by Emma Scott
“Okay, this I gotta hear.”
“On my twenty-first birthday, a bunch of friends and I got drunk and went casino-hopping. We gambled and drank and then drank some more, until I was pretty wasted.”
“I’m trying to imagine you drunk and can’t do it,” I said. “Which really isn’t fair, all things considered.”
“You’re a much prettier drunk,” he replied, his eyes meeting mine. “All things considered.”
I felt the blush climb up my cheeks, and Jonah cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said. “My best friend, Oscar, was the ringleader of the whole expedition. He had five casinos on the itinerary, followed by a strip club.”
“A strip club? For shame.”
“It wasn’t my thing, to be honest,” Jonah said. “But I never made it there anyway. We staggered into the Bellagio and I lay down on the floor in the middle of the lobby and refused to get up.”
“The floor?” I clapped my hands together. “This makes me feel so much better about puking in your limo. Please continue.”
He laughed. “I don’t remember much except the ceiling was spinning. But holy shit, what a ceiling. Seventy feet of blown glass art. A riot of colors that was somehow harmonized. Planned chaos, if that makes sense.”
I rested my chin in my hand. “It does.”
“I honestly thought I was hallucinating,” he said. “I’d learned from my classes at UNLV about Dale Chihuly, a master glass blower, and that his work was here in Las Vegas. But I’d never been into glass. Or even into the Bellagio. But that night, even drunk off my ass, the installation stayed with me. I wanted to know how it was possible to make glass do that. Make it look like a flower garden had erupted out of the ceiling.
“I came back to the Bellagio the next day. Hungover as hell, to see if that ceiling was impressive as I’d remembered, or if I’d just been a drunken idiot, mesmerized by pretty colors.”
“You weren’t a drunken idiot.”
“The jury’s still out on that,” Jonah said with a grin, rising to re-fire the piece. “But I wasn’t mesmerized, I was obsessed. I read everything I could about Dale Chihuly. He became my idol, and still is. I changed my focus from lights to glass that week, and the first time I held a blowpipe and watched a piece come to life, I knew it was what I would do for the rest…” He coughed and wiped his sweaty chin on his shoulder. “For the rest of my studies.”
“I love hearing how someone finds their passion,” I said. “Or how it finds them.” I glanced around the space. “But this isn’t like painting where you can just pick up a brush and a canvas. Can I be nosy?”
“You want to know how one affords this space, the tools, an assistant, and all the glass a guy could want on a limo driver’s salary?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t pay for any of it. I won a grant from Carnegie Mellon.” He returned to the bench and took up the damp, burnt dictionary to roll the glass in, as if he were polishing it. The smell of burnt paper filled the space, and even though molten hot glass was mere inches from his bare hand, it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He rolled and shaped with the practiced ease of someone who had done it thousands of times.
He’s a professional, I thought. A master. I felt strangely proud watching him. “It doesn’t surprise me that you won a grant.”
“It was kind of a consolation prize, actually,” Jonah said. “I got sick in my third year at Carnegie and couldn’t graduate. I was in the hospital about five months, and when I got out…I didn’t go back. My parents wanted me to stay here. My mother especially.”
“I can imagine,” I said quietly, just above the constant hiss-roar of the fire.
“But I had a full scholarship at CM, and when I told them I couldn’t stay to earn my degree, they gave me a grant to do this installation. Sort of like a thesis project.”
“You must be something special, Fletcher, for them to throw so much money at you.” I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “But it’s too bad you had to leave Carnegie. Can I ask…?”
“How I got sick?” He went to the furnace for another re-fire.
I nodded. “I don’t understand how a twenty-five-year-old guy winds up needing a heart transplant.”
Jonah nodded, and when he spoke his voice was flat. “A bunch of us took a trip to South America last summer. Peru, Colombia, Venezuela. I caught a virus while camping outside Caracas. They think it was from swimming in a river, though my friends and girlfriend at the time all swam too. I later learned I had a genetic disposition that made me susceptible to the virus.”
He returned to the bench, rolling and polishing.
“I also learned I have a rare tissue type, which made finding a donor heart a little tricky. I was in a pretty bad way when we got the call that one was found, as close a match as they could get. I had the transplant, and… All’s well that ends well, right?”
“I’m glad it ended well,” I said softly.
He said nothing but hung the blowpipe upside down from a hook on the ceiling above him. It looked as though it had a glowing light bulb on the end. He took a second pipe to the big furnace that held the glass and came back with a small gather.
“What’s that going to be?” I asked, glad to be able to ask something harmless for a change.
“The neck of the bottle.” He sat on the bench, rolling the pipe, and took up a pair of what looked like oversized tweezers. He pressed one tong into the small piece glass, hollowing it out, and then began to pull the glass, forming a lip.
“It’s like taffy,” I said.
“Pretty much.”
He worked for a bit, stretching the neck out, then cutting off the end to make a perfectly round opening.
“Awful quiet in here,” Jonah said, and his smile was warm again. “I’m sitting with a soon-to-be world famous guitarist in front of me, but I don’t hear music. Makes no sense.”
I swung my legs out in front of me to examine my boots. “My acoustic is in a truck with the other band equipment. I think.”
“If I turn on the radio, will I hear one of your songs?”
“Probably,” I said. “‘Talk Me Down’ is kind of big right now.”
“I’ve heard it. I’m not a fan of the music, to be honest, but the lyrics were pretty good.”
“I wrote it.”
Jonah stopped and looked at me sharply. “You did?”
“Surprised?”
He thought about it for a second. “Nope.”
My cheeks heated and I had to look away. “Shucks.”
Jonah took the first blowpipe from the ceiling hook, then sat back on the bench. “Can I ask you a question?”
I grinned. “No.”
He glanced at me, then back to his work. “You don’t seem too keen on being a rock star, so why don’t you do your own thing? Write what you want and sing it yourself?”
“I do sing a little. Back up. Rapid Confession already has a lead singer and Jeannie will never let you forget it.” I smiled ruefully. “She doesn’t mind if I write hit songs so long as she gets to sing them. It’s her band. And I’ve been in her band practically since my dad kicked me out. It’s all I know how to do.”
Jonah married the bottleneck to the round ball of glass, then broke off the whole piece from the first blowpipe. He took it to the big furnace, explaining he was adding another layer of clear glass over it. He returned to the bench for more rolling and shaping.
“I’m starting to see a little bottle,” I said. “It’s already beautiful. You’re so talented.”
“So are you,” he said, not looking up from his work. “But all the pieces of your talent—singing, guitar, songwriting…They’re scattered all over, like my installation. Or a constellation. Put them together…” Now he looked up, his smile gentle. “The whole might be pretty spectacular.”
A hundred different emotions boiled up in me. Jonah’s words were fragments of my own thoughts. Insights I’d never had the guts to string together on my own. I nearl
y snapped at him to mind his own business, and in the next heartbeat I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and thank him for…
For what?
I had no idea.
And I desperately wanted a drink.
“It’s done,” Jonah said, rising. He’d broken off the entire piece from the blowpipe, cradling it in an oversize glove, like a catcher’s mitt, and took it to yet a third oven. “This is the kiln. It has to cool slowly. It’ll be finished tomorrow.”
He shut the door and turned to regard me where I sat, not having moved from my chair.
“I’m sorry if I got too personal.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, sweat beading his brow. “It’s really easy to forget I only met you yesterday.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. My turbulent thoughts settled, along with the thirst for a shot of something strong. I moved to stand beside him at the kiln. “You’re easy to talk to, Fletcher.” I shot him a look. “Maybe a little too easy.”
“Likewise, Dawson.”
I peered into the screened window. “I can’t see it.” I turned so we were face to face, only a foot of space between us. “I want to see it before I leave Vegas.”
“I’ll make sure of that,” he said quietly.
Our eyes met, as if our gazes were reaching for each other. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in his space, feeling his gaze soft on me, breathing the scent of his skin and clothes. His presence glided all up and down my body. The passing seconds seemed to expand and crystallize. If I moved, I’d break them.
I don’t want to go.
I almost said it. The words were in my mouth.
Then don’t, he answered in my mind, and I felt a tangible relief as if he’d spoken aloud. As if I had a different life than the one waiting for me in two days.
“We should get back,” he said, his voice heavy and, to my ears, hung with regret.
I nodded. “Okay…”
The front door rattled open, and a woman’s voice called out. “Hello? Sorry I’m late. You would not believe… Oh. Hi.”
A young woman with caramel skin and dark eyes approached us. She wore jeans and an athletic runner’s tank top. Her hair was a burst of dark ringlets held at bay by a colorful headband. She was gorgeous.
“Tania King,” Jonah said, “this is Kacey Dawson. She’s a…friend.”
“So nice to meet you, Kacey,” Tania said, offering both her hand and an easy, friendly smile. “And where do you know each other from?” she asked, her eyebrows arched almost to her headband with curiosity.
“Kacey’s in town for a few days with her band,” Jonah said. “She’s staying with me until Tuesday.”
Now Tania’s eyes looked ready to burst from her skull. “Really? That’s wonderful. And unexpected...”
“I was just giving Kacey a tour of the hot shop,” Jonah put in.
I bobbed my head. “It’s amazing. Jonah made a piece for the gallery opening to show me how it’s done. He’s incredibly talented.”
“I agree,” Tania said. “And I love to tell him how talented he is because he can’t take it. At all. Look at him.”
Jonah was rolling his eyes and shaking his head as the blush crawled up his neck. His modesty was genuine and therefore sexy as hell.
Shit, now I’m blushing…
“So which piece did you make?” Tania asked him. “I’ll scratch it off the list.”
Jonah scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Um, it’s…”
“A perfume bottle,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”
Tania wrinkled her brow. “A perfume bottle. I don’t recall that—”
“I have to drive Kacey back to my place,” Jonah said quickly. “I’ll come back to finish out the day.”
“Sure, sure,” Tania said. She held Jonah’s eyes a moment, then turned to me. “Will I see you again before you leave?”
“No,” I said. “We fly out tomorrow.”
Again, Tania’s eyes met Jonah’s. A silent conversation seemed to pass between them, reminding me of the one between Jonah and Theo in the kitchen yesterday.
“Well that sucks balls,” she finally said.
“Tania doesn’t express herself very well,” Jonah said dryly.
“And aren’t you lucky I don’t?” she said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Kacey.”
She offered her hand again but I hugged her instead. “You too, Tania. Maybe I’ll visit sometime soon.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think that would be a very, very good idea.”
“Tania’s awesome,” I said as we drove back. “Has she been your assistant long?”
“Since I began the installation,” Jonah said. “About two months ago. She’s a senior at UNLV. Industrial arts and all kinds of talented. I’m lucky to have her.”
“She seemed so happy to see me. That felt nice.”
Jonah shifted in his seat. “She’s like that. Friendly.” He glanced at me then back to the road. “The truth is… I’ve sort of walled myself off to a lot of people since I began my installation.” He spoke slowly, as if inspecting each word before he let it out. “I have Tania, Theo, my parents, and my best friends, Oscar and Dena. They’re all I have time for. I think Tania was happy that I brought someone new to the hot shop.”
“Oscar and Dena are the friends I saw in your photos? African-American guy with a nice smile? Pretty girl who looks Middle Eastern?”
“That’s them. Dena’s parents are from Iran. She and Oscar have been together for ages. I’m actually supposed to hang out with them tonight. We get together every week. It’s part of my routine, like dinner with my folks.”
“Oh.” I twisted my hands in my lap. “That’s cool. I think I’ll—”
“But I was thinking that since it’s your last night here, maybe I’d cancel.”
“No, no,” I said, even as happiness bloomed in my chest. “I don’t want to interfere…”
“I feel like vegging out with a movie.” We came to a red light and Jonah turned to me, a grin tilting his lips. “Is there an eighties classic on the agenda?”
“There could be.”
The light turned green, and he turned his eyes back to the road. “Sounds good.”
“Yeah,” I said, resting my chin in my hand to conceal the idiotic smile on my face. “Sounds perfect.”
When my cell phone rang around eight o’clock, I knew it would be Theo. I’d already gotten an earful from Tania when I’d returned to the hot shop that afternoon: question after question about Kacey. I stuck to the story, she was leaving the next day.
“And the perfume bottle?” Tania asked, her lips curled up in a knowing smirk. “I don’t recall it being on the gallery manifest.”
“I added it.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” she’d said, and let the matter drop.
Theo on the other hand…
“Oscar texted me,” he said now. “You’re canceling tonight?”
“It’s Kacey’s last night—”
“So it’s about that girl.”
“Kacey. Yes. I—”
“Are you going to sleep with her?”
“Jesus, Theo.”
“Are you?”
I sat on one of the two stools at the kitchen that served as my dining table, turning away from the hallway bathroom where Kacey was washing her face.
“I’m being polite to my houseguest. I don’t want to invite her out, she’s trying not to drink, and I don’t want to leave her alone to be bored all night. And by the way, newsflash…” I lowered my voice and made sure the water was still running in the sink… “It’s none of your business who I sleep with.”
“You know what Dr. Morrison told you,” Theo said. “You have to be careful. Don’t overdo it.”
“Theo…”
“And you have to use a condom, no exceptions.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
But of course, I didn’t hang up. Because he was my brother and beneath his tough talk he was scared
shitless for me. “I told Oscar and Dena we’d hang out on Wednesday to make up for it. You free?”
“I’m at the shop late Wednesday,” Theo said. “She’s leaving tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
There was a silence on the other end.
“Hello?” I said. “Want me to tell her you said goodbye? Safe travels? How about an autograph?”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Theo said, his voice suddenly stony. The phone went quiet.
Kacey emerged from the bathroom, wearing a T-shirt that came to mid-thigh and nothing else. I stared at her long, bare legs and the bottom edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the hem.
“Don’t look so scandalized, Fletcher,” Kacey said, hauling up her shirt. “I’m wearing shorts.”
I blinked. Yes, indeed, she was wearing shorts. Short shorts.
“Your tattoo,” I said. “What’s that called? A sugar skull?”
“A voodoo sugar skull. See the top hat? I love voodoo mythology and magic. Marie Leveau. Vevé.” She held up her leg for inspection and I pretended to study her skull that was done in vibrant colors and two large blue flowers in the eye sockets.
“It’s nice.” I coughed. “So…movie?”
Kacey clapped her hands together. “The original Nightmare on Elm Street. 1984. I’ve seen it twice. Johnny Depp is a baby in this sucker.”
I watched her move into my kitchen and begin bustling around with pots, opening cabinets, and turning on a burner on the stove as if she’d done it a hundred times.
“You’re cooking too?”
She dangled a bag of popcorn kernels. “Homemade. No fats or preservatives or—”
“Flavor?” I finished and then laughed at her huffy expression. “Did I have popcorn stashed somewhere?”
“No, I bought it today,” Kacey said. “Can’t watch a horror flick without popcorn. But I’m using coconut oil. Low cholesterol, heart healthy. And I got you this…”
She handed me a canister from the counter. The label read Milton’s Salt Substitute.
“Sodium free,” Kacey said, shaking the covered pot on the stove. “Fake salt. I’m going to use it on my popcorn too, out of solidarity. Oh, and drinks.”