.
An hour later, she blinks against the lights and tries not to look at the camera. She's offering her best smile, her cheer smile, twice as bright for God as for the Panthers.
"...and you're just back from spreading the good news in Mexico," he says, shuffling his notecards.
"Guatemala," she says, "actually."
"Oh, of course," he says, indifferently, and she feels her smile slip despite herself. Off to the side she can see James and Marilyn from the ministry, who have been steering her through all this, this interview and the one they have lined up for next week, the photo shoot for the ad campaign and they mentioned something about commercials, maybe, they can get air time on the local channels during the Sunday morning shows...
Her eyes narrow and she feels her jaw clench, the way her mother always told her wasn't pretty.
"You know, I'm going back down there next month?" she says, interrupting him mid-question. "Just as soon as I'm packed."
4.
They're taking Tim's truck again. She's told him ten times if she's told him once that if he loses his job because of this-- the job that she and Jason both bullied him into getting and keeping and going to every day-- she'll kick his behind from wherever she is, St. Louis or farther.
He just laughs, that soft and shadowed Tim-laugh, ducking his head to hide his eyes.
She can see Jason sitting next to the truck's tailgate, studying the boxes in the bed, visibly calculating if his chair will fit. "You cleared this with your boss in the real world, not just in Tim-land? You told him you're just driving and you'll be back in a week?"
"Yes, Lyla," he says. "Jay, tell her to calm down."
"Calm down, Lyla," Jason calls obediently, reaching up to push at one of the boxes, move it half an inch to the side. "And both of you come on, we need to hit the road."
She nods and turns to her mother, who sweeps her up in her arms and holds her tight. "Call me when you get to your aunt's house," Pam says against her hair. "And if it turns out you don't like this job, come right back home."
"I will," Lyla says. "I promise. Mom, we've got to go."
Pam steps back reluctantly. "You three be careful."
"We'll take care of her, ma'am," Tim says.
We'll take care of each other, Lyla thinks. We always do.
5.
Her roommate calls her Texas, with enough of a smirk that she knows it's not a compliment. Lyla's been called worse, though, and by people who matter more, and so it's easy enough to look right through her.
She majors in history, not because she has a particular interest in old books and dead people but because it's straightforward, something she can understand, and it's supposed to slide pretty directly into law school, which she hasn't told anyone she plans to pursue. They don't need to know until she does it.
She sends e-mails once a week, to Jason and her pastor and Mrs. Taylor, who read over her application and told her she was a shoo-in and she should keep in touch, let everybody know how things are going up there in Ohio.
Lyla writes that it's cold, that she's bundled up in scarves and thick jackets until she thinks she might disappear, that she's cut her hair off at chin-length and she likes it. She's not dating anyone, because she's here to study, not fool around. She hopes they're all well. She'll see them at Thanksgiving.
She misses Texas the way you miss a bruise, something that draws a mark on you, that reminds you with its ache of what you've done. She misses other things, too, of course, the warmth and her family and her church and the sky, but mostly she misses how there were reminders everywhere you looked, maps hidden in everything.