But Tyson didn’t refuse. “Of course. Whatever you’d like, Sadie.”
Once again, Tyson’s voice had an undercurrent of something dead. Something . . . wrong.
Someone else might not have caught it.
But Sadie did. And she felt like a complete heel for causing it.
Yet Tyson still managed a smile as he stepped past her to open the mystery door.
“Go on in,” he said as he leaned against the door frame.
“Aren’t you coming?” Sadie asked.
“I’ll be right behind you.”
Sadie shrugged and, stepping past the other man, went inside.
Tyson had been right. It was a small room, roughly about the same size as the bathroom. This room was painted a light tan color, and the furniture was worn but inviting. Posters hung on the walls and books and magazines filled two bookcases. There was a TV in the corner, and next to it, stood what appeared to be a fairly impressive sound system.
With a flash of guilt, Sadie realized that she was probably invading Tyson’s sanctuary and his privacy. And despite feeling ashamed, her insatiable curiosity propelled her forward.
So she began to walk around the small room, taking everything in, but being respectful enough to touch nothing.
“There’s really nothing in here,” Tyson’s voice called from the doorway.
“I wouldn’t say that. You have . . . wait.” She stopped in front of the stereo system. “Are these cassette tapes?”
Tyson, reacting to the undisguised wonder in Sadie’s voice, crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned. “Yeah.”
“Wow. I didn’t think anybody had these things anymore. Louis Armstrong, Take five, Michael Bolton.” She turned her head so that she could look at Tyson properly. “It’s a nice collection.”
Tyson finally stepped into the room – wearing a sincere smile at last. “Thanks.”
“And are these . . . ? Whoa. Are these LPs?”
Tyson stepped forward until he and Sadie were shoulder to shoulder. “Yup.”
“I didn’t think they made these anymore.”
“Hell yeah, they still make ‘em. It’s not like they’re from the stone age.”
Sadie shuffled through them. “Marvin Gaye. Jimi Hendrix. NWA. Beastie Boys. You got anything past the 80’s here?”
“Oh, and what are you listening to? Beyonce?” Tyson asked.
Sadie turned to him, saw that Tyson was smiling. She returned it and was about to reply when something else caught her eye. The LPs temporarily forgotten, she moved toward the new find.
Cars. Four of them – small models of sleek, classic cars that would turn heads were they driven on actual streets.
“You build these yourself?”
Tyson sidled up beside her. “Guy needs a hobby.”
“Wow. This one’s beautiful,” she said as her fingers ghosted over one of them; a black car.
“It’s a . . . ” Tyson began.
“A ‘67 Impala,” Sadie finished.
“You know your cars,” Tyson laughed.
“A little,” Sadie admitted.
“Well, that one there’s my pride and joy,” Tyson said, showing more animation than he’d shown since Sadie had arrived. “One day, I’m gonna . . . ” but then the flow of words came to a halt and he looked away.
“One day what?” Sadie prodded.
“Nothing,” Tyson mumbled, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“You can’t start a sentence like that and not finish it.”
“I was just gonna say, that I used to own a ‘67 Impala, but I had to sell it. One day . . . I’ll own that car again one day, that’s all.”
Tyson’s face, somehow even more beautiful in sadness, made something inside Sadie ache. There was obviously more to the story than what Tyson had told her. And she wanted to know more.
And that notion scared the hell out of her.
And fascinated the hell out of her at the same time.
And maybe, just maybe, it would be all right if she stayed a little longer.
They could talk some more.
*****
Her phone was blowing up as she drove home later that night and she knew it was Angelina or Stella – probably both of them – wanting to know what had happened. Well nothing had. Nothing beyond a lot of conversation. She and Tyson had a lot in common. He’d endured a lot of loss in his life too. She figured that her best friends probably didn’t want to know that she’d spent their hard earned money on cups of green tea and conversation rather than out and out porn smut.
Tyson hadn’t minded; he was glad of the break he’d said. He’d also said he’d enjoyed talking to her. She’d ended up telling him about Mike and their uncanny resemblance and what a douche he was although nobody but her could seem to see it. He’d encouraged her to go for his service, maybe try to see what everyone saw in him. Sadie had gotten the sneaking suspicion that Tyson was a fan of Mike’s as well. He didn’t out and out say so, but it was just something in his tone. Obviously he’d heard of the Pastor, or probably also attended his services. Seemed like everyone did. It was annoying. But Sadie decided to take his advice anyway.
*****
“And that was Hymn No 139: “Niggas in Paris”, and what a beautiful hymn it was. I would like to thank Margaret for that wonderful organ transcription.”
Sadie stared around her, unable to fathom what the attraction was. So far this was the most unorthodox service she’d ever been to. And she had her doubts as to the credibility of the resident pastor. Had anyone actually seen that degree in theology he claimed to have? Jaden had skipped away with Michaela to attend Sunday school with no prompting from her. This service was fully for adults only it seemed. She could see some recognizable faces in the crowd; movie star types. Nobody stared or attempted to take pictures though. It was all very civilized.
“Now my children, I will begin.” Pastor Mike said. “Today we will be discussing how we relate to each other, the words that we use to communicate. We will look at the album by Chris, French and Wayne.