The Chapel Wars (16 page)

We went up to the kitchen to, I don’t know, check on more salsa. “That boy is getting on my nerves,” Camille said. “It’s like he thinks he owns me.”

“He doesn’t think that. Seriously, Camille. He is so far gone in love with you. He was picking out your wedding cake flavors the other day.”

Camille looked alarmed. “He what?”

“No, just at Bridal Spectacular. He was saying you like lemon cake but vanilla would be better …” I was not helping things. Clearly.

Camille looked down at her hands. “I don’t like when he talks like that. I’m sixteen.”

“I know! I don’t think he means it, not always, he just … he loves you.”

“He’s my first boyfriend. And my parents don’t even know he exists. We have a long way to go before we even think about marriage.”

“Of course you do. But it is fake New Year’s Eve. No sense getting into that now and wasting all your sparkles, right?”

Camille shrugged. “I guess not. I just feel like if we don’t talk about things when they happen, then we never talk about them.”

“I bet if you go back to the basement, Sam will apologize right away.”

“Yeah, he will.” Camille wrapped her arms around me like a butterfly in a chrysalis. Or a moth. Dax would prefer I mention
the moths. “Thanks for talking. You’re better at it than Sam says you are.”

“Um. Thank you?”

The doorbell rang. Camille let me go. “Come on, time to play hostess.”

Not to rub salt into a wound, but this is what happens when you get into these forbidden, love-of-my-life kind of romances in high school. High stakes, high breaks. Dax and I would be totally different because we weren’t in that kind of a relationship, we weren’t even
in
a relationship, and James already knew about us. At some point, if we even got to that point, we would tell the family and it wouldn’t be a huge deal. Or we wouldn’t tell the family, but we wouldn’t get so serious that we talked about marriage.

I mean, besides that time we talked about marriage.

Guests poured into the house for the next hour. Dax texted to say he’d be a little late, but 9:30 felt like we were a little past “a little.” Camille came back and forth between the upstairs and the downstairs to check on me. She offered me a sympathetic smile the third time. “Did he at least apologize?” she asked.

“Here’s what he said, ‘Sorry, my ride taking sweet time. Kiss you soon Juliet.’ ”

“Is that a nickname?” Camille asked.

“I guess so. Because of the chapel thing? It’s weird. I don’t know.”

She squeezed my hand. “Come downstairs with me. You can put a sign on the door. He’ll find you.”

“I’ll give him a few more minutes.”

Once she was gone, I tried writing three different texts to Dax.

Did you get lost?

Romeo, Romeo, when are you getting here already,

Romeo?

Oh, hey, I’m at the party if you want to come

I backspaced them all and sent nothing. Three blondes, five brunettes, a redhead, and a guy with a shaved head walked in. 9:45. He said he’d be here at 8:00.

I should text him, right?

My phone finally buzzed at 9:53. Text from Dax:
Sorry. I’m at the gate.
My stomach whirled with butterflies. No, moths. Beautiful moths.

The music pumped downstairs, and kids ran around on the tennis court outside. If I was going to make Dax come to a party at my school, at least it was this party. Not a Harry Potter roleplaying event like Sam used to have in middle school. Not that Dax wouldn’t be okay with that, I just wanted tonight to seem … older. Worthy of his stubble.

The doorbell rang. I watched Dax through the peephole. There was another guy standing next to him, probably someone who rolled up at the same time. Maybe it was the anticipation of wanting to see him all day, but I had never seen a finer peephole-sized specimen. Dax leaned in closer to the door. The moths rammed the lining of my stomach so hard, I thought I might puke.

I didn’t mean to fling the door open, but the anticipatory adrenaline gave me superhuman strength. “Dax, hey!”

Dax gave a lopsided grin. “Hey, Hallie, this is Alex. Alex, this is the girl I told you about.”

Alex held out his hand to give me dabs. Dabs? I’d been given dabs four times in my life, no times since I was over the age of twelve. “Where’s the party?”

I pointed to the stairs. He took them two at a time.

“Friendly guy.” I wanted to follow it up with a “and who is he?” But … whatever. So Dax brought a friend. He needed a ride and he didn’t know anybody but me. Of course he brought a friend.

Dax stepped forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You look … whoa.” He smelled like beer. Lots of beer. And look, I know it was (fake) New Year’s Eve, but this was a date, right? Sort of? What kind of guy shows up two hours late smelling like alcohol with some random kid and all I get is a “whoa”?

Dax threw his arm around me. “I had car problems and Alex had to drive.”

“Oh.” My voice was small. Teeny-tiny. I hated how mouselike and disappointed I felt. This night was supposed to sparkle, and so far we hadn’t even reached lackluster status. “Glad you made it. Finally.”

Dax shoved his hands into his pockets. “This house is huge. Is bringing me here part of your plot to make me like Vegas?”

“It’s just a house.”

“Where are your friends?”

He was going to meet my friends like this.

Spectacular.

Grant loved Dax from the get-go. They had so much in common. Like … red Solo cups. That’s about it.

Maybe Dax wasn’t any different from any other guy. Maybe it was just how I felt about him, and maybe that feeling was unfounded, a by-product of the recent life changes I’d experienced.

Dax caught my eye from across the room and smiled. I could actually see his dimple now that he’d shaved. Nevermind. My feelings were founded.

Porter flopped down next to me on the couch. “So your new boyfriend is a—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I said.

“Is a Crimson Tide fan. Said he used to live in Alabama. What did you think I was going to say?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re mad because you wanted him to show up with roses and champagne. Sorry, Holls. I think he already toasted.”

“I didn’t expect roses.” I motioned toward Dax and Grant. They were laughing about something. “I just wanted … I don’t know what I wanted. Don’t make fun of me.”

Porter leaned in closer. “Don’t let him hurt you. Three out of five Alabama fans are not doctor approved.”

“He’s not hurting me, it’s not like that.”

“Good. You deserve better in a boyfriend.”

“You’re worse than Mike. We’ve only been out a few times; I don’t even know him.”

Porter stood. “Then go talk to him. Don’t you know that drunk people are the best conversationalists? They spill all their secrets.”

I checked my watch. 10:51. I didn’t know what I was counting toward. Fake New Year’s with a boy who wasn’t even paying attention to me?

I sunk back into the couch. At least the party was under control, even if my date wasn’t. West parties were different. Kids were smart at our school, smart enough that they didn’t party too hard (like Dax) and knew where they wanted to go to college and what they were doing with their lives (unlike Dax).

Why did I invite him here anyway?

Dax weaved around the people and offered me a cup.

“No thanks.”

“It’s water.”

I took the drink and peered inside. Sniffed.

“It’s water, Holly,” Dax yelled over the music.

I grabbed a water bottle from the cooler instead.

“You want to get outta here?”

“Do you ever stay in one place?” I joked.

“What?”

I pointed to the door. “Follow me.”

Sam’s family had a big side yard that no one ever used. I don’t know why the backyard got all the love when the side yard had such charm. There was a little gazebo with a tea table that Sam
and I used as our interrogation room when we filmed home action movies in middle school. I always got stuck playing the Russian spy.

“This is cute.” Dax pulled back a metal chair. “Did you bring me out here to have your way with me?”

I took a sip of my water. Another sip. “I don’t really feel like joking around with you.”

“Oh?” He grinned. “Then what do you feel like doing?”

Would it have been too much to ask for him to be normal tonight?

He scooted closer, got up in my face. “You look pretty.”

He didn’t smell bad, not really. He still had on cologne, and alcohol can be sort of sweet too. But this guy in front of me wasn’t the Dax I knew or wanted to know. Dax was kind, funny. He seemed like someone I could count on, but maybe this was who he really was. Maybe he drank all the time. Maybe he was habitually late.

Maybe he was just like his grandfather.

I nudged Dax off my shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

He grinned, shiny-eyed. “I’m faintly intoxicated.”

“How much have you had?”

He waved a hand. It was a gesture I’d seen him do before, but this time, it was like he was moving in slow motion. “Good question, numbers girl. I should have kept you nearby to count. I always lose track.”

“Always? How often do you get faintly inebriated?”

“Intoxicated.” He smiled lazily. “Not a lot. Holidays, we’ve
already established, are awful. Hmmm, Tuesdays! Never been one for Tuesdays.”

“What did Tuesdays do to you?” I asked.

His smile was a slow fade, like the last gasp of a meteorite crashing into the ozone. “My dad died on a Tuesday. Not a fan.”

He was so sad. Drunk sad, raw sad. If he were an angry drunk, I could stay angry too, but he just looked so desperate and needy and my broken-bird instinct kicked in. “It’s not really New Year’s Eve though. You were sober then.”

“Sober but not in my right mind. I can’t believe I gave you that limo.”

“Is that what this is about, that limo?” I asked.

“How much did you make on them?”

“They pulled in because they saw Elvis,” I said. “You didn’t give me that limo.”

“But I told you to do Elvis.”

“Wow. Elvis at a Vegas wedding chapel. Revolutionary idea. Did you want me to make you partner now?”

“I’m just saying, that wasn’t the smartest business move I’ve ever made.”

“Neither is making out with your competitor or showing up here drunk.” I scooted away from him. “Seriously, are you mad at me now? Is that how it’s going to be?”

“I’m not mad at you.” Dax peered into his cup. “I’m mad at me. I’m mad at, just … I don’t know what I’m mad at. I’m being stupid. Sorry.”

“Look, Dax. I don’t mess with stuff like this. And you shouldn’t either, especially given how much your grandpa drinks.”

He hiccuped. “You’re right.”

“I’ll get you home and we can talk later.”

“But later I won’t be able to talk about this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“My mom went on a date tonight.” His voice scraped over the words. “First date since Dad died.”

My stomach dropped. “Oh, Dax.”

“She’s … she’s moving on. There are boxes of his that we brought when we moved from Birmingham. Some of his sports stuff, trophies. Things that mattered so much when he was alive, they’re all in
boxes
now. A few weeks ago, she took those boxes out of the closet and put Dad … put his boxes in the garage.” He threw his cup into the grass. “It’s my fault. Did I ever tell you that? It’s my fault that he died.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“We were in a car accident. Headed home from practice. I was driving. Dad was talking about how much my fastball had improved. He wasn’t one of those dominating coaches—just really smart about the game. Kind of like you, looked at sports like a science. Quiet guy. Humble. God, I miss him.”

“Dax—”

“There wasn’t rain, we weren’t fighting, I wasn’t texting. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about, I just wasn’t paying attention, and then I thought I saw something on the road and swerved and hit an oncoming car. Smashed my dad,
tore up my shoulder. It was my fault. People didn’t try to tell me it wasn’t. Everyone just said it was a tragedy. I don’t think Mom’s even made eye contact with me since the funeral.”

Dax buried his face in his hands.

Look, I’d just lost someone too, I knew how much it burned his throat to say these things out loud, but even with all that empathy, I couldn’t touch Dax. I felt no responsibility for Grandpa Jim’s death.

“Dax, I’m … Of course there is nothing I can even say. That’s just … horrible. That’s … I’m sorry.”

Dax wiped at his face and stared forward. “Me too. I don’t understand why it happened. What if practice hadn’t gone over five minutes? What if my dad had taken his car? What if there wasn’t something on the road? What if that other driver wasn’t going somewhere else? Do you know how many things had to line up for such a random thing to happen?”

“If you spend your life agonizing over the what-ifs …”

“But you don’t. Right? You don’t think possibility. You’re about probability. Measure it out, move forward. The only moving I’ve done in the past ten months is from my home to Vegas.”