“When you’re tired of fishing, come play a man’s game,” my dad grunts, only half joking. Dad likes to label things male or female. Poker is a man’s game, beef is a man’s food, and flannel is a man’s shirt. I shudder to think what my Dad would think a man’s boyfriend should be.
To humor him, I tear myself away from the go-fish game and move to the end of the row, settling in front of the video poker screen beside my him. Dad nods and grunts in approval. I find it amazing that with all the work being done to interpret animal calls, no one has yet catalogued the various grunts of the High Desert Dweller.
I feed a handful of nickels into the machine, grimacing at the dull, gray film the money leaves on my fingers. I play a couple hands of poker with no luck. Then, the fourth one I drop down hits me three of a kind and the machine lights up like opening night, dinging and adding credits to my score. My dad looks over and raises his eyebrows in appreciation.
“Not bad, son,” he says and gives me a little half smile and a pleased grunt.
I can’t help it. He looks so proud that I grunt back.
Feeling a little more confident, I throw down a whole twenty-five cents on my next hand, glancing over to see what Dad thinks of my man’s bet.
And that’s when I see my life flash before my eyes.
In the form of Marc.
What the hell is that boy still doing in town? But there he is, walking through the aisles of slots, heading straight for us.
Maybe he won’t see me. Maybe he won’t recognize me. I am in flannel. God, which is worse, me being seen in flannel or Marc being seen by my parents? Either one spells disaster, and I fight the urge to duck behind a passing cocktail waitress as Marc approaches.
“David?” Marc says, making his way to our row. He’s dressed in skintight leather pants and a baby doll T that says ‘Boy Toy.’ “What on earth are you doing here?” He plants one hand on his hip and flips the other palm up in a way that makes my father look away.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I say under my breath.
“Ohmiod, Moira got me that audition with Wilder, and guess what? He cast me in his movie! I’m the time traveling policeman’s rookie partner. Can you believe it? And the rumors are so true about Wilder, he’s such a cutie, and has an ass to die for!”
Dad lets out an is-this-guy-a-fruitcake? grunt. I respond with an I’m-a-dead-man grunt.
Mom picks this moment to wander over to us. “That dang fishy ate all my nickels. Oh, hello.” Mom’s eyes go from Marc, to me, to the ‘Boy Toy’ shirt, then back to me before her fingers curl around the cross at her neck.
“Well hello, dahling,” Marc says, grabbing my mom’s free hand in a limp grasp. He looks to me to make the introductions.
“This is my mom. And dad,” I say, gesturing to my father who’s carefully gluing his eyes to the screen in front of him as if looking at Marc might turn him to stone. Or, worse yet, gay.
“Oh, pleased to meet you Mr. and Mrs. David’s parents,” Marc says, giggling like an eight year old.
“Are you a friend of David’s?” Ma asks.
Before he can answer I jump in, praying to the gods I can extract myself from this one. “Uh, we used to work together actually.”
“Oh,” my mother says. “At the House of Blues?”
“House of Blues?” Marc asks, looking quizzically at me. Please let him understand. Ix-nay on the owboy-sha.
“Right, well, I wouldn’t want you to keep Evan Wilder waiting,” I say, clapping Marc on the back in the most manly gesture I can muster. “Good to see you, man.”
“Man?” Marc appears on the verge of more giggles. Then he looks down and takes in my flannel attire. I think I see realization dawning in his eyes. And it’s none too soon. Dad’s starting to give me that sideways look he gave our dog, Rascal, after he was bit by a rabid raccoon. Like if I show signs of foaming at the mouth or wearing designer denim, he might just have to take me out back and introduce me to his twelve gauge.
“Okay, then. Well, I guess I’ll see you later. ‘Man,’” Marc says, slapping me back on the back with such force I think he might knock the wind out of me. Then he walks away, wiggling his slim little hips.
“That wasn’t the friend you go to games with, was it?” Mom asks, staring after him.
“No,” I answer truthfully.
“Well, that’s good. Cause I think he may be a little… you know.”
“Gay?”
Mom’s hands immediately go to her crucifix again. “Davey! You know it isn’t Christian to go callin’ names.”
I take a deep, cleansing breath and will myself to remember how badly I don’t want my parents to die of shock induced heart attacks.
“I think I’m gonna go try that Wheel of Fortune game,” Mom says, and lugging her two-ton purse with her, walks off in the direction of the life sized Vanna White.
I let the breath out. I am so not cut out to be a double agent.
* * *
Two hours later, thoroughly stuffed with $5.99 buffet delights, the parents and I are playing yet another round of video poker while I desperately scan the crowd of aging cocktail waitresses and paunchy tourists for my savior. Mary. She’s ten minutes late, and I’m starting to get antsy.
Just as I’m about to start sweating bullets, I see her little brown head bobbing my way.
“Hi, honey,” I say, slipping a little in my relief. “Honey” is not a word that desert dwellers use unless it’s in the context of, “That Dolly Parton is such a honey.”
“Hi David,” she says, kissing my cheek.
“Uh, these are my parents,” I say, indicating the silent pair.
“Mom, Dad, this is Mary. My… friend.”
Mom raises an eyebrow at Dad. “His friend,” she says. Dad looks Mary up and down. Then grunts, elbowing Mom in the ribs.
“Nice to meet you, Mary,” Mom says extending a hand. Mary shakes it, a big fake smile pasted on her face.
My dad just nods and grunts again.
“Mary offered to show you guys around a bit while I go to my interview,” I say. I told Mom and Dad I was vying for a position as a bartender at a new club. White lie, I know. But it’s better than the alternative.
Mom smiles her church smile. “Well, aren’t you just a peach?”
“That’s me, just peachy.”
Mom laughs in her deep chuckle, usually reserved for America’s Funniest Home Videos reruns, and claps her hands together. “Oh David, you’ve got a keeper here.”
And suddenly it dawns on me. They think Mary’s my girlfriend. Okay, good. Great. Yes, Mary is my girlfriend. This is good. I put an arm around her shoulders and squeeze. Dad gives Mom another elbow nudge.
I glance down at my watch. As much fun as this game of guess-David’s-sexual-preference is, I’ve gotta go.
“Well, I have to git, if I’m going to make it to that interview. Ya’ll have fun with Mary, now, k?” Oh how I wish Mary didn’t have to witness me going into desert vernacular, but she seems oblivious, still staring at my parents with a pasted-on smile.
“Hurry back,” she says between clenched teeth, and I fairly sprint away. I so owe her. Poor girl doesn’t have the slightest idea what she’s getting into.
Chapter Fourteen:
Mary, the Queen of Hearts
They’re just staring at me. Oh my God. What do I do with these people? I am so going to get David for this. I don’t know how he talked me into this except that maybe A) the idea of dating a hot showboy is not altogether repulsive, and B) my mother is still under the delusion that I’m bring a doctor to Sam’s wedding, and if I don’t show up with somebody (anybody!) I will be forced to sit at the humiliating singles and children’s table at my sister’s reception.
“So,” I say, realizing we’re all still standing there staring at each other. (All of us except David, who practically sprinted toward the ballroom the second he saw me.) “Uh, David’s told me so much about you.” Right. In the three years I’ve known him I think he’
s said, “Dad owns a gas station, Mom loves Jesus.” I know so much.
“He has?” his mother asks, sounding surprised. I feel amazingly slim standing next to her polyester-clad frame. She’s kind of what I would expect Mrs. Claus to look like, round and plump and like she hardly ever says no to Christmas cookies. It’s actually sort of a comforting shape. This is what mothers are supposed to look like, plump and huggable. Involuntarily, I think of my own mother’s hand-crafted, angular physique.
Dad moves a toothpick around in his mouth, gumming it from one side to the other. He’s wearing a pair of saggy blue jeans and a button down shirt straining against his buffet gut. The whole thing is capped off by a pair of suspenders that seem to be the only things keeping gravity from working its magic on his jeans, as the man has no butt at all from what I can tell.
“Well, isn’t it nice to hear David talks about his family?” Mom smiles a big toothy grin at me.
“Oh, sure. David talks about you all the time,” I say. Little white lies never hurt anyone, right?
“How nice,” Mom says again.
“Yep,” says Dad.
Yep. Mom and Dad stare at me with a certain look of anticipation in their eyes, as if they expect me to jump into Vegas Tour Guide mode. Uh, gee, well… these are the slots and, oh, hey look, more slots over there. And if you’ll look to my right, you will see (and prepare yourself for this) another bank of slot machines. Please no flash photography and hold all question until the end.
I grit my teeth and force a smile, imagining the hard-bodied, gorgeous showboy David will set me up with, and tell myself it’s worth it. I mean, what’s one afternoon of my life if it means the look of envy and disbelief on my mother’s face when I walk into my sister’s wedding with Mr. Showboy Hottie? See, Mother, Brandon wasn’t the only guy I’ll ever date.
“Do you play the slots?” Mom asks.
“Uh, sure,” I say, settling onto a vinyl stool beside her in front of the bank of consoles. Dad goes to a poker game, three stools down. Mom smiles at me again, then reaches into a huge plastic purse and pulls out a roll of nickels. She hands it to me.
“We’re playing the nickel slots today. I’m up thirteen dollars.”
“Wow, good for you,” I say. She smiles again and begins feeding the machine in front of her.
Okay. An afternoon at the nickels slots. Could be worse. In all honesty, it’s better than the afternoon I had planned before David called. Which basically consisted of not thinking about Brandon. However, not thinking about someone is harder than it sounds. I thought it would be easier once the ring was gone. I figured once my apartment was officially Brandon free I would forget about him. Wrong again. If anything, it’s even worse. Don’t get me wrong, I am over him. I’m not expecting him to come walking through the door, begging me to forgive him with a dozen roses in hand anymore. But I still can’t help thinking about the fact I’d be picking out china patterns right now if he wasn’t allergic to commitment.
Instead, I’m left with no Brandon and one huge wedding. Only it’s Sam’s, not mine. Is it wrong that somewhere in the back of my mind I’m hoping Sam calls it off at the last minute? That Trevor realizes he doesn’t really want to be tied down yet and takes off for a wild fling in Cabo? Because I just don’t want to be the only one. The only one who can’t make a relationship work. All around me my friends have great relationships. They fall in love, get married, live happily ever after. And when I finally get close to the finish line, mine just falls apart. I’m doomed. I’m doomed to be the girl that can’t finish the race. Heck, at this point, I’m stuck at the starting gate. Too much longer and it’s off to the glue factory for me.
“So, you’re, a… friend of David’s, huh?” Mom asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Sure am.”
“I see,” she says slowly. “So, how long have ya’ll been… friends?”
I choose my words carefully, willing myself not to out David over the nickel slots. “A couple years now. I met David through another friend, Ella. She and David worked together in-” I catch myself just in time. “Uh, at the House of Blues.” Right. Like David would be caught dead there unless it was a Duran Duran reunion show.
“Oh. So, you’ve been… friends with David that long?”
“Sure. He’s a great guy.” Why do I feel like I’m missing something here? Mom keeps saying the word “friends” and Dad is leaning so far over to hear the conversation I think he’s going to fall right out of his seat.
“I thought most o’ David’s friends was guys,” Mom says.
If you only knew! “I guess I’m an exception.”
“Well, you’re one lovely girl. We’re very glad. Aren’t we glad, Frank?” she says.
“Hmmm,” he grunts noncommittally.
“What’s your last name, dear?” she asks me.
“Halligan.”
“Oh.” She pauses, just kind of staring at me. “Oh, that’s Irish isn’t it?”
“I guess. It was my father’s name, though I never really met him. I was mostly raised by my mom. And step-dad. Well, step-dads plural really. But, yes, I guess it’s Irish.”
“Does that mean you’re…” She leans in close, doing that loud whispery thing people do when they’re either talking about sex or death. “…Catholic?”
“Um, no. My mother’s Episcopalian.” I think. Unless you count Botox as a religion.
This seems to satisfy Mom as she sits back in her seat, fingering the gold cross at her neck. “Well, that’s a relief. So, do you work in one a them nightclubs too?” she asks.
“No, I work in a wedding chapel.”
“Oh, my. Well, you do know that David will be getting married in a church.”
O-kay. Not unless it’s in Vermont.
“To be honest,” I say, leaning in to her, “I’ve always wanted to be married in a church, too.”
Mom’s face lights up and she gives me a huge smile. “Oh that’s perfect. See, I knew you was a good Christian girl the minute I seen you.”
And then it hits me. Oh my God, they think I’m David’s girlfriend! Well, duh, of course they do. David introduced me as his “friend.” I’m probably the only girl he’s introduced them to since second grade, knowing David. No wonder Mom’s been all toothy smiles.
I paste my own smile on and shove a nickel in the slot machine in front of me.
All I can say is that showboy better be cute.
* * *
“You in, Mary?” Kit asks, deck of Chippendales poised in her hand.
“Oh yeah, I’m in.”
Ella and Julio share a glance, and Julio bites his lip as he looks down at his cards in concentration again.
I have a three, an eight, a two, a ten, and a four. I’m so bluffing. But I think I’m doing a damn good job of it tonight, as Julio looks at me over the top of his cards. With David gone my chances of walking away with a queen’s ransom have just doubled. Julio, much as I love him, is way too trusting. Which makes him an easy mark for my totally great bluffing skills. Not to mention the fact that he’s brought a whole pile of hair product samples to the table with him, which are making me salivate even as I sit here. My hair’s been fried ever since the pre-barbeque curling iron fest, and I could really use some of his hot oil treatment.
“Julio?” Kit asks.
He narrows his eyes at me. I bat my eyelashes and make kissing faces at him from across my dining room table. Who me? Bluff? Never.
“Okay, fine.” He throws the hot oil treatment in, and I do an internal happy dance.
“Ella?”
“I’m thinking.” She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, frowning (a good sign!) as she looks over each card in her hand again. I start to feel a little giddy as her fingers hovers over a French manicure kit. If I win the hot oil and the manicure kit, I could be looking pretty damn hot for my date with Mr. Showboy. Which I so earned this afternoon, by the way.
David left me with Ma and Pa Kettle for over two and a half hours. W
hen he came back, he was freshly showered and dressed in new flannels and smelled like old spice. He said the cologne was to avoid his parents’ interrogation and the shower was because he’d had to dance so hard at the audition he’d smelled like a Survivor contestant six weeks into the island. Apparently he had to go through the entire routine twice and when he left, three more chorus boys showed up to audition for the same spot. He looked a little pissy about that, but it was nothing compared to the look I got when I told him his mother was picking out churches for us. I almost felt bad about leaving him while I went out to play.
Almost, I decide eyeing the hot oil treatment, but not entirely.
“So, are you in or not, Ella?” Kit asks impatiently. She’s been like that since she got here tonight. Kind of jittery and on edge. And she keeps looking at my Garfield clock over the TV too. Hmm… maybe she’s got a hot date tonight.
“Okay, I’m in,” Ella says, throwing in my manicure kit. (Woo hoo! French nails, here I come.)
“Great, I fold,” Kit says, throwing her cards down quickly. Just call me Miss Bluff.
“Julio?”
He eyes the hot oil, the manicure kit, and my Cover Girl peach blush. He licks his lips, eyes darting to me again. I make another kissy face, this time with smoochy sounds.
“Yuck, Mary.” Kit glances at the clock again.
“You have a hot date tonight or something?” I ask.
“No,” she says defiantly.
Uh, me thinks that blush creeping into her cheeks says, “Yes.”
“Oh really?” Julio asks. He leans over and hooks a finger around her bra strap pulling it out from the neckline of her peasant blouse. “Fredrick’s of Hollywood, doll. I know this isn’t for our benefit.”
Kit gives him a dirty look, and he snaps the bra back in place.
“Oh, is it Emilio?” I ask, remembering the way he was flirting with her at the Back Room.
Kit glances over at Ella. They seem to hold each other’s eyes for a minute before Kit replies.
What Happens in Vegas Page 13