No. But adding some logic to the mix didn’t hurt. If my parents had done the math, maybe they would be together still. Or maybe they wouldn’t have been together at all. They always told us this story of a whirlwind romance during a college spring break trip. I couldn’t picture them in college, or at spring break, but there the story is. Dad’s friends heckled him into some nineties MTV dating contest, which he lost, but when he was walking off the stage, he bumped into my mom, who had just broken up with Lenore’s dad and was in Mexico alone to find herself. And then they went out to eat and got food poisoning and stayed sick together and fell in love and Mom moved to Vegas for Dad. They would end the story with “And two kids later, here we are.”
And that’s where my family was, for quite a while, with parents who didn’t fight, still told how-we-met stories, and finished each other’s sentences. Which is why the divorce was so completely unexpected for James and me. Not like Porter’s parents, who’d been fighting forever, house-shaking arguments that made divorce such an inevitability that Sam actually threw him a party when Porter’s dad moved out.
When my mom picked me up from school one day and casually said she had something to talk about, I thought some greatuncle had died or that my room was too dirty. No. The only explanation I got was, “Your dad and I totally respect each other and love you kids, but we feel like staying married isn’t the best for either of us, so we’re getting a divorce.” She’d glanced in the rearview mirror right then, like she was checking if I had on my seat belt. Safe? Good. Emotionally sound? Swell.
I was so shocked in that moment, dumbfounded really, that I’d only asked if she was sure. “We’ve already signed papers,” Mom had said, which was a double blow. This wasn’t a night-before decision. This had been in the works for months, while meanwhile we’re having family dinners and going to James’s piano recitals like everything was ordinary and fine.
James reacted very differently from me, and maybe that’s why I never pried more into the matter. They had his outbursts to deal with, and Lenore’s … Lenoreness. All I did was count—the holidays since the divorce (three), the weekends I’d slept at my dad’s (eight), and the days it took for Dad to move out (five). And still I was haunted by one question.
Why?
“Holly?” Camille touched my arm, bringing me back. “I know you’re new to girl talk, but you’re supposed to respond when I say something.”
“What if this ends badly?”
Camille shrugged. “A lot of things end badly. But that doesn’t mean you don’t start something anyway.”
“That was profound,” I said.
Camille tapped her head. “It happens, every once in a while.”
Someone burped so loudly we heard it from the other room.
“So I’m going to go out with him and not tell my parents,” I said.
“Right. And go into the date with an open mind. Be emotional. Be passionate. Think about … what did you first like about him?”
“Besides his lips?”
Camille grinned. “Nice lips can get you pretty far.”
We went back into the game room. I grabbed Grant’s Kahlúa and dumped it down the sink. Porter threw a foam football at my head, which actually kind of hurt, but I didn’t say anything. Camille snuggled right back into the crook of Sam’s arm. And I wondered if any of them could tell how different I was from a few days ago, or a few weeks ago. I’d experienced heavy loss and extreme like and I didn’t know how long both sets of emotions could take up residence in one girl.
Chapter 10
The thing about a loved one dying is that everything that person touched becomes a part of who they were, leaving this trail of emotional land mines along the landscape of their life. You expect this immediately after the death, when you’re cleaning out their room and find reading glasses perched on the pages of an open book, pages that will never be read, at least not by the deceased. But other times, you see someone on TV wearing a beanie, and you’re reminded that The Edge from U2 always wore beanies, and that your recently deceased grandfather loved U2, and you loved him, and so on, day after day, week after week. Scents, songs, street corners … a day filled with razor-edged reminders that tear open your heart. Maybe the moments fizzle out after time, maybe the pain dulls. For me, each whisper of my grandpa wasn’t a jab; it was a jolt.
That feeling was the reason I waited outside the Golden Steer. I chose this place for my date with Dax because, as the sign stated, it was the oldest restaurant in Las Vegas, full of historical intrigue. It was also close to our chapels and easy to sneak away to. But now I was reconsidering the recommendation. Grandpa Jim took me here when I “graduated” middle school, told me how it had survived decades of hotels going up and crumbling down. “It doesn’t look like much on the outside,” he’d said, peering up at the cheesy gold-spray-painted statue and mustard-yellow sign. “But this is about as close to preserving history as we get in Vegas.”
The waiting room had a bar along one wall. Dax sat at a hightop table, sipping a soda, his eyes glued to a football game on the small TV. He had on a fitted polo, cracked loafers, and … reddish-pink pants. For serious.
“You wore your pink party pants,” I said.
Dax looked up. “They’re salmon.”
My friends were already shouting taunts in my head. “Then salmon’s your color.”
“I know, they’re loud.” Dax laughed. “You can take the boy out of the South, but not the—”
“Salmon pants out of the boy.”
“I’m trying to decide if it’s your beauty or kindness that I like more, Holly Nolan.”
“Who’s playing?” I slid onto the stool next to him. I wasn’t arguing the pants. He pulled off the look. Then again, Dax would look sexy in overalls and rain boots.
“Crimson Tide and Georgia Bulldogs. SEC championship. It’s un-American that we’re missing this game. In Birmingham, the whole town shuts down.”
“I hate the Crimson Tide.”
“Do you even know who they are?”
I rolled my eyes. “University of Alabama. In Tuscaloosa. They’re a dynasty. Won three or four National Titles in the past few years. Always bullying everyone in the SEC.”
“I would have been excited if you could tell me the state they are from, but … wow. That was otherworldly. Are you a cyborg or something, sent here disguised as the perfect girl?”
“I am a human,” I said in a robot voice. “Pay no attention to my perfection. Alabama football is evil.”
The hostess called my name and led us to our table. Dax slid his hand along the small of my back like it was the most natural gesture in the world. I usually wasn’t so physical with the guys I dated. Nathan Gulliver took me out six times without touching me once.
“You know, I’m sad that you don’t roll tide,” he whispered. “Alabama is my favorite school. My dad went there. So did my poppy.”
“Are you going there?”
“I was … but I doubt it.” He straightened his shoulders. “I’m West Coast now.”
“West Coast football sucks even more than Alabama.”
“Not Oregon.”
“Do not even get me started on Oregon.”
“So we don’t agree on football teams. Got it.” He made a fake check in the air. “Anything else we should veto?”
“Besides our wedding chapels? Rats. I hate rats. And spaghetti.”
“And rats in spaghetti. But who doesn’t?” He stared at me then, like he was trying to find a good quality, and by the way he lingered, I’m sure he found a few. “I like your hair like that.”
I touched the little braid that I’d managed to twist my bangs into. Camille had e-mailed me a hair tutorial. I’d used more hairspray on that spot than I had on the rest of my head all week, but at least I’d found a way to make my short hair look different.
“Thanks.”
“No compliments back?” he teased. “I bought new deodorant. Old Spice Mr. Swagger Sport Action-Hero Fresh, I think
.”
“Are you asking me to sniff you now? You’re weird, know that?”
Most of the circular booths in the restaurant were named after dead celebrities who had eaten there at some time: Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, notorious members of the Mafia. I breathed a sigh of relief when the waiter sat us at the Sammy Davis Jr. booth, one that was usually reserved. The waiter gave us a quick backstory of the restaurant. This was the original leather booth that Sammy used to sit in. In the fifties and sixties, the other restaurants still wouldn’t serve a black man, so the whole rat pack ended up joining him here, and a Vegas institution was born.
Once the waiter left, Dax unfolded his napkin into his lap. “This place is something else.”
I wiped my hands on my dressy jeans. Camille also e-mailed me outfit guides, designed on some fashion site. It must have taken her an hour, but I learned how to mix prints and colors, a far cry from my usual monochromatic black/gray/white. I’d even stopped by the Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace yesterday to buy a rose-colored blouse. Or top. Blouse? Shirt. I had on a new shirt. “Thanks. I thought it’d be fun to do something sort of … special. Las Vegas special.”
“That’s right. You’re converting me to Las Vegasism.” He nodded. “I’ve driven by here a million times and thought it was a dive.”
“So you shouldn’t judge everything based on your first impression. Like this city.”
“I told you. I’m happy to be proven wrong. It’s just going to take a lot of proving.” He scanned the darkened room. “This is definitely a step up from Chili’s.”
“Sorry you don’t get your Bloomin’ Onion,” I said.
“That’s Outback.”
“Oh.” I laughed. “I don’t usually eat at chain restaurants.”
“I see.” Dax shook out his menu. It was the same menu they’d always had. There was so much comfort in knowing a place hadn’t changed in a lifetime. “Now your flaws are really coming out. You’re a chain snob.”
“No. I’m an I-want-to-eat-something-that-wasn’t-frozen, dropped-on-the-ground, and flash-fried snob.”
“So I won’t be using my Olive Garden gift card on you.”
“You can. I’ll brave the salad.” I sipped my water. “And I’m not a snob, you know.”
Dax set his menu down. “Everyone is a snob about something. You’re a chapel snob, a chain snob—”
“Then what kind of snob are you?” I folded my arms across my chest.
Dax didn’t even pause. “A shoe snob. I could spend a fortune on shoes if I had the money. I’d rather buy shoes than eat this steak.”
“I’m paying for dinner,” I said. “We can go shoe shopping after.”
“Then you really are the perfect woman.” Dax squinted at the ceiling. “What else? I’m a TV- and movie-editing snob—I hate when in one scene a girl is putting on her jacket, then putting it on again, or an actor drinks coffee that is supposed to be hot but there is clearly nothing in the cup. Baseball … I can only watch entire baseball games in person, because if I’m watching at home, I know everyone at the ballpark is getting a better experience, with hot dogs and pretzels. Oh, and butterflies.”
“What do butterflies have to do with baseball?” I asked, entranced.
“Nothing. Sorry. Next snob thing—I loathe butterflies. I think they steal all the thunder from moths. Moths go through metamorphosis. They have wings. But no one tattoos a moth on their lower back, there are no poems about moth kisses. Just because moths are drably colored, except for the luna moth, of course, and they mostly come out at night instead of the day.”
“That’s exactly why no one likes moths. Butterflies are beautiful.”
“Well, it’s absolute species racism. Moths get the shaft.”
I couldn’t think how to reply. I was finding that to be a problem with Dax, that my pauses were a little longer, because everything he said surprised me. I didn’t talk like this with guys I dated, not about things that were actually interesting. Compatibility had never been standard for me. Now a guy I really, really wanted to date came around, and I saw all the cracks in my system.
“So sounds like your snobbery is far reaching,” I said.
“It comes from my name. You can’t have a name like mine and not be a little uppity.”
“Dax? Dax sounds like a surfer name.”
“Short for Daxworth.”
“Oh. I’m … I’m so sorry.”
“I appreciate that.”
I nudged his leg. “Where’d you get that name?”
“My mom’s name is Consuela. She’s like a quarter Puerto Rican, grew up in Mississippi, completely Americano. She felt like her name held her back, that people destined her to be a housecleaner, when she’s the principal at a middle school in Henderson. So she gave me the whitest, most Southern boarding school name she could think of to automatically get me into Harvard or something.”
“What have you done with the name?”
“I’m thinking community college.”
“Long live Daxworth Cranston.”
“Just next year. I’m going to transfer, hopefully, maybe to a California school. I don’t know, I’m just hanging out right now.”
“But it’s December. You should be collecting your letters of recommendation. Looking at requirements. You’re just … hanging out?” I didn’t mean for it to sound pathetic, but that’s how the words tasted. I’d never in my life just hung out. I always knew that I wanted to go into business, maybe help my grandpa expand and build another chapel. I’d already talked to counselors at UNLV and I was still a year away.
“I was fixing to play baseball for Alabama. My dad and I were already talking to scouts. There was big interest.” He did that shrug, where his left shoulder rose higher. “I used to pitch.”
That was better than “hanging out.” “You must be really good if you were going to pitch at an SEC school.”
“I was really good. I know that doesn’t sound modest, but I was.”
“You know, we have baseball in Las Vegas too.”
“I said I was good.” Dax’s eyes flashed. “I messed up my shoulder. Can’t do any competitive sport now. I’m a racehorse put out to pasture.”
I softened my voice. “What’d you do to your shoulder?”
Dax focused on something behind me and nodded his head. I turned around to see Bart Andrews, an old friend of my grandpa’s, clutching his hat, frozen.
Oh boy. Bart Andrews. Retired owner of a small limo business. Also not a fan of Victor Cranston. “Holly Nolan, what are you doing with a Cranston? If your grandpa knew—”
I held up a hand. “Bart. It’s fine. We’re here, we’re here for …”
“Business.” Dax stood up and held out his hand, which Bart did not take. “Hello, I’m Dax Cranston. Holly and I were just honoring a meeting I’d set up with her grandfather months ago. Trying to reconcile some professional differences.”
Bart gave a curt nod. “Your grandpa is no professional, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Dax said.
They just stood there, staring. Dax smiled, but Bart would have none of it. That’s what I get for taking Dax to a popular hangout in my grandpa’s social circle. This wouldn’t have happened if we’d gone for the Bloomin’ Onion.
“Holly, your family is in our prayers,” Bart said. “Be smart and … take care.”
“Bye, Bart.”
Dax stayed standing until Bart walked out of the room. He slid back into his seat. “I’ve never felt so popular.”
“Bart had a run-in near the courthouse with your grandpa a couple of years back.”
“It’s fine. The family name evokes all sorts of … emotions.”
“Don’t worry about him,” I said, although I probably agreed with anything Bart thought about Victor, except that his grandson was evil by association. “Bart’s kind of crazy. Grandpa said Bart thinks the government has implanted mind-controlling microchips in every kid born since 1990.”
“That’s where the vo
ices in my head come from!” Dax reached across the booth and took my hand. “So you’re not embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I scooted closer to him. This booth had been here for over sixty years; think of who’d sat here. Surely there’d been more scandalous diners than two business rivals. “Good. So you were just telling me about your shoulder.”
“Come on, I’m not some old-timer who goes on about sports injuries.”
“I want to hear about it. Did you have to get surgery?”
“Lots of them.” Dax sighed. “I seriously don’t want to talk about it. Instead, let’s talk us.”
“Us?”
“I’ve been thinking about you the last couple of days.”
I blinked. Smart subject change. He hadn’t even said it flirty; his tone of voice could have just as easily said, “Think I’ll order the chicken.”
“What were you thinking?” I asked, also without flirtation. It just seemed like a direct statement like his could have some detail.
He jiggled his ice with his straw. “About your smile. You scrunch up your nose when you’re thinking, know that? And you’re thoughtful. I feel like you practice your words before you say them.”
“Um, I don’t, but thanks? I think?” I paused. “I think about your stubble a lot.”
“My stubble?” Dax rubbed his chin. “Really, my facial hair makes the biggest impression?”
“Yeah, how often do you shave it? Or do you just trim it? And when did you start to grow facial hair, ten? It’s like model stubble.”
“Model stubble?”
“You’re supposed to say thank you when you receive a compliment.”
“I’ll remember that when you give me one.”
We glowed at each other. Beamed. Radiated. I did not know that like could be like this. Like love, just not fully realized. I did not love this boy, because to love someone is to know them. But every moment I was with him made me happy, and every moment I wasn’t with him, a small piece of me wondered where he was and what he was doing, like there was a satellite in our hearts.
He rubbed his hands together. “So. This is the second date. The getting-to-know-you date, not to be confused with the first kissing-next-to-rusted-neon-signs date. I’ll just tell you everything on earth there is to know about me, then you can edit that.”
The Chapel Wars Page 9