Free Stewart and Jean by J. Boyett Page A

soon, and asked if he could go ahead and start a background check using her current address.
    No, the guy told her. It was illegal for him to sell a gun to someone out of state. But he told her about an upcoming Pennsylvania gun show where she would have no problem buying one. There would be private citizens there selling their goods—unlike licensed dealers such as himself, private citizens didn’t have to run background checks or anything.
    By Monday, when she returned to work, the ball was already rolling for her to move to Stroudsburg in a month—she had appointments to look at a couple of places. It was exhilarating to be making such big changes so fast, and so impulsively. She’d decided to rent for the moment, instead of trying to buy. Partly because she objectively knew that applying for a mortgage on a lark would be crazy, partly because if she rented she could move sooner.
    Marissa came by after lunch and stood over Jean, at her computer. “Want to go out for some margaritas after work? Or is Monday too early in the week to start drinking?”
    “Monday is the perfect day for it,” Jean said.
    They talked like they might go someplace nice and respectable but wound up walking west to Chevy’s at Times Square, laughing all the way at how trashy they were. The Mexican food was relatively cheap, for Times Square. The margaritas were big. The restaurant’s bright colors, noise, and plastic gaiety were fun to laugh at. “It’s better than some stuffy bullshit!” declared Marissa, gulping down her cherry margarita.
    Jean had gotten a normal-flavored margarita, though they were both jumbo. “Hey, you don’t have to justify your love of Chevy’s to me.” Of the two of them, Marissa had been the more enthusiastic about going there.
    Half an hour later they were both stuffed, with their plates still more than half-full, and they were each well into their second jumbo margaritas. Marissa had decided to mix it up and try a raspberry-flavored one.
    “I love these things!” said Marissa, lifting the massive heavy glass up to her face. It wasn’t much smaller than her head. “Because they’re like my name. Get it?! Margarita, Marissa!”
    “Oh, God. We’re going to get totally shit-faced, aren’t we?”
    “No, no, no, I’m fine, I’m fine.” Marissa took a moment to regain control of herself, but also to drink some more. There was a lull, despite the blaring music, and on the other side of the lull they found the mood had changed. Marissa tucked her chin and looked up at Jean seriously; “How are you doing?” she asked. “With that thing?”
    “With Stewart?”
    “Is that his name? The guy from the bookstore? The Arkansan?”
    “Yeah. Stewart.”
    “Well?”
    Jean drained the last of her margarita; the straw made a dry croaking sound, and she signaled the waitress for another. She was light-headed, if not frankly drunk. But she’d already gone too far to do anything productive tonight, so she might as well say fuck it and go all the way. When she turned to look across the table again, Marissa was still waiting for an answer, with her serious expression on. “I think I’m moving out of the city,” Jean said, trying to be breezy about it.
    Marissa’s face fell. “Because of Stewart ?” she said. “Jean, you don’t have to be scared of him! We can do something about him!”
    “No, no, no.” Jean was flustered—she’d intended her comment as a change of subject. “No, it’s not that. I’m just moving to Stroudsburg. In Pennsylvania.”
    “Well why would anyone move to Buttfuck, Pennsylvania unless they were being chased there?”
    Thirty seconds ago Jean had thought she was stuffed, but now she found herself picking through her refried beans, lifting a forkful to her mouth, and swallowing it, only to have a reason to put off answering. She said, “Grass. Also, the gun laws are different there. So....”
    Marissa stared at her as if she were not only crazy, but perhaps morally repugnant