“So the barking was just for me?” She nods. I clutch my chest. “I’m honored.”
Fay stops at our table and pulls a pen from behind her ear. “Do I even need to write it down?” She waves the pen between us. “Two patty melts, one Sprite, one Coke. Crispy fries.”
“Uh, yeah,” Luna and I say in unison.
Fay sighs. “I should have hooked you two up months ago.” She takes off toward the kitchen.
Fay might be a little rough around the edges, but no diner is complete without a curmudgeon of an employee—Fay fits the bill and gives the diner plenty of character.
“Patty melt, huh?” I ask, leaning back in the booth. “She’s right. She should have hooked us up months ago.”
“You think you would have asked me out?”
“Easily.”
“Even in my hungover state, wearing pajama pants, my breath reeking of last night’s booze?”
I chuckle. “The booze breath might have deterred me for a second, but the minute I looked into your eyes, it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Such a charmer,” she deadpans as Fay drops off our drinks without a word and leaves.
We both take a sip, leaving the straws to the side. “So,” I ask as we set our drinks back down, “when did you know you wanted to make things for a living?”
“High school.”
“Really?” I say, surprised. “I thought you were going to say something like when you were four years old.”
“When I was in grade school, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I would play vet with my stuffed animals—line them up for the day and see them one at a time, fixing all their ailments. Our family dog, Ralph—he was a yellow Lab—would sit by my side and act as my nurse.”
“Shit, that’s adorable. I can picture it.”
“My mom has so many pictures of me tending to my stuffed animals, but then . . . Ralph got sick.”
“Oh hell.” I scratch the side of my jaw. “I don’t foresee this going well.”
“It didn’t.” She sighs. “I tried everything I could to make him better, but no amount of kisses could have scared the cancer away. A few months later we had to put him down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was devastated, to say the least. I couldn’t fix him, and that really upset me. After Ralph passed, I stopped playing veterinarian. It wasn’t the same without him by my side, and that’s when I really started to get into watercolors. I would spend hours painting portraits of Ralph.”
“Christ, Luna, you’re hurting my heart over here.” I wish this table wasn’t between us, or there was enough room for me to slip into her side of the booth and hold her. “How many portraits did you end up with?”
“Thirty. Big and small. I hung them up all over the house, but mostly in my room. ‘An Ode to Ralph’ is what I called my first showing.”
“Showing?” My brow furrows.
“Yup. I made some signage and flyers, handed them out, cleaned the house, made some lemonade and almond drop cookies, and invited people in for a viewing party. Sold one piece of art that day, to a lady down the street. It was an abstract piece of Ralph, but she said it touched her soul.”
“And you didn’t know then?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I knew there was something inside me that liked being praised for the work I did. I dabbled in a lot of crafts after that. Mom and Dad didn’t care how much money they spent at different craft stores—they were just happy I was busy and not getting into trouble.”
“You have good parents,” I say, wondering how it would feel to have parents that involved in my life.
“They kept me busy, all right, and when I hit high school, my mom found a flyer at the local deli for a craft fair. I’d made so many things at that point that she thought I should try selling them. Maybe make some of the money back we spent on crafts.”
“Makes sense. How did you do?”
“Well, my setup was awful. I have a picture of it back at my parents’ house. It was in a small indoor gym a town over from ours. I was so proud, but there was no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing was priced. I really was just so excited to be there.”
“I bet you did awesome, though, right?”
She leans forward on the table. “It was a slow day. I mean . . . slow. People would walk by, say how cute my stuff was, but they never actually bought anything. Until this one lady came by. Mrs. Rose Waters.”
“Rose Waters?”
She chuckles. “Yup. Her daughter just had a baby, and she was looking for a homemade gift. I had an afghan made out of rainbow yarn. It was originally supposed to be for Cohen, but boy did I get the dimensions wrong. The yarn caught Mrs. Waters’s eyes, though, and she said something that vibrant and beautifully made could only bring joy to someone, so she bought it. I asked for fifteen dollars, but she gave me fifty and told me not to undersell myself.” Luna smiles. “A few months later, I got an email from her—she took one of my business cards that I wrote on—and she sent me a picture of her new granddaughter wrapped in the blanket. It meant so much to me, seeing how something I made could have an impact on another person’s life. And that’s when I knew.”
“You were meant to create.”
“Exactly. And my parents were really supportive. They took me all around the Northeast so I could sell at different craft fairs. But . . .” She smiles and takes a sip of her drink. “When my senior year rolled around and they asked what I planned on doing for college, they were definitely surprised.”
“They weren’t on board with crafting for a living?”
She shakes her head. “Not even a little. Mind you, they’re pretty easygoing—they’re world travelers now that their children are grown. They’ll just make it back from Australia in time for the wedding. But they were not happy about me not going to college.”
“I don’t think most parents are happy about that kind of decision. My parents would never have let it happen, even though neither of them was involved enough in my life to have any say.”
Luna gives me a soft smile. “Given the lack of involvement, I’d say you turned out pretty great.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks, and I think it’s the first time I’ve actually blushed in front of a girl. I’m not a blusher. Never have been. I’m the guy who dishes out the compliments, who makes girls blush. But as my face heats up, I realize I truly do care what Luna thinks about me.
I clear my throat. “So what happened? Did you compromise?”
She shakes her head. “No. I stuck to my guns and told them going to college would be a waste of their money and my time. I knew what I wanted to do.”
“Bold.”
“Tell me about it. I can remember the exact conversation. It was during a family meeting.”
“You had family meetings?”
“Oh yeah.” She chuckles softly. “We’re one of those families where the parents declare a family meeting and all members are required to attend, no matter what—and you could tell immediately from the tone of voice what kind of meeting you were going into—good or bad. This was a bad one.” She leans forward and presses her hand on mine. “They had a PowerPoint presentation, which meant business.”
“Oh shit, a PowerPoint?” I laugh. “That’s serious.”
“Clicker and all. It was very serious in the Rossi household. Both my parents were teachers, so it’s sort of weird that Cohen is marrying a teacher, but we won’t dive into that psychological nightmare.” We both laugh. “They were very up on their presentation skills. They went through all the pros and cons, obviously preparing a fair statement, but the cons were easily outweighed by the pros of going to college. There were pictures and everything.” She rolls her eyes. “It was ridiculous, to say the least. And it was during that meeting that I stepped up to their computer and surprised them with my own presentation.”
“And it was badass, wasn’t it?”
“Yup. After the initial college conversation, I’d called Cohen up. He was already working construction at t
hat point—another noncollege child. I was our parents’ last hope, hence their desperation. But what Cohen told me will always stick with me. He said I have to follow my passion. If creating and crafting was my passion, then I needed to show Mom and Dad how it could support me—not just financially but mentally and emotionally as well. They needed to know I was going to be okay.”
“And that’s what you did with your presentation.”
“Exactly. Cohen was on the phone, of course, because all members were present, and I can still hear his small chuckle at our parents’ surprise. I laid it all out for them. I showed them my finances, my bank account, my website, my tutorials. How I was going to tackle the world of crafts, how I could get sponsorships that would not only offer me supplies but actually pay me to recommend products I like. I told them about this whole new world of social media business and that I was going to be a part of it.”
“Were they impressed?”
“My dad sighed, leaned back in a chair, and gave me a slow clap.”
“Really?” I laugh. “That must have been satisfying.”
“More than you can imagine. Of course my mom shushed and told him they needed to talk, but when they walked away, my dad winked at me and gave me a thumbs-up. Took a few more weeks, but they caved. They came back and said they would give me a year to make something of myself, and if I couldn’t comfortably live on my own after a year, I had to go to college.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I’ve never worked so hard in my entire life. Every night I was making something, videoing, creating content. I was relentless, but I was determined to prove something to them.”
“And you did.”
She smiles brightly. “I did.”
Fay comes up to our table and sets down our plates without a word. And like the good waitress she is, she plops down some ketchup and leaves.
Luna and I reach for it at the same time, but I let her win, and I watch as she carefully squeezes the ketchup into a puddle on the side of her plate. When she hands it to me, I squirt it over my fries—she gasps out loud and brings her hand to her chest.
“No, tell me it’s not so. You . . . you put the ketchup directly on your fries?”
Not even apologetic, I say, “Yup.” Then I snag a fry and put it in my mouth. “Perfect.”
“I don’t know.” She leans back. “I don’t think I can stay on this date, not with someone who uses ketchup like that. Let me guess,” she whispers. “You put the toilet paper on like a mullet, not a beard.”
“Mullets do have more fun.”
“Check!” Luna shouts. “We need a check!”
“What made you want to be a lawyer?” Luna asks. She’s calmed down since the ketchup and toilet paper fiasco, but it wasn’t an easy feat. I had to put a puddle of ketchup on the side of my plate to make her feel comfortable and promise to try putting the toilet paper on like a beard . . . at least once. I promised I would take a picture of my toilet paper roll when I got back to my apartment.
It was shaky there for a bit, but I think we’re back on track.
“My mom,” I say honestly. “You know, seeking justice that she didn’t get with my dad. Well, not necessarily for my mom, because she wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine in my life. She’s the queen of unhealthy coping mechanisms, and we’re definitely not close. I guess it’s more that I’m seeking justice for families. Which, ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, is the wife, since she’s the one taking the kids.” I shrug. “If I wasn’t so bitter in college, I think I would be doing something different with my life.”
“Like what?” She plops a fry in her mouth. Our plates are practically empty, with just a few scraps left.
“Well, after yesterday, probably bake cakes.”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a “be serious” look. “It was a good cake. Move on, Baxter.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Want to forget the painful loss you suffered yesterday?”
She holds her hand up again. “Check!”
“Knock it off,” I say, reaching over the table and pulling her arm down. “You’re going to bruise my ego.”
“Ahh, poor Alec.” She chuckles. “Seriously, what would you be if you weren’t a lawyer right now?”
I lean back in the booth and drape one arm over the back of the seat. “I don’t know. Something that helps people, because I enjoy that part of my job. I only represent women who are getting screwed over by their husbands. It’s satisfying when the men leave the conference room with purple faces because they’re so angry, but I know there’s more to life than giving people like my dad their comeuppance. Not super healthy, you know? And I’m really not into the whole money thing.”
“I noticed,” she says, giving me a shy look. “Knowing you were a lawyer, I half expected a giant penthouse, but you live quite modestly, considering.”
“I don’t need things—I just need a happy life.”
“And are you happy?”
I scratch the back of my head and look out the window. “I think I can get there. Before The Wedding Game, I could tell you honestly that I wasn’t. I barely spent any time outside of my office, and when I did, it wasn’t for anything that added value to my life. I pretty much ignored Thad, and I can’t tell you the last time I saw my mom, or my dad. I’ve spent a lot of time keeping my distance and avoiding all contact with them. I was just breathing, getting through my daily work, but not living.” I glance at her. “I may not be on speaking terms with my parents, but for the first time in a while, I actually feel like there’s more to my life, like maybe I could be happy.”
As I look into Luna’s deep eyes, something unexplainable switches inside me, as if the dark cloud that’s been hovering over my head parts and finally makes way for some sunshine. Seeing Thad with Naomi, even Cohen and Declan, has shown me what a relationship really is about. Protecting each other, loving each other, being there when you need someone the most. It isn’t all doom and gloom, especially when you find the right person.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“Yeah . . . and of course it has nothing to do with you,” I joke, and she picks up her napkin, wads it, and throws it at me. I don’t even flinch as it hits me between the eyes.
“Ugh, you’re annoying.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“Destructive behavior. Always going after the wrong guys.”
“What kind of guys?” I ask, curious for a glimpse of her dating history.
“All kinds.” She sighs. “I went through an artsy phase. I was all about guys whose life mission was judging other people’s artwork and feeling superior. That was until I’d show them my work, and they’d inevitably tell me I was selling out or not a true artist because I wasn’t starving, something along those lines.”
That makes me snort. “You don’t have to be a struggling artist to be an artist. What idiots. You can make money and create.”
“Yeah, that’s what Cohen said too, so I moved on from the artsy guys and found the athletes.”
“Oh yeah? Should I be concerned that you’re grouping men together?”
She just shrugs. “Testing the waters—don’t act like you didn’t do it in college.”
“Fair.” I wave my hand. “Continue.”
“So I went to the jocks, and can we just say . . . yum? Ugh, the arms on these guys; none of them had abs like you, but their di—”
“Okay, details not needed. Just tell me why it didn’t work out with them.”
She chuckles and gives me a playful eye roll. “Kidding. I dated one jock for a year, but then he was drafted and moved to California. So that ended things. Uh, do you know Nyatt Sampson?”
Is she kidding? “Nyatt Sampson? As in three-time football MVP and champion? The quarterback sweeping the nation? Whose ESPN cover photo is of him holding a football in front of his crotch?”
“Oh, so you have heard of him.”
“Every single human in the country has heard of him. You dated Nyatt Sampson? For a year?
And broke up because he was moving across the country—even though you can do your job anywhere? You realize he’s already rumored to be inducted into the Hall of Fame, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, all that’s fine, but it didn’t matter to me.”
“Was he an ass to you?”
“What?” She shakes her head. “No. He was amazing, actually. First guy I loved. We’re still on good terms, and even talk now and then, but there was one thing I couldn’t take to California—Cohen. I couldn’t leave him,” she says softly. “He was going through such a hard time when I was dating Nyatt. He wasn’t with Declan yet, and he was really struggling with his sexuality and being comfortable with who he was, especially since he was working in such a hypermasculine field. I knew that if I left, it wouldn’t be healthy for Cohen, so I stayed in New York.”
“Wow.” I let out a long breath. “You’re . . . fuck, Luna, you’re one hell of a person.”
“I have my moments.” She shrugs and looks toward the door. “Want to get out of here? The grease is starting to really seep into my pores.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, feeling like I might have said something wrong. She really is one hell of a person, and I hope I didn’t startle her by stating that. Maybe too much too soon? I throw some money down on the table—it will easily cover the bill and leave Fay a nice tip—and stand from the booth. I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it with ease.
When we’re out of the diner, she tugs on my hand. “Want to just . . . walk?”
“I’d like that.” I’m still nervous as we take a left out of the diner and slowly walk down a brownstone-lined street toward the riverfront, the green of the trees along the sidewalk richly illuminated above the streetlights. This is New York City to me, holding the hand of a beautiful girl, walking along the old concrete, and soaking in the stillness of the summer air. Our little slice of the Upper West Side is tranquil, and the street is close to deserted, so our voices aren’t drowned out by traffic. “Did I say something wrong back there?”
“What? No, of course not. It’s just . . . you’re different from any other guy I’ve dated. Nyatt was great, but he was a bit immature, which he admitted to me after we broke up. He wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, wasn’t ready to commit to being there for someone else. And a few guys after him turned out to be the same way—always the boy, never the man.”
The Wedding Game Page 21
