A Wedding at the Blue Moon Cafe (13 page)

Jeff’s mother waved him over. “We were just talking about you.”

Oh shit. “Really?”

Mr. Smiley nodded. “And Jeff. Your college days.”

Not again. “A long time ago.” He swigged his beer.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Smiley sighed. “Are you married, Dylan?”

Whoa, way to flash to the present. “Not even close.”

“You must have a girlfriend?” Mr. Smiley nudged him.

“Not currently.” The women he met were boring and predictable. He slept with them, wanted to like them better, but none interested him enough to stick around.

Mrs. Smiley turned sympathetic. “No date tonight?”

He glanced over at Clarissa, who listened more intently than Mrs. Smiley for his answer. “Unfortunately, no.” Unless his luck changed.

Mrs. Smiley waved him off. “Don’t tell Brooke. She’s been sweet on you for a long time.”

Not the change he’d hoped for. “She’s a wonderful kid.”

Mr. Smiley grunted, his scrutiny suggesting Dylan should keep his distance. No problem there.

A squeal, and arms looped around his neck. Brooke kissed his cheek. “Dylan, where have you been?”

Wrong again. Big problem. “Right here. Hiding in plain sight.” Not well enough, apparently.

The crowd shifted, and Clarissa came into view. Staring at him. Frowning.

Jealous?
Enough to give him hope. He brightened and laughed at Brooke’s reminiscences. Until Jeff and Amy seated themselves at the head table, her parents retreated, and they were alone.

Brooke grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the door. “I have to show you something.”

“Now? But it looks like they’re about to serve dinner.”

A chuckle rumbled from deep within her. “Oh yeah. Now.” She dragged him outside and down the side alley.

“Brooke, we really—”

She shoved him against the building. “I need you, Dylan. I’ve been dreaming about you for years.” She kissed him hard, tongue probing.

He tried to be gentle as he took hold of her shoulders and pushed. “Brooke….”

“Fuck me, Dylan. Right now. I want you.”

Panicked, he blurted, “No.”

She glared. “What do you mean, no?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t think of you that way.” If anything, she’d killed any amorous feelings he’d had.

“Son of a bitch asshole.” She stomped around the corner and back inside.

“Great.” He leaned against the wall, waiting for Jeff or Mr. Smiley to come out and beat his ass. No one came. No shrieks, no sobs sounded from inside.

Still, he had to avoid the impression they’d been outside together. He strode down the side path to the back door and inside. He said hello to the caterers and slipped into the main room, grateful people still were making their way to their tables.

He slid onto the seat beside Jeff. “Congratulations, man.”

Jeff lightly punched his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Amy leaned around him. “Yes, we appreciate you taking time off to be here.”

Dylan raised his champagne flute. “Best wishes to you both.”

Silverware tapping glass made for a tinkling music throughout the room. Amy and Jeff obliged by kissing.

Not at all nauseating. Rather sweet, in fact. Like Amy and Clarissa when they huddled to talk, their laughter piquing his curiosity throughout dinner. When most people had finished eating, Dylan rose. “Can I have a moment? I didn’t prepare a speech but would like to say a few words.”

Conversations faded until the only sound left was the steady burble of the fountain.

“I’ve known Jeff Smiley since college. Eleven years. He’s nothing like he used to be. Shy. A bit intense. Focused on his work single-mindedly.”
Kind of like me
.

Clarissa shifted in her seat and frowned at him.

“I used to think he had it made. A great career. Set for life. It puzzled me he’d left it behind. When I arrived here, I thought he’d gone bonkers.” Dylan smiled at her. “Someone pointed out to me that Jeff didn’t know what he wanted until he came to Marfa. Until he met Amy. She brought out the best in him, things he never dreamed of. She saw the real Jeff and fell in love. We spent years in school together but I don’t think I really knew Jeff until two weeks ago. He’s not bonkers. He’s lucky as hell. He found the secret of life and embraced it. He and Amy have a sort of magic that we all wish we had.”

Clarissa’s frown had changed to something else. Admiration mixed with a little confusion, maybe a touch of surprise.

“So Amy and Jeff, may you share a lifetime of laughter and love. Keep the magic alive.” He raised his glass.

To applause and a chorus of “hear hear”s, he sat.

The band began to play, and Amy pulled Jeff to his feet. “Our song.”

Dylan twisted the base of the champagne flute atop the linen tablecloth while the newlyweds had their first dance. Next would come his dance with Clarissa. He found it difficult to wait for the singer to prompt them, and hoped the song would last a little longer than Jeff and Amy’s had. Already, they’d begun the rounds of visiting tables.

The guy at the mic waved them up. “Let’s have the maid of honor and best man.”

Dylan stood so fast, he bumped his leg. Rising more slowly, Clarissa shot him an indecipherable look and sauntered around the table. He tried not to stare, but the open back of her dress was so alluring, all he could think about was his hand on her bare skin. The black lace came together at her neck, spread across her shoulder blades to her sides, then plunged to a V at the small of her back.

When she whirled to face him, he braced for a slap, then realized she was waiting for him to dance with her. He stepped close, and she rested her hands on his chest.
Keeping me at a distance
. He’d hoped for a warmer embrace. Awkward, with everyone watching.

She stared over his shoulder. “Nice toast.”

“I can’t take credit. You’re the one who opened my eyes about Jeff.”

Her brow furrowed. “I thought you disagreed with me.”

“You made me see the light.”

“Oh.”

Agreeing with her was even more fun than disagreeing. Yes, anger flushed her cheeks and brightened her eyes, but he liked this softer Clarissa better. So much that he wanted to invite her out later. Get to know her, finally, even if merely dancing with her ratcheted up his nerves. Every time he was lucky enough to get close to her, her wide eyes captivated him. She was nothing short of gorgeous, a classic beauty beneath her tough talk and tattoos. With the body of a goddess, she moved with surprising grace. He grew painfully aware that his limbs had turned rigid like some teenager at the prom. Hell, he hadn’t been this nervous at fourteen on his first official date. Or this excited. Who knew? Maybe they could find some real magic, too. “Hey—”

“Thanks, Clarissa and Dylan,” the band’s singer cut in. “Now Amy and Jeff will cut the cake.”

Clarissa took the cue and practically ran with it. He surrendered, this time. Instead of returning to the table, she headed to the bar and struck up a conversation with Harvey. Dylan decided to wait for another opportunity.

The
clip
of approaching heels and the
swish
of fabric sounded as Brooke plopped beside him.

She pouted. “I’m giving you another chance.”

“Brooke, come on.”

“I’m not going to turn into a creepy stalker or anything. How can you say no? I’m offering to fuck your brains out.”

He gulped and shook his head. “I appreciate it, but—”

“Appreciate it?” She snorted and batted her lashes. “Oh. My. God.”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

Disgust twisted her mouth. “If I’d offered to fuck you three weeks ago, would you have said yes?”

Would he have? Jesus. He might have. “No. I don’t think of you that way.”

“Bullshit. That bitch”—Brooke pointed at Clarissa—“has screwed you over. She doesn’t want you, Dylan.” Her hard tone became a whine. “I do. So much.”

“I can’t, Brooke. I won’t hurt you that way. Or Jeff.” Or myself, if not Clarissa.

Her mouth gaped, jaw cocked, and she shook her head. A sob, and she shot to her feet and clomped away.

Clarissa’s glances further aroused his interest. And his confidence.

Confidence enough to stride up to her. “You owe me that dance.” Cake-cutting nonsense finished, the band had begun to play again.

She studied the floor. “We already danced.”

“The maid of honor/best man dance doesn’t count. This is the dance I want.” A nice slow one so he could hold her close.

“Do you always twist the rules to your advantage?”

“If I want something badly enough.” Admitting it made him uncomfortable. He did it all too often, but this time, it was worth it.

She scrutinized him. “Fine.”

Fine? She agreed. The surprise of it caused his mind to blank, and then he realized she already was making her way to the dance floor.

She fit in his arms like she was meant to be there. Dylan tried to think of something to say. “So what did you want to be when you grew up?”

Suspicion, maybe irritation, made her flinch. “I don’t know.”

Keep it light
. “Come on, you must have had a dream, wanted something.”

“I wanted to get away from my parents.”

So much for light. “Then what?” She gave him a puzzled look. “After you’d split, what next?”

“I’d be free.”

“To do what?”

Pain showed in her eyes. “God, you really are just like them, aren’t you, Frat Boy? People have to set a goal, or they’re worthless.”

What had he said
now
to piss her off? “I don’t think for one second that you’re worthless.”

“Let’s stop, shall we?”

“What?”

“The games. The freaking interrogation.”

“I’m merely trying to get to know you better.” He’d have better luck breaking into CIA headquarters.

“Why?”

Did she need a reason for everything? Frustration came out in a laugh. “We’re in Jeff and Amy’s wedding together—”

“Which is now over.”

Thanks for the reminder
. “I thought since we have to see each other so much, we should—”

“Make nice? God, you’re pathetic.”

Jesus
. “How is that pathetic?”

“You comply with set social norms because others expect it of you, not because you—God forbid—might be actually interested in someone. It means nothing to you.”

“It doesn’t mean nothing.” In her case, very much the opposite.

“Stop repeating what I say. You’re like an emotional puppet. You can’t figure out what you want, so you mime others. A Frat Boy chameleon, always blending in, never making waves.”

Her response stunned him. Not because she was wrong. Fuck, she’d nailed him again. Time to give it back to her. “Cultural anthropology? Sociology? Maybe psychology?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would any of those have been your major at Columbia?”

“No. Visual arts.” She said it as if he should have guessed. “How is that relevant?”

“Just wondering. Back to your point… you’re wrong. If you weren’t so abrasive and obnoxiously biased, you’d see the truth. You’re too busy channeling your parents—” At her whoop of laughter, he spoke faster. “Yes, you are, looking down your nose at everyone as you privately psychoanalyze them…. Your dad? Was he the psychotherapist? Or your mom?” Oh, now he’d hit on something. Or he was about to get hit again.

Whatever anger he’d teased to the surface, she contained behind clenched teeth, tense muscles. “You have some nerve.”

“For calling it as I see it? Hardly, honey.”

“Do
not
call me honey. Or any other demeaning label.”

“Jesus, you really are screwed up.”

“Me? You’re the looney tune here.”

True, he’d never felt like such an outcast. “Honey is a term of affection.”

Her smile turned wry. “I bet ‘hey babe, wanna screw’ is your best come-on.”

He’d try it with her if he thought it might work. He doubted anything would work with her. At least, anything he tried. She’d made up her mind about him. “Like I said, you can’t see the truth. Or you don’t admit to it because you’re afraid.”

“Afraid… of you? Please.”

“Afraid of feeling something real.”

She huffed, but it seemed all for show. “You twist everything around.”

“That’s about as straight-up as it gets, Clarissa.”

“Are you done?”

“No. Not by a long shot.” He wouldn’t give up yet.

“I am.” She stomped away, wobbling in her heels.

Amy, dancing with Jeff, shot him a disbelieving look, then ran after her.

Riveted by the two women hurrying off, Jeff sidled over. “Seriously, man? Again?”

“I was attempting to be nice to her.”

Sadly, Jeff shook his head. “Your attitude’s a problem.”

Mine?
“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was trying to be nice. Have a goddamn normal conversation for once. Something she apparently can’t handle.” And now he’d made a scene at their wedding reception like some spoiled…
Frat Boy?

Jeff drew him to the side of the room, out of earshot of others. “She’s been hurt a lot. If you push her, she shoves back. Hard.”

“How is a conversation pushing her?”

“She doesn’t let other people in easily.”

“Yeah. I noticed. I’m sorry, man. I promise, no more drama.” Dylan went to the table, plopped down.

Harvey raised his glass in salute. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Too normal for this town.

“Tell me, Harvey. Why do you stay in Marfa?”

Harvey exhaled deeply. “Mañana.”

“Tomorrow? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a concept unique to places like Marfa. Unless you’re some kind of Zen master, you won’t find it in Pittsburgh, or any other city. It tends to shy away from nine-to-five lifestyles. It’s that something you can’t quite touch, the thing that stays a little bit out of your grasp.”

Like Clarissa. “Like a drug high.”

Harvey shook his head slowly. “Mañana is better than any head trip. It doesn’t fade. It catches you up in the endless flow, the sea of the universe’s tranquility.”

“Tranquility?”
Might be a nice change
.

“It’s the essence of possibility, man.” Harvey spoke as if in a meditative trance. Doctor Zen. “Of hope.”