Free Under the Cypress Moon by Jason Wallace Page B

supposed to just let her go?  I'll be ok after a few years. like you?!"
    "You're missin' the point," T.L. responded calmly, not wanting to make Mark any angrier but hoping that he could still get through to him.  " What I'm sayin' is this.  You need to do what I didn't do.  You need to fight for Shylah.  You can't make my mistake, but even if you do, things will get better someday.  If I was  you, I'd go over to the table where she's at right now and tell her she owes you at least to be able to tell her how you feel, and maybe you'll even get an explanation.  I know you already know what's goin' on with her, but she does still owe you that much."
    Mark thought over everything that T.L. had just said.  It seemed to make a lot of sense.  It was difficult to come to terms with, on either hand, but it still made sense.  Standing up quickly from his seated position, Mark had no room to scoot his stool back but instead, fell backward, knocking into several people before he could catch himself.  One of the men that Mark crashed into gave a look that said he might be willing to have it out with Mark, perhaps, have a brawl right there in front of everyone.
    Mark forced his way through the crowd, bumping into person after person, trying to be as polite as possible, but he finally gave up on the idea.  No one was willing to make room or to acknowledge Mark's words.  Without realizing it, turning to look in the direction of where Shylah usually sat, Mark didn't even notice that he had pushed abruptly against a young woman in a tank top shirt, his arm brushing haphazardly against the woman's chest. 
    Seeing what he had done, Mark quickly begged the woman's forgiveness, but the woman saw no need for it.  She was very drunk, a hanger-on of the fraternity, there for a good time and not caring about consequences or polite exchanges. 
    "Damn, baby," the woman shot in a drunken fervor, "You're gorgeous!"
    "Thanks," Mark replied.  He knew that, despite the woman's state, there was an element of truth to what was said.  Mark knew that he was a good looking man, but it rarely went to his head.  He didn't dwell on it.  It only served as a boost to Mark's confidence on occasion but never as a defining characteristic or thought.
    "You wanna take me home," the drunk woman asked in an extremely loud and obnoxious-sounding manner.  The bar was so loud, however, that had Mark not been right against the woman, he would not have heard a word.
    Mark was used to this kind of behavior sometimes.  It sometimes gave him a good laugh, and at some instances, Mark even took advantage of such a situation.  He was done with that.  He wanted none of it.  He only wanted Shylah.  The mere idea of showing affection toward another or, especially, sleeping with another sickened Mark to his core.
    "No thanks," Mark responded, hoping to leave it at that.
    "What you mean, no thanks," the woman snapped madly.  "You don't like me?!  I'll do anything you want and even some things I bet you ain't even seen!"
    Mark knew that nothing he could say would even matter.  He had to get away from this woman, had to make his way to Shylah.  Suddenly, however, Mark realized exactly why his instincts had told him something was wrong.  Peeking through the faint vestiges of clear view in the crowd, Mark saw that Shylah was seated at her usual table, not with her many friends but with only two friends and several men.  Apparently, Mark thought, some of the frat guys found a way to gain welcome.  With another sharp glance, Mark saw that not only was that the case but that the man seated next to Shylah had his arm around her, even had his face close to hers.
    Mark was infuriated.  How dare Shylah do this to him, he wondered.  How dare she treat him with such disdain, disrespect, and general uncaring disillusion.  Mark fought his way through the crowd, now pushing people aside, causing more than one to shout, even to threaten.  Mark didn't care.  All of the