Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  I’m so far out of my element being here alone. My norm is to stay at home on a Saturday night, reading or watching crazies on YouTube talk about UFOs. Just another single girl in Roswell.

  It’s hard to say which is the more desperate evening: home alone or subject to being picked up at an alien festival.

  Jury’s still out.

  Several men have approached me, offering sloshing cups of beer or similar, half-assed pick-up lines. Maybe they were given the same playbook.

  “Is your name Sunshine?” asks the guy in the green, oversized alien eye sunglasses. “It should be because you made my day brighter.”

  “Can I call you Sunny?” a man in a head-to-toe green body suit asks. “’Cause you’re the hottest body here.”

  Those were the two that made me snort. The others I want to bleach my brain to forget.

  Yes, Uranus is funny.

  No, it shouldn’t be used as a pick-up line.

  Ever.

  I texted Boone when I parked, but haven’t located either him or Shari yet.

  The floor show distracts me from my social anxiety. Crowds, especially ones where people are in costumes, freak me out.

  I’m trying to step outside of my comfort zone.

  Normally, I’d wear a T-shirt and jeans when going out, but tonight I’m in a dress with thin straps and an off the shoulder sleeve. Still wearing my favorite new cowboy boots, though. They have extra pointy toes in case I need to use them as a weapon of self-defense.

  On stage, the guys jam out, riffing off of each other before the guitar player takes a solo. The bassist prowls to the edge of the stage, where a group of teenagers squeal and stretch their arms toward him.

  He bobs his head and gives one lucky girl a high five. She makes the universal gesture for never washing this hand again by holding it close to her chest and screaming while her friends form a jumping circle around her. The boldest girl takes the blessed appendage and rubs it on her own face.

  An involuntary shudder passes through me at the thought. Who knows where that hand has been or what it’s touched? Or when the last time it was washed with soap and water.

  Before working at the restaurant, I lived in a happy delusion that people wash their hands, that we all share a common decency when it comes to touching our nether bits and being out in public. Sure, you do your own thing in the comfort of your own home, but out in society? Come on. We’ve all seen enough zombie apocalypse movies to know that one super strain of flu is all it’s going to take before we’re screwed.

  The crowd screams and claps as the gentleman of Alien Autopsies bow and begin making their way off stage. Next to me, a couple in shiny silver disco space costumes yell for an encore. He has an impressively loud whistle using two fingers in his mouth.

  I hope he’s washed them recently.

  Given how crazy amped this group has been the entire show, I think we can all assume an encore is a foregone conclusion. Apparently, I’m the only one who feels this way when a roadie comes out and removes the mic stand and my fellow music lovers begin booing.

  Where is their faith? Have none of them been to a concert before?

  The drummer returns and settles in behind his drum kit. Gone is the green alien mask. My view of his face is obscured by people and instruments, but the revelation of his normal self has my heart beating quicker as I wait for the bassist to return.

  I need to see if the face is as hot as the hands.

  When he steps back stage, the mirrored helmet is absent. My hopes for a clear view crash and burn when I see the huge, round sunglasses covering most of his face. What’s not hidden behind neon green plastic and dark lenses is too generic to be recognizable. Sweat dampens his dark hair, which is shoved off of his face in a slick pompadour Adam Lambert would love.

  Only when they finish the encore and the bass player smiles at something the lead singer says, do I recognize him. And I choke on my own spit.

  “There you are,” Shari shouts, suddenly appearing in front of me. Thankfully she’s not dressed as a green alien. “I thought I recognized the back of your head.”

  Trying to clear my throat, I cough. “Hey.” I barely eek out a whisper.

  Her brows lift with worry. “Should I slap you on the back?”

  I wave off her lifted hand. “No, I’m okay. Swallowed wrong.”

  “I’m so happy you made it. Isn’t this a fun show?” Grinning at me, she reminds me of Boone’s extreme handsomeness. Not even twins, the two have an other-worldly beauty to them. Exotic, yet familiar. Her long, dark hair is in messy French braids crowned by a headband sporting two alien faces on springs. When she moves, the little green ovals bounce around like insects circling her head. She’s also wearing a T-shirt with David Duchovny’s face covering the front.

  “The whole UFO festival is . . .” I search for the word. Weird doesn’t seem appropriate for Shari’s obvious enthusiasm. “Crazy.”

  That works.

  “I love it.”

  “Nice shirt. I didn’t know I should dress to the theme.” I pull one of the straps of my dress higher on my shoulder.

  “Every alien story needs the pretty human heroine. Pretend that’s your costume.” She flashes a reassuring smile. “I think you look gorgeous.”

  Shaking off his admirers, Boone slowly prowls through the crowd in our direction.

  I thought I could maybe handle Boone as a hot oil worker, a man who drives a dirty truck, a creature of habit, and a lover of pancakes.

  Then he became the best kiss of my life.

  I knew I was in trouble.

  There’s not a chance I can survive Boone the musician and local rock god. Not with knowing how his mouth feels against mine. Or the way he looks ninety-eight percent naked.

  I’m doomed.

  “I didn’t know he was in a band.” I sound a little breathless like one of the young fangirls.

  “He’s not the kind to brag. I’m telling you, he’s shy,” Shari says, almost convincingly.

  “Right. And average looking, too.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t get it about his looks. It’s not like he’s perfect. There’s that bald spot in his right eyebrow and his ears are a little big. Although they’re better now that he grew into his head.”

  “Flaws give us character. You’re both examples of superior genes.” I mean it as a compliment but she gives me a funny look.

  Making his way to us quicker than I thought possible given his swarms of fans, Boone steps beside me. Warmth spreads through my body from his proximity. It’s been a week since the storm at the lake. Seven long days since I’ve been properly kissed. Insecurity and worry are dimming the glow. Maybe it was a onetime thing and he’s changed his mind.

  He leans close to be heard above the crowd. His lips brush my shoulder. “You look beautiful. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Instantly I’m thankful for wearing this dress.

  “What did you think of the band?” he asks.

  “You were great.” It’s the truth.

  “You think so?”

  I nod enthusiastically. “I may never wash my shoulder again.”

  This earns me an eye roll from an embarrassed Boone.

  A woman in silver robes takes the stage carrying a box with an antenna.

  When she begins to sing, she waves her hands around the box and the strangest sounds come out.

  My mouth drops open. “What is that? She’s not even touching it and it’s making music.”

  Okay, music might be a stretch of the imagination.

  Boone answers, again speaking close to my ear to be heard, “It’s a theremin. She plays themes from old sci-fi movies. I think this is from The Day the Earth Stood Still.”

  “Poor peace seeking aliens. So foolish to think humans would be friendly.” Sighing, Shari shakes her head. “Too trusting and innocent.”

  The same tune as my text alert blasts from the speakers.

  “Did the aliens invent it?” I ask because it’s unlike
any instrument I’ve ever seen.

  Boone chuckles and kisses my shoulder again. “No, Mr. Theremin. As far as we know he was Russian.”

  “Russian alien?” I ask, undeterred.

  “Probably a Vulcan.” Boone jokes as the theme from Star Trek plays.

  “How?” I ask.

  “How what? I was joking about Theremin being a Vulcan. I’ve seen pictures of him and he definitely didn’t have pointy ears. Of course, he could’ve had them surgically altered,” he explains in a rational tone.

  I twist my neck so I can look into his eyes to see if he’s seriously believing what he’s saying. We’re standing close enough he has to duck his head to meet my stare. His dark lashes frame his too pretty eyes. Gazing at him, I get lost in the swirls of amber and green.

  “You had a question?” Warm, minty breath skims my cheek when he speaks. He’s leaned closer, and now his mouth is a few inches from mine.

  I don’t know my own middle name right now, I’m so lost in his eyes and the angles of his cheekbones.

  Eerie music plays through the speakers somewhere behind us reminding me we’re not alone.

  “Wesley,” I whisper, more breath than spoken.

  Boone jerks away. “Who’s Wesley?”

  My lashes beat together as I blink away the Boone fog. “Me?”

  “You’re Lucy.” Wrinkles line his forehead.

  “Wesley’s my middle name. Well, technically it’s my father’s last name, but Lucy Wesley doesn’t sound as good as Lucy Halliday, so my mom gave me her name,” I ramble, throwing the words together quickly to get to the end of the explanation as fast as possible. “Nice to meet you.”

  His attention flicks down to my extended hand. “Nice to meet you, Lucy Wesley Halliday. Boone Santos. No middle name. My sister, Sharyl, who prefers to be called Shari, Santos.”

  “What are we doing? Why are you two introducing yourselves again?” Shari lifts her eyebrows, confused. “I think the creepy alien music is affecting your heads.”

  Boone takes my hand, threading his fingers with mine. “We’re getting to know each other. Out of order, but I’m going to change that.”

  “You are?” I ask, happiness lifting my lips into a smile.

  “I’m going to take you out on a date tomorrow. For the whole day.”

  I swear Shari sighs. Or it could be me.

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you’ve never been down to Carlsbad Caverns.” Boone’s voice holds a boyish excitement.

  I want to say I can’t believe he thinks bringing me to a giant hole in the ground is a good first date idea. Instead, I settle for telling him, “Caves and hanging out with bats aren’t high on my list of things to do on my days off.”

  “You’re missing out on one of nature’s most splendid wonders.” He bobs his chin to emphasize his brilliant idea.

  “You sound like a brochure. Do you get a kickback for bringing in new visitors?” Bending my knee, I rest my foot on the edge of my seat in his truck.

  “I’ve been coming here my whole life. My grandmother used to be a ranger here. Did you know the earliest explorers used lanterns and buckets on rope to get to the lower sections. Can you imagine being alone down there?”

  “With the bats and the never-ending darkness? No way. Stuff of my worst nightmares. Like the black void of space, but with bats flying around.”

  He dips his chin and stares at me over his sunglasses. “You’re weird, you know that, right?”

  “Chiropterophobia is a real thing.” There’s probably a phobia of caves, too, but I don’t know the word. I’ve never needed it before. I pull out my phone and look it up. “Speluncaphobia or claustrophobia, which seems too broad because closets and elevators don’t typically have bats hanging in them.”

  His lips curl into a smile. “I think bats are misunderstood. They’re adorable. And eat mosquitoes. Which would you rather have? Bloodsucking insects or furry mini teddy bears with wings?”

  My mouth pops open. “I’m weird? Pretty sure you’re the only person who thinks bats and teddy bears belong in the same sentence.”

  “We should stay until dusk. You might change your mind.”

  “What happens at dusk?” I ask against my better judgment.

  “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” His grin is full of the kind of mischief that’s a direct route to trouble.

  “Tell me.” I grab his wrist on his arm not currently steering the truck. The one resting on the top of his thigh right where his jeans crease. So essentially if he moved his hand a few inches, I’d be grabbing his crotch. At this realization, I jerk my hand away.

  Thankfully, Boone doesn’t seem to notice my almost threatening dick grab. “Since you asked so nicely, at dusk, thousands of bats leave the natural entrance to the caves and fly over the amphitheater to the delight of all in attendance.”

  “I’m going to stop you right there and say nope,” I say this as I hold up my arms in defense against a swarm of invisible bats.

  He laughs at my reaction. “I won’t force you, but it’s really cool.”

  “Can I wear a space suit? Better yet, a human-size hamster ball. Have one of those laying around?” My crazy ideas give me a small slice of comfort.

  “Sadly, I don’t think they rent those in the gift shop.”

  Widening my eyes, I shrug. “Too bad. Guess we’ll have to be on the road before dusk.”

  We ride in silence for a few miles. Not sure about him, but my thoughts are still on caves and bats and how many phobias I have.

  Wanting to break the lull in conversation, I try to focus on something positive. “That’s kind of cool your grandmother was a ranger here.”

  “She’s amazing. Back when she started, there weren’t a lot of women who worked as rangers. By the time I was a kid, she was retired but would bring us here and encourage us to explore.”

  Twisting to get a better look at him, I try to process his words. “Your grandmother used to let you roam around caverns when you were a kid? In the dark? Unattended?”

  “Shari was with me. Sometimes our parents joined us. And we had walkie talkies.”

  “My grandmother didn’t let me ride my bike into town by myself, even in the middle of the day.” Back then there wasn’t a term for overprotective parents, but I’m definitely the product of helicopter parenting. Ironic that now I’m an orphan, completely on my own.

  Boone follows the winding road from the turnoff to the visitor’s center. Scrappy looking creosote shrubs and rock cover the craggy landscape, which gives no hint to the secrets hidden below the surface.

  The landscape is beautiful but vaguely hostile. Kind of how I used to see the man sitting beside me. Maybe hostile is too strong. Unfriendly. Guarded. Disinterested. Dry.

  Two of those things are no longer true.

  “We’re here,” he announces when he pulls to a stop behind a single story beige building.

  “Are we sneaking in the back?” I ask, peering around the dumpster for an entrance.

  “I still have connections. We can go through the employee entrance and skip the lines. If you want, we can even take the elevator down to the bottom and avoid the bats entirely. Although some people,” he points at his chest, “think you’re missing the best part if you go that way.”

  “Save your judgment, Santos. I’m fine skipping the stench of the guano of a million bats.”

  “Suit yourself.” He hops out the driver’s side door.

  I follow and find him waiting for me by the tailgate.

  “If anyone asks, you’re my cousin.”

  “Why?” I give him the side-eye. There’s no way we’re related unless one branch of his family tree is Wednesday Adams. I’m short, curvy, and pale next to his tall, angular, tanned self.

  He glances around before tipping his head down and lowering his voice. “Lifetime family membership only applies to actual family.”

  “Got it. I’m Lucy Santos if anyone asks.”

  He grins down at me. “Lucy Santos works.”
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  Works for me, too, but I don’t tell him that.

  As he leads me through the employee-only area, I mentally write Lucy Santos all over my imaginary notebook, sometimes drawing hearts or adding Mrs. before my new name.

  I might be almost twenty-eight, but my inner teenager girl is alive and well.

  The lobby is decorated like any other semi-generic welcome center. Pale stones lining some walls give a vague hint we’re in the southwest, but the bland wood counters and fluorescent lighting make it feel like a government office. Out of the large picture windows, cacti fill planters and flower beds in case anyone forgets they’re actually in New Mexico. Perhaps a necessary reminder once they ascend from the the depths.

  Crowding near the elevators, tourists wait their turns to descend to the caverns.

  “This reminds me of going to Niagara Falls when I was little. You can take an elevator to tunnels behind the Canadian Falls.” I’m not sure why I’m sharing this other than an elevator into the bowels of the earth is involved in both.

  “Are you nervous?” Boone touches my shoulder, resting his hand there.

  I shake my head no. “Yes.”

  He nods and then mirrors my head shaking. “Nothing to be afraid of. I know this place by memory. If you stick to the paths, it’s impossible to get lost.”

  We join a group in an elevator, squeezing ourselves into the corner. More people crowd on and I find myself with my back pressed against Boone’s front.

  His natural spicy scent envelops me along with the warmth of his body where we make contact.

  “We’re like sardines in a can,” an older man announces to the group.

  We all laugh and the collective energy changes from discomfort to camaraderie as we descend.

  I’m not sure how long I expected a journey to the center of the planet to take, but the elevator thumps to a soft landing and the doors open sooner than I imagined.