The Chapel Wars (12 page)

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 Dax
worth
.”

“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 voices 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.”

“You could edit
yourself
.”

“Not as fun. Now. Daxworth Cranston entered this world almost nineteen years ago. …”

“Birthday?”

“June twenty-seventh.”

“One hundred ninety-six days away. You’re still closer to eighteen.”

“What was that?” he asked. “Did you just add that up in your head like that?”

I stuck my hand across the table. “Hi. I’m Holly. And I can add.”

Dax shook his head. “That wasn’t adding. That was math whizzing.”

“I count things.” I shrugged. “I can also tell you how many times you’ve rubbed your jaw in this conversation.”

“Yeah?”

“Five.”

The waiter came. Dax ordered a well-done steak; I went with the fish, despite the whole part in the e-mail Camille sent about dinner selection. Dax grinned as we handed back our menus. “So, numbers girl. I should have had you around to take stats at our baseball games.”

“But then I would have to go to a baseball game, and I only go to professional games.”

“Ha, fair enough.”

When I didn’t say anything else, he shifted in the booth. “What about you? Give me Holly 101.”

“There’s not too much to say. I go to school, I go to work, I go out with my friends.”

“I might not have known you very long, Holly Nolan, but I’m sure there is much more to say than that.”

His adorable. It almost hurt.

“I like … history. Actually. All kinds. Romantic, tragic, controversial. You know the Mafia used to hang out in the back room here, right?”

“Of course I didn’t. I didn’t know this place existed until tonight.”

“But it’s a mile away from where you work.”

“I’m not always great with details. You are though, aren’t you? Numbers and facts and making it all sound interesting. And you’re in the wedding industry, which is detail heaven. I bet you actually like all the little nitpicks brides care about.”

“It’s their day.” I twisted my napkin. “Don’t you?”

“Not at all.
‘No, I want white flowers!’ ‘Where is my something blue?’ ‘I think I’m in love with the groomsman.’
It’s a crazy-person’s job. No offense.” He shuddered. “I only work there because that’s where my mom and dad met.”

“Really? When was that?”

“Early nineties. Dad was a groomsman for a college buddy. Mom was there for her sister’s wedding. They met in the lobby. Dad told Poppy he should buy the place because it had to be lucky. My parents actually got married in the lobby too. Had a wedding anniversary dinner there.” Dax smiled wistfully. “Sometimes, when I’m closing, I just lie in the middle of that room and think of every story that has walked across that floor.” He laughed softly. “I guess I like history too. I’ll have to find out how many Mafia men we’ve married there. I’m sure there’s a few.”

I grabbed his hand. “I take it back, when I said your chapel is tacky.”

“You never said that.”

“Not to
you
. That’s a beautiful story. I think it makes up for the dusty carnations.”

“What’s a carnation?”

“Shhh. Don’t ruin it.”

He told me more about his life in Birmingham. His Dad coached from Little League on up, even in high school, where he taught chemistry. Dax talked about being an only child and living alone with his mom, then more about moths, although every fact was completely and ridiculously made up.

“Moths are also the most intelligent winged insect.”

“Have you heard the expression, ‘like moths to a flame’? They’re idiots.”

“You’re a dream crasher.”

The waiter came by and made our salads tableside with homemade Caesar dressing. This is how Vegas used to be, Grandpa would say. Dinner was an event and you took your time, none of this shorts-and-Hawaiian-shirts-with-black-socks-and-sandals.

I told Dax about my business program, about Sam and Camille, Grant and Porter. Icky Mike. I didn’t say anything about my family. They felt too tied up with the chapel, and we weren’t touching that territory. “And I did cross-country freshman year to get a PE credit, but it was kind of a hassle since I had to go to another high school for practice, so now I just run for myself.”

“Do you miss being part of a team?” Dax asked, which was the weirdest question ever. Cross-country never felt like a team, not at my low level. It was just a mass of people moving from one spot to another.

“The only thing I like about organized sports is betting.”

“You’re joking,” he said.

“Grandpa Jim liked to gamble.” I thought about how much of the chapel loan must have gone to his gambling habit. I thought about how I must have contributed to it. “I read up on all the spreads, the player’s statistics … it’s pretty easy, if you take the emotion out of your choice.”

Dax leaned back in his seat. “And you can do that? Just cut off emotion?”

“Of course. I don’t care which team wins. I don’t even care about the sport. No heart, more money for my grandpa.”