“I can’t believe I have to wait that long,” she said. “Okay, fine. Maybe that’ll give you time to buy me a ring.”
Julian opened his clenched fist. Inside the palm of his hand, like an ancient relic, like a crystal of souls that had once been inside her palm and was now in a storm drain on Sunset Boulevard, lay a two-carat princess-cut sparkling diamond.
Mirabelle wept.
* * *
“Chapel of the Flowers?” Julian asked her. “Or Chapel of the Bells?”
“I hope that’s the hardest decision I’ll ever have to make.”
“We could wait,” he said, brooding in a chair by the window.
She got upset. He was backpedaling already.
“We could wait to get married in a real church,” he said, half-explaining.
“Chapel of the Bells is a real church,” she said. “It’s got the word chapel baked right into the name. Why would we wait?”
“I don’t want your mother to think it’s a fake wedding.”
“Who cares what she thinks,” Mia said. “And who’s she to judge? She and my dad got hitched on the Coney Island boardwalk during the thirty minutes between end of confession and start of Mass.”
“Haven’t you dreamed of a perfect wedding?” he said, looking up at her standing over him, arms akimbo. “What did you wish for? Whatever it is, I want to give it to you.”
“I have dreamed of my wedding, of course I have,” Mia said, planting herself in his lap. “What girl hasn’t? Do you want to know what my idea of a perfect wedding is? Okay, I’ll tell you. One in which I become your wife and you, Julian Cruz, become my husband.”
That took his breath away. “Okay.” He patted her bare hip. She was wearing his boxer tank and a barely there thong, just a silk thread between her buttocks. “So which one? Bells or Flowers?”
“I’m trying to imagine which answer I’d prefer to give people when they ask where in Vegas we had our fake wedding,” Mia said. “They’re both so good! I can’t decide. You decide.”
“No matter what I do, you keep saying it’s all good.” He patted her hip again, a little harder.
“Because everything you are and everything you do is good.”
“Chapel of the Flowers, then.”
“Why’d you pick that one?” she said. “I liked Chapel of the Bells.”
“Aaaand it starts,” Julian said. “Not even married, and already it’s not all good.”
She laughed. She just wanted to know why.
“Because Flowers is harder to rhyme,” he said. “Therefore, flowers will make a better story because the words will be less common.”
“Powers devours,” she said, rocking on top of him back and forth. “Speaking of rhyming, we need a wedding song.”
“How about ‘I’m So Afraid’ by Fleetwood Mac.”
“Aaaand, you see, he can be funny, ladies and gentlemen! He’s here all week. Try the veal. Make it real.”
She rocked so hard against him, the chair tipped back. They fell over.
Don’t get hurt before the wedding, he said.
I won’t get hurt before the wedding, she said.
46
Hey Baby
ASHTON TALKED JULIAN INTO WAITING A FEW DAYS. Mirabelle saw some wisdom in that, too. She admitted she couldn’t get married even in a tacky Vegas chapel without her mother. Julian agreed to wait until the following Saturday if Ashton would do him a favor and give Zakiyyah a ride to Vegas. Riley was in Chicago on business and would fly into McCarran straight from O’Hare. Ashton refused. “I’m already your best man. You can’t have my intestines, too.” Julian said Zakiyyah had sprained her ankle and wasn’t comfortable driving all that way by herself and besides, it didn’t make sense for both of them to take separate cars.
“It makes perfect sense,” Ashton said. “What doesn’t make sense is for her and me to be in proximity to each other, ever.”
“Please, bro. For me.”
“What, I don’t do enough for you?”
“One more thing.”
“You want me to drive across the desert,” Ashton said, “across Death Valley . . .”
“Not Death Valley, Mojave.”
“With Attila the Hun?”
“Come on.”
“Death Valley, Julian. That’s most appropriate. Death. Valley. With Attila the Hun.”
* * *
The following Thursday, the day of the bachelor party and two days before Julian and Mia’s wedding, at seven in the morning, Ashton pulled up to the curb on Lyman in front of Zakiyyah’s house and honked the horn. No one came out. He honked again and, receiving no reply, switched off the engine and walked up the stairs to the landing, where he gave a surly double knock and stood back, nearly kicking over the damn petunia pots.
Zakiyyah opened the door. She was wearing a gray cotton knit dress and a pink ribbon through her halo of corkscrew hair.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello, did you not hear me honking?”
“That was you?” Zakiyyah said. “I was about to call the cops to report a disturbance.”
“You didn’t see my car?”
“How would I know it’s your car?”
“You didn’t see me sitting in the open convertible? You didn’t recognize me?”
“Odd, isn’t it,” she said, “I didn’t recognize you without your Free Licks shirt.”
Ashton wore an ironed, thin cotton buttondown, sleeves rolled up, and jeans. He was done speaking to her. She hadn’t invited him in or offered him a drink or asked him for help, so he stood like a pillar.
“Ready to go?” he said.
“Hold the door for a second,” she said. “I have to get my suitcase. Come in, I guess.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
She held open the door as he walked past her. It irritated him that she smelled good, of something warm and woodsy, irked him even more that the dress, even though it had a square neckline, could not contain her voluminous cleavage.
He tried not to look around as she hobbled in her ankle boot to get her suitcase. It was a cute, girly apartment. Comfy. It smelled nice. All tapestries and film posters and funky lamps and scented candles. It even had a plant, like she wouldn’t kill it instantly with her death glare.
Limping, Zakiyyah rolled a large suitcase out of her bedroom.
“What’s that?” Ashton said.
“It’s a conveyance for carrying clothing and sundries.”
“Why are you bringing it? We’re barely going to be there two nights.”
“Just in case,” she said.
“Just in case what?” Why was Ashton raising his voice?
“Anything. Brush fire. Earthquake. Flood.”
“Flood,” he said slowly. “In the desert?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Anything. Everything. Have you not read your best friend’s book, his chapter on survival? Clearly not. He said to always be prepared.”
“Prepared for what, the siege of Las Vegas?”
She matched his antagonism. “And I suppose you brought nothing but the keys in your hands and the beanie on your head?”
“I brought a tux, and what does my beanie have to do with anything?”
“Well, it’s 90 degrees out,” said Zakiyyah. “Wearing that in 90-degree weather makes it seem like you don’t know what temperature is.”
Ashton swiped the beanie off his head. “Better?”
“Saner, certainly.”
“Ready to go?” he repeated through his teeth.
“Just a minute.” Zakiyyah stood in the middle of her open living room, appraising the kitchen, the cold stove, the latched windows, the killed lights.
“What are you doing?”
“Hang on,” she said. “I’m having a silent moment. Or trying to.”
“Having a what?”
“A moment right before you leave the house when you don’t talk and don’t move, you just stand or sit completely still and try to make sure that you’ve brought everything, done
everything.”
“Great. Ready?” he said.
“I can’t tell. You keep talking through it. Did I mention what it’s called? A silent moment. What you’re supposed to do is built right into the name. It’s another one of your friend’s life hacks.”
Ashton snapped his mouth shut to keep himself from speaking so they could finally leave the house.
“Okay, now I’m ready,” Zakiyyah said.
“Let me help you with your suitcase,” Ashton said. “Do let me get that for you. By the way, have you seen my car? Take a good look at it while I carry this downstairs. Appraise it in silence.”
On the sidewalk they stood in front of his BMW two-seater convertible.
“That’s small,” she said.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Clearly you’re pretending not to compensate for something,” she said.
Ashton didn’t respond. He had nothing to prove.
“Is there a trunk?” she said.
“Yes. The top of the car is in it. And my tux.”
“Well, put the top up.”
“I’m not putting the top up,” Ashton said. “We’re driving through the desert. You have to have the top down in the desert. We’re not eighty.”
They stood in the street at an impasse. His arms were crossed. Her arms were crossed.
“Well, what am I supposed to do with my suitcase?” Zakiyyah said. “Hold it in my lap?”
“There’s an idea.”
“Fine,” she said. “I won’t go. Call Julian, tell him I won’t be able to make the wedding because you have no room for me in your car.”
“I have room for you,” Ashton said. “Just not your steamer trunk.”
“So is that the choice,” Zakiyyah said, “a zero-sum game? Choose the luggage, then. Be my guest. I’ll stay home. The suitcase can be maid of honor.”
Ashton tried not to swear under his breath. “Give it here.” He moved the passenger seat all the way forward and stuffed the luggage as best he could behind them.
“Wait, I forgot one thing,” she said.
“Suitcase looks like it has your entire wardrobe in it.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Why even have a silent moment, then?” he muttered.
“Oh, I had a moment,” Zakiyyah said. “It was anything but silent.”
A minute later, she limped back outside, holding a guitar in her hands.
“Are you kidding me?” Ashton said. He had to restrain himself from saying are you fucking kidding me.
Zakiyyah gave him her phone. “Mia asked me to play at her reception, to sing her and Julian’s wedding song. Call her and tell her I can’t because you refuse to help.”
Ashton took deep breaths. “What’s the song?”
“What, if you don’t approve of their choice, my guitar’s not coming? I don’t even want to tell you now.” Zakiyyah took deep breaths herself. “Tom Waits, if you really must know every detail of every single thing before we can drive away. ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You.’”
“That’s their wedding song?”
“By all means,” Zakiyyah said, “when you see them, let them know what you think of it.”
Somehow Ashton squeezed both the guitar and the suitcase behind their seats. “There,” he said. “You don’t mind sitting with your nose to the dashboard, do you?” He closed her car door, taking care not to slam it.
In aggravated silence, they drove out onto the 101 and a half hour later, onto Highway 10. Out of Pasadena and San Gabriel Mountains, it was a straight pass through the desert to Vegas. Six hours. Five if he drove like a maniac. The hot wind was fierce, even when they were stuck in traffic and were barely moving. Zakiyyah took a black thermos from the bag between her legs, popped it open and took a deep swig.
“What do you have there?” Ashton asked.
“Lemon water with ice.”
“What kind of thermos is that?”
“The amazing kind,” Zakiyyah said. “Your best friend recommended it. Japanese technology. Incredibly light, yet keeps any liquid ice cold or very hot for over twelve hours.”
“Huh.”
“It’s another one of his life hacks,” she said. “It’s in his book.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t want to insult you by offering you some of my lemon ice water,” Zakiyyah said. “Can I get you your own drink? I’m sure you brought your own. I mean, you being Mr. Prepared, you wouldn’t commit to a six-hour drive through the desert in the middle of summer in hundred-degree temperatures with the top down without bringing something to drink, would you? That would just be crazy. So, where’s your water, Ashton?”
“I see,” Ashton said. “This is going to be one long mother of a drive.”
“And getting longer every minute,” said Zakiyyah.
After a few miles of silence, Zakiyyah offered him her thermos, and Ashton grudgingly accepted. “Do you want to listen to some Apple music?” he said, taking a long welcome swallow and handing it back to her.
“I prefer Spotify,” she said. “Better playlists.”
“Shame that your Spotify is not hooked up to my car, sweetheart.”
“My name is not sweetheart. It’s Zakiyyah. My friends call me Z.”
“Your phone is not hooked up to my car, Zakiyyah,” Ashton said. “But you know whose phone is hooked up to my car? Mine. With my inferior Apple playlists.”
“Whatever.”
He tried again. “So what would you like to listen to?”
“Some classical? Early Bach, or Chopin?”
Ashton groaned.
“Fine, how about some Simon and Garfunkel, or Sam Cooke?”
He made a small whimpering swearing sound under his breath.
“Just forget it, then.”
“How about some Kendrick Lamar?” he said. “Or Chance the Rapper?”
Zakiyyah made a face.
“How about Rihanna?”
Zakiyyah made a face.
“You don’t like Rihanna?”
“I like her fine, but why?” Zakiyyah said. “Do you think I should like Rihanna? Because I’m black?”
“No, not because you’re black,” Ashton said. “Because you have two ears and can hear. That’s why you should like her.”
“So put on some Rihanna, if you know everything. We’ll take turns. And after her, I’ll put on some Sam Cooke. Because I have two ears and can hear.”
“Do you want us to crash?” Ashton said. “Do you want me to run off the road because I’ve fallen asleep listening to your narcoleptic music? Do you know anything about car music? It must be in 4/4 time. Its tempo should be faster than 80 beats per minute, faster than the average beat of a human heart. It needs to keep me awake. That’s also in my friend’s book, or have you not gotten to that part yet? It’s a long book, and that bit is at the end.”
“It’s nine in the morning, why would you fall asleep?” Zakiyyah said. “It’s literally the beginning of your day.”
“My day already feels like a year long,” Ashton muttered, adding louder, “and that’s not the point. Is Cooke’s tempo even 15 beats a minute? He’s not upbeat enough for a wake.”
“I’m done.” Zakiyyah crossed her arms. “Put on whatever you want. Just close the top. It’s too windy and hot.”
“The AC is on.”
“Yes, you’re cooling the outdoors admirably. Maybe that palm tree over there likes your AC, but inside, where I am, I’m hot.”
“Why don’t you take a sip of your ice water to cool yourself down if you’re so hot.” Ashton grumbled, but he pulled into a gas station, closed the top, took her suitcase and stuffed it into the trunk. He laid his garment bag on top of it, moved her seat slightly back so she’d be more comfortable, bought himself some bottled water, some Coke, and got back on the road. He put on Rihanna’s “Only Girl,” the only girl in the world, and Zakiyyah put on Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” as Ashton flew a hundred miles
an hour across the Mojave while Cooke slowly warbled that she sent him, she thrilled him.
When it was his turn again, Ashton put on “Hey Baby” by Stephen Marley.
“Now that’s more like it,” Zakiyyah said, and actually smiled. Her dazzling smile lit up the desert.
“Aha,” said Ashton. He stared sideways at her beaming face. “You like Stephen Marley?”
“You like Stephen Marley,” Zakiyyah said. “I love Stephen Marley.”
Ashton turned his eyes to the road and the volume up. At the top of their lungs, together they sang “Hey Baby” along with Marley, afterward expressing a reluctant surprise that they’d finally found a song they both knew and liked.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Zakiyyah said.
“Mine, too,” Ashton said. “I love all the Marleys.”
“You do?”
“Yes, why? A white boy can’t like reggae?”
“Stop getting defensive every five seconds,” she said. “You don’t look like the type who would like Stephen Marley is all I’m saying.”
“What type is that, Z? The white type?”
“Why don’t you put on the song again instead of speaking. That would be best.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
They sang along to “Hey Baby,” three more times, and then to UB40’s “Red Red Wine” and “Please Don’t Make Me Cry.” They sang along to everything because they knew it all. They argued about who was better, Sean Paul or Jimmy Cliff, agreed that Ziggy Marley was amazing, that Bob was in a class by himself, accepted that Third World and UB40 were fun to listen to, especially in the car with the top down, but both confessed to a particular weakness for Stephen Marley’s hip-hop/reggae brilliance. Next time they stopped, Zakiyyah asked for the top to be down and Ashton said, “Make up your mind, will you?” but he put it down happily, and they cruised down Desert Inn Road, cranking Marley all the way up and turning him down to passionately disagree about which album was better, Revelation Pt. I: The Root of Life or Revelation Pt. II: The Fruit of Life.
If, at the start of the trip, Ashton had been breaking every speed limit trying to get to the end of the journey faster, by the end, he was dogging it on Highway 15 at forty an hour, still trying to persuade the infuriatingly unpersuadable Zakiyyah that he was right and she was wrong.
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