The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [22]
I fan myself with the copy of Hawaii and watch Tim walk away. Once at the bar, he stands there, not trying to get the bartender’s attention, waiting for the bartender to notice him. One of the fags says something to Tim. I sit up a little. Tim laughs and says something back. And then I notice the girl.
She’s young, Tim’s age, maybe older, and she’s tan, with long blond hair, and she’s walking slowly along the shore, oblivious to the waves breaking at her feet, and soon she’s moving toward the bar and as she moves closer I can make out her face, barley—brown, placid, eyes wide, unblinking even with the brightness of an afternoon sun that is total and complete. She moves languorously, sensually, to the bar, next to Tim. Tim is still waiting for the drinks, daydreaming. The girl says something to him. Tim looks at her and smiles and the bartender hands him a drink. Tim stands there, they talk briefly. She asks him something as Tim beings to walk toward me. He looks back at her and nods, then jogs away, almost tripping. He stops and looks back, then laughs to himself and walks over and hands me the drink.
“Met a girl from San Diego,” he says absently, removing the USC sweatshirt.
I smile and nod and lie there with the drink, which is clear and bubbly and not what I ordered, and when I close my eyes I pretend that when I open them, when I look up, Tim will be standing in front of me, motioning me to join him in the water where we will talk about minor things but he’s spoiled and I don’t care and ignore him and to ask forgiveness is pretending. I open my eyes. Tim dives into a breaker with the girl from San Diego. A Frisbee lands on the sand next to my feet. I spot a lizard.
Later, after the beach, we are both in the bathroom, getting ready for dinner. Tim has a towel wrapped around his waist and is shaving. I’m at the other sink, washing suntan oil off my face before a shower. Tim takes the towel off, unselfconsciously, and wipes lather off his jaw.
“Is it okay if Rachel comes to dinner with us?” he asks.
I look over at him. “Sure. Why not.”
“Great,” he says, leaving the bathroom.
“She’s from San Diego, you said?” I ask, drying my face.
“Yeah. She goes to UC San Diego.”
“Who is she here with?”
“Her parents.”
“Well, won’t they want to have dinner with her tonight?”
“They’re in Hilo for the night,” he says, underwear on, searching for a shirt. “Some business her stepfather’s involved with.”
“You like her?”
“Yeah.” Tim studies a plain white shirt as if it is a book of answers. “I guess.”
“You guess? You were with her all afternoon.”
After a shower, I walk into the bedroom and over to the closet. Tim seems happier and I’m glad he’s met this girl, relieved that there will be someone else with us at dinner. I puton a linen suit and pour myself a drink from the minibar and sit on the bed, watching Tim put gel in his hair, greasing it.
“Are you glad you came?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, too evenly.
“I thought maybe you didn’t want to come.”
“Why would you think that?” he asks. He puts some more of the gel on his fingers, rubbing it through thick, blondish hair, darkening it.
“Your mom mentioned that you didn’t feel like coming,” I say, quickly, offhand. I sip the drink.
He looks at me in the mirror, his face clouding over.
“No, I never said that. I just had this paper to do and, um, no.” He combs his hair, inspecting himself. Satisfied, he turns away from the mirror and looks at me, and as I’m confronted with that blank stare, my decision not to pursue it is made.
We meet Rachel in the main dining room. She stands by the piano, talking to the piano player. She has a purple flower in her hair and the piano player touches it and she laughs. Tim and I walk over to the white baby grand. She turns around, her eyes flat and blue, and she flashes a perfect white smile. She touches her shoulder and moves toward us.
“Rachel,” Tim says, a little reluctantly. “This is my dad. Les Price.”
“Hello, Mr. Price,” Rachel says, holding out her hand.
“Hi, Rachel.” I take her hand, noticing that she has no polish