“That’s really creative,” I tell him.
“Mike,” Serena groans, “I said absolutely no Star Wars references.”
“Can I still do outer space? Maybe have all the planets aligned and then we’re joined together by the force of the cosmos?”
“Just draw me up a design first,” Serena says. She turns back to me and I stare into the mass of pink sequins on the dress.
“I think can see myself reflected in it,” I say.
She ignores my observation.
“It’s a size six,” she says, “the same size you wore to our cousin’s wedding last summer. Besides, you never gain weight. Brat.”
“I love you Serena, but I am not putting that on.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I would rather wear duct tape from head to foot. Well, as long as there’s a butt flap.”
“Just try it on. If it doesn’t fit, you don’t have to wear it. I promise.” She hands me the dress. “Never say no to a bride on her wedding day,” she states, as if it’s a law enforced in the state of California.
I relent and go into the bathroom. I pull on the bright, scratchy material. It actually isn’t that tight. I turn in front of the full length mirror. It fits perfectly. Damn.
Serena walks in and nods with satisfaction. She confirms what I already fear.
“It fits.”
“It’s pink,” I say.
“Its crimson rose. A very dark shade of pink. It’s gorgeous.”
I turn around in front of the mirror. At least it isn’t too short. It falls to my knees so I look like a high-end call girl, versus you’re everyday street hooker. I’m okay with it, until I walk out of the bathroom and see the shoes Serena picked out.
“Stilts?” I say.
“They’re high heels,” she says.
“They look like stilts. How am I going to wear these on the beach?”
“They elongate your legs, Dylan. It’s flattering.”
She throws them at me and I put them on. They’re pink, too.
She directs me back into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror.
“Now, as for this hair of yours,” she says and picks up a handful of my hair with a frown. “Dylan, what delinquent hair hater cut this?”
“Me,” I say.
“Oh. Well, we’ll just put some curls in it. At least you won’t see how uneven it is.” She plugs in the curling iron and shakes a bottle of hair spray. She sets down combs and picks and brushes on the countertop like she’s a doctor assembling tools for surgery.
Once she’s satisfied with my loose curls, she comes at me with a pencil in her hand.
“Hold still.”
“Wait. Whoa. What is that?” I lean away from her outstretched arm.
“It’s blue eyeliner. Just like the color I’m wearing.”
I stare at the tip of the pencil like it’s a burning fire poker and shake my head.
“Look, I agreed to wearing a full-length glitter tube top that astronauts can probably see from outer space, and I smell like a can of hairspray. I think I’ve been more than accommodating. Can you please leave my face alone?”
My sister refuses to budge. She informs me there’s even more makeup to come. I look at the sparkling blue eyeliner that highlights her eyes. It looks like puffy glue and I’m afraid it will never come off. I back up toward the door.
“Mom!” I yell for help. Serena’s face drops into a pout and I immediately feel guilty. “Please, Dylan?” she asks. “For me? It’s my wedding day.”
I sigh and sit down on the stool next to the bathroom counter. I close my eyes and hold my breath as the pencil scratches across my eyelid. Serena keeps telling me to relax my face and to breathe. This is worse than the dentist.
A half hour later, the makeover is done.
“You’re beautiful,” Serena says. “You’re welcome.”
I mumble a thank you and slip off the stool. I turn and look at my reflection before I open the door. I’m actually surprised. Serena went light on the makeup, just touching up my skin to make it all one tone. She used a light dusting of blush on my cheekbones, and my lipstick is pink, but it’s a light pink that compliments my coloring. Even the blue eyeliner isn’t very noticeable. It’s blended into gray eye shadow.
“Now get out,” Serena says. “No way are you going to look hotter than me today.”
***
Six hours later my baby sister is legally married and has a child, but she’s too young to drink a glass of champagne to celebrate. Laws make no sense. We walk back to the beach house and Mike’s aunt has a catered steak dinner set up in their backyard. White lights are strewn around flower pots and eucalyptus trees. Two long picnic tables are covered in white linen and sprinkled with pink rose petals. I set down my phone and camera on the back steps and take off my stilts. I stretch my feet and slip on a pair of black sandals.
I walk out into the garden and grab a thin, soft eucalyptus leaf. I pull it apart and breathe in its sweet scent. My head is heavy with thoughts, all about Gray. There’s been a nagging question in the back of my mind all day that I need to ask him.
Just as I turn to walk inside, I hear my cell phone ring. I pick it up off the steps and look down at the screen and I simultaneously want to laugh and cry. I missed him so much today.
“Hey,” Gray’s voice comes through the speaker, through my ear and punches against my heart. “How was the wedding?”
“Gorgeous,” I say. “It was perfect weather, right on the beach, officiated by Mike’s friend who has a voice that sounds exactly like Russell Crowe’s. It’s like the ocean itself was speaking.”
“What are you guys doing now?” he asks. “Do you have dinner plans?”
I look around at the empty backyard. “My sister’s sleeping. Everybody else is watching football. A newborn baby cuts into evening social plans.”
“So, you’re free?” he asks.
“I’m always free,” I say.
“Excellent,” he says. “There’s a surprise for you outside.”
I open the patio door and walk down the hallway, passing the dining room and the living room. I open the stained glass front door and look around the steps for a package or flowers. The wooden steps are empty.
“I’m not seeing anything,” I say.
He laughs into the phone. There’s a strange echo to his voice.
“Look around,” he says.
My stomach jumps. I realize what the surprise is. I look up and down the curb, lined with parked cars. I don’t see his hatchback anywhere. “Where are you?”
“I’m standing in front of my car,” he says.
“I don’t see your car.”
“Dylan, look across the street.”
I hear laughing and it sounds like it’s coming from straight in front of me. I look across the street, and there he is, leaning against a black convertible. He’s wearing dark, faded jeans and a red, Bob Dylan concert t-shirt. The sky is turning dark, but there’s still a ribbon of neon light in the western sky.
I still have my phone to my ear. I press the receiver to my heart to see if he can hear how fast it’s beating and he laughs. He puts his phone in his pocket.
He raises his hand and waves.
I clear my throat and slip into character, mustering up my best Molly Ringwald imitation. I glance up and down the sidewalk with disbelief and then I point to my chest.
“Me?” I mouth. Gray shakes his head.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Yeah, you,’” I shout across the street.
“Uh-uh,” he says. “This is as far as I go.”
I walk across the street to meet him. “You watched the movie,” I say and he nods. “Did you like the ending?” I ask.
“I understand why you like it, but it’s not why you think,” he tells me.
“Oh, really?” I look in his eyes, and they’re lighter and happier than I’ve ever seen them.
“It’s not the scene you remember. It’s that song. That song makes the ending. A classic eighties
melodramatic balled by the Thompson Twins? Possibly the sappiest crap of all time.”
“By sappy you mean incredibly moving and laced with deep messages about life?”
“Sure,” he says. I look past him at the black convertible.
“Sorry it’s not a red Porsche,” Gray says. “That’s a little out of my price range.”
“This is yours?” I ask him and he nods.
“My dad helped me pick it out. Signing bonuses pay pretty well,” he admits. “I’ve never seen my dad more excited. We drove it around all week.”
I run my hand over the sleek roof, cool against my skin.
“Wow,” I say. “I’m naming him Black Panther.”
Gray steps back so he can take in my outfit.
“You look—”
“Like a sparkly baton, I know. Not by choice, by force.”
“Sorry I didn’t wear my pimp suit so we could match,” Gray says and I roll my eyes.
“You can blame Serena,” I say. “She practically had to tie me down to give me a makeover.”
“Blame her? You mean thank her profusely.”
“You like my new hooker style?” I ask.
“I would never label you as that,” Gray says. “I was thinking stripper,” he says.
I laugh and Gray turns me around with his hand. “Perfect,” he says. “It has a slit. Slits are just a starting point for ripping something off.”
“Go right ahead,” I say. “Right now, please.”
“Oh, I will,” he says and his eyes look serious. It sends an erotic jolt up my legs. “But not yet,” he says.
“First we’re having cake?” I ask.
“No,” Gray says. “No more Sixteen Candles. I have a much better idea.” He opens the car door for me. “Come on,” he says. “We’re going for a drive. I want you to see the city lights.”
I slide inside and he closes the door. The smooth black leather seat brushes against my legs. I fasten the seatbelt and Gray gets in next to me.
“You need to see the sky scrapers in a convertible at night. It’s the best way to see a skyline.” He starts the car and shifts into gear. The engine purrs as he drives onto the road. He turns up the stereo and plays Counting Crows, album one, track eleven. I smile. It’s one of my favorite songs.
I watch the houses and apartments pass until we’re on Pacific Drive and suddenly the ocean is right next to us spilling onto the sand. I can smell the salty air as the wind whips against my hand. I reach my arm out—there’s no window frame to block it, no roof to enclose it. I feel like I could lasso the purple clouds in the darkening sky and reel them in. The car accelerates and we’re coasting up a freeway ramp. I lean my head back against the seat rest and let the sky and the music pour over me.
“Ryan Adams is performing tonight,” he tells me over the music.
Gray and I have listened to every single one of his records together. We’ve analyzed every song. We’ve had sex to every song.
“In LA?” I ask and Gray nods.
“He’s playing at the Walt Disney Concert Hall,” he says. “It’s an amazing venue. But there aren’t any tickets left.” He looks over at me. “I checked. It’s been sold out for weeks.”
I refuse to be discouraged. Words like “sold old” only imply a challenge. You can’t make an amazing discovery and let it slip through your fingers.
“Gray, this concert is a basic need. We have to try,” I say.
He nods. “I thought you’d say that. If anyone can talk their way in, it’s you.”
He maneuvers around traffic and we fly down the freeway, surrounded by a red stream of lights in front of us, and white lights, like comets, behind us. We are in a galaxy. The downtown skyline rises in the distance like a space station. The Staples Center is lit up with purple neon lights like a futuristic landing strip.
We exit the freeway and turn down Broadway, heading for the glowing buildings. Gray was right. Everyone needs to see city lights in a convertible. I lean back, mesmerized as they approach. The skyscrapers loom around us and above us, towers of light that stretch all the way to the stars.
Gray
I slow down and point out the Walt Disney Concert Hall, a theater in the downtown music district. I love the architecture of the theater, the way it waves as if it’s moving like a flag, batting in the wind. At night it’s even more dramatic. A band of lights cut through the center like an electric sail. The curving steel makes it half anchor, half sail, half boat, half building.
Dylan looks out at the empty sidewalks with disappointment. A few people are scurrying up the steps to the entrance.
“I don’t see anyone selling tickets,” I say.
“Then we’ll sneak in,” Dylan informs me and I smile at her tenacity. She points at the theater. “Ryan Adams is inside that building. The only thing standing in our way is a flimsy door.”
“And a lot of security,” I point out.
I’m interested to see how she plans to pull this off. I turn into the underground parking garage and hand the attendant the astronomical twenty-dollar parking fee. Welcome to LA.
As soon as I find a parking spot Dylan throws the door open. I get out and run after her and we both sprint for the escalators.
“Here’s the plan,” she says once we reach the metal stairs. “We’re local radio station journalists but we forgot our press passes.”
I nod. I’m smiling at her determination. I look closely at her eyes.
“Are you wearing blue eyeliner?” I ask.
“Yes. Gray, please focus. We’re publicity.”
“Right,” I say. “Which Los Angeles radio station do we work for?” I test her.
“Z…1…0…crap.” She shakes her head. “Okay, scratch that. We need to go with something familiar. We’re photographers.”
“Um, no cameras?” I point out.
She slaps her hand over her forehead. I’m starting to feel bad. There’s no way we’re going to sneak into this venue. I’m just getting Dylan’s hopes up.
“The one time I don’t have my camera,” she says.
The escalator reaches the ground floor, and we’re inside the theater lobby. Dylan scopes out each usher standing guard as if she’s testing for weaknesses. There’s a dwindling crowd inside. People stand next to the bar, slamming the last sip of their overpriced drinks. A mix of cologne and perfume fragrances drifts through the air. The overhead lights flash, a sign that the show is about to start.
“Please take your seats,” the ushers shout as if they’re teasing us.
“We should split up,” she whispers to me. “You take the female ushers, and I’ll take the males. If Plan A doesn’t work, we’ll reconvene in five minutes and figure out Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?” I ask. “Abort mission?”
“Never. We’ll break in,” Dylan says.
“Good luck with that,” I say after her as she approaches an usher standing between two red velvet ropes. I make my way to the front entrance.
I walk outside and turn in a circle, taking in the steel walls of the theater that curve and sweep the sky.
I head towards the Will Call, next to the box office. I give the girl behind the partition my credit card and she looks up my name and hands me the two tickets I bought last week when I heard the show was in town. She smiles at me as she slides the tickets under the glass window.
“Enjoy the show,” she says. I grab the tickets just as Dylan is walking out the front doors. Her face looks wounded by rejection. Her eyes trail the architecture of the theater, all the way to the roof as if she’s planning to scale the walls.
I hold the tickets in my hand and walk up to her. “What happened with the usher?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He didn’t believe I was Ryan Adams’ personal trainer.”
“He’s a rock star,” I point out. “Maybe you should have gone with personal drug dealer?”
“I must be losing my touch,” Dylan says. She looks around at the empty terrace. “At least we tried.”
“Well, then I’m glad I bought some tickets,” I say and hand her one. She stares down at the white ticket. RYAN ADAMS is printed in bold black letters, above the word ADMSSION. She looks at me.
“Surprise,” I say.
“You had these all along?”
“I picked them up at Will Call. I ordered them last week, which was a good thing, since it did sell out.”
She stares at the ticket in her hand like she’s holding a sheet of gold.
“Wow,” she says. She traces her finger over the ticket. “This is the greatest surprise of my life.” She looks up at me. “Gray, do you still want to marry me?”
I look down at her and my voice is suddenly stuck in my throat. Her eyes are serious.
“Will you ask me again?” she says.
“To marry you?”
She nods. “Not right now. But someday, will you ask me again?”
All I can do is smile. I feel my entire body, my complete wholeness, from my head to my feet, to the goosebumps raised out on my skin. I realize Dylan’s never been my sad song. She’s my favorite song. The one I want to play over and over again.
“Promise?” she asks. The wind tosses her wavy hair over her eyes and I brush it away. Her eyes are the most sincere I’ve ever seen. I take a deep breath and it feels like I’m inhaling the sky, the stars, and all the lights around me.
“Promise you’ll say yes?” I ask.
“Yes,” Dylan says without hesitating.
“I promise,” I say.
She sticks her thumb out to grab mine and I wrap my thumb around hers and seal it. I let go and reach for her face and rake my fingers through her hair, pulling her lips towards mine. I close my eyes and lean down and kiss her.
I know I still have a lot to figure out. My future isn’t set, but I consider that a good thing. It keeps it open to possibilities. Right now all I know is this: I have all that I need with me, all that I want, in my hands. No matter where my life goes, it won’t be boring. It won’t be perfect. But I found love and I’m holding onto it. Finally, forever.
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