Tinfoil Heart
Page 13
We wander down the block. One side is lined with modern, nondescript town buildings while the other is stacked with two story wood structures straight out of a western movie.
“What a weird town. Over here I expect a gunfight to break out any second.” I point to the two storied hotel bearing the town’s name. “And over here, I could be in any rural town in America.”
“Then let’s stick to the boardwalk and the fantasy.” He presses his hand between my shoulder blades to turn me.
Back in the truck, I buckle in. “Ready for pie now.”
“Is today going to be all about pie? I’m regretting mentioning it.”
“No way, don’t hold back. If you know other places, you need to tell me. I keep asking Tony why the diner doesn’t have a decent pie on the menu. He waves me off and points out we have ice cream,” I scoff. “It’s not even frozen custard. I wouldn’t be bragging if I were him.”
I finish my mini-tirade and realize we’re still parked. “Why are we sitting here?”
Boone laughs, filling the cab with the rich sound of his voice. “I wasn’t sure how long you were going to talk. Figured if things escalated, and it felt like you might become agitated there for a while, best if we weren’t moving at a high speed.”
Narrowing my eyes, I stare at him. “If that was a roundabout way of accusing me of lady hysteria, Mr. Santos, you best check yourself.”
A few miles down the road, he pulls into a gravel lot next to an apple-shaped sign shouting “PIE” in all capital letters.
While I find the bathroom, Boone orders the pie. When I return and see him holding a single plate with a single piece of pie, I realize I’ve misjudged him.
“Where’s your pie?” I eye the plate and then him.
“I thought we could share.” He holds out the solo slice.
Blinking and twisting my head like a confused dog, I try to comprehend his suggestion. He can’t mean the words coming out of his mouth. I never figured him for being a cheap miser, but he does eat in a gas station five days a week.
“Or not,” he finally admits. “Here, have this one and I’ll get my own piece.”
“That’s probably for the best.” I take the slice and sit at a picnic table a few yards from the walk-up window.
By the time Boone joins me, I’m half done with my slice.
“You weren’t kidding.” He points at my plate. “I guess it’s acceptable?”
“So good.” I finish the last bite and eye his slice.
Wrapping his arm around his plate, he says, “No way. I grew up with a sister who stole my food.”
I take this as a challenge to at least steal a bite of his crust.
“Look at the size of that squirrel.” I point over his shoulder. “Wow, I’ve never seen one that size.”
Lame even to my ears, but he turns his head.
I think it’s enough time to make my move, but without even moving his neck, his hand reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Hey,” I protest. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head? You have super fast reflexes.”
“No,” he laughs. “Just years of practice.”
After finishing his pie, he saves one tiny piece of the crust for me.
“Boone, you’re a good man.” I stretch over the table to give him a soft kiss, brushing my lips over his, tasting the cinnamon and apple on his breath.
He presses his mouth to mine, sweeping his tongue inside and tangling it with mine. “You’re my favorite pie thief, Lucy Halliday.”
WE SPEED THROUGH a tunnel and the radio goes to static. When we pop out the other side, I gasp at the view extending across a wide basin to another range of mountains. Below us on the valley floor is a huge expanse of white.
Boone chuckles. “White Sands. It can be seen from space.”
By aliens, I think. “I’ve always wanted to visit.”
“And today you will.” He grins at me.
It takes another half hour for us to reach the valley and the town of Alamogordo. Despite being visible from the mountains, once we’re on the desert floor, there’s no sign of the white dunes. We pass the air force base and I’m reminded this is an active military area.
I read the sign as we drive by. “Holloman sounds like hollow man.”
“Named for an early developer in rockets and aircraft that could be operated without pilots,” he explains.
“Seems a strange place for a base.” I crane my neck to check out the sky overhead for planes. “When was it opened?”
“Early 1940s. The Missile Range occupies thousands of acres of the gypsum dunes. If you wanted to test a nuclear weapon, middle of nowhere is the best location. Although El Paso and the Mexican border are only a hundred miles south of here. ”
“I’m sensing a theme with our outings,” I tease.
“What’s that? Other than me being the best tour guide of southeastern New Mexico ever?” He grins over at me.
“Nuclear fallout,” I say, totally serious because there’s nothing funny about radiation poisoning.
“Not very romantic, eh?”
I tip my head in doubt. “Were you going for romance? Because end of the world puts a lot of pressure on us.”
“Since it’s not the end of the world, let’s go sledding,” he says, grinning at me.
Once inside of the official National Park, white dunes replace the flat scrubland like someone was filming a winter scene and left the fake snow behind. One second there’s the flat, beige desert I’ve grown to expect in New Mexico. The next second, three story mountains of pure white appear. Space age looking shade structures add to the feeling we’re on a strange, new planet.
“This is the second place you’ve taken me to that feels like being on another planet. I’m sensing a theme.”
“New Mexico is the land of enchantment,” he singsongs the state’s slogan.
“And aliens,” I add. This is the closest we’ve come to the real reason I moved to Roswell.
“There’s more to it than the Roswell crash. I hope your custom tours are proving that.” He sounds both defensive and bored.
I’m happy to drop any talk of aliens and Roswell.
We park in a turnout near several other cars. Dunes rise above us by at least twenty feet. I’m still confused about the sledding until I see two kids fly down another slope on plastic saucers.
I drop my mouth open and stare at Boone. “We’re sledding on dunes?
He lifts his eyebrows and nods, laughing. “You just figured it out?”
Opening my door, I climb out and yell, “I grew up in snow. Prepare to get your butt kicked.”
He meets me behind the truck. “I didn’t realize sledding was a competitive sport.” He pulls two round saucers from the truck bed. “Do you want to race to the top of the dune?”
Before I can respond, he takes off with one of the sleds.
He makes running uphill look easy, but for every few steps I take, I slide down a foot or two.
“Climb diagonally. Like a ski slope,” he instructs from his perch at the top of gypsum mountain.
His method works, and once I reach the top, I walk the edge to where he sits. As far as I can see are white dunes until they reach the mountains to the west. The breeze teases a faint briny scent. Surprisingly, the white powder is cool to the touch and slightly damp beneath the surface from the recent monsoon rains.
“This place is surreal,” I say, shading my eyes from the silvery reflection of the sun off the dunes. My oversized sunglasses are more for face decoration than blocking all the UVA and UVB rays.
Slowly, he pours out a handful of powder. “I find it beautiful. There’s something calm about the dunes.”
With our shoulders occasionally brushing against each other, we sit side by side for a while. The rush to sled is forgotten.
“Have you ever lived anywhere else?” I ask after a few moments of comfortable silence.
“Other than college, no. And even then I only went as far as Austin.”
“Shall we have that sledding race?” He bumps his shoulder against mine.
We position ourselves on the edge of the dune. “Should I count down?” I ask.
“Go for it.” He grins at me.
We both push off when I say, “One.” Flying down the dune, I squeal when I pull ahead. My lead is short lived, and he flashes a grin at me when he zooms past.
“Two out of three,” I shout as soon as I hit the bottom. I’m already racing back up the dune when I hear his laughter behind me.
I lose again and end up on my side after leaning too far to the left in an attempt to gain speed. “Three out of five.” Undeterred, I stand, brushing powder off of my legs and arms.
“Want me to give you a head start?” He climbs up the dune beside me.
“No, I’m going to win fair and square.” I’m breathless by the time we take our positions at the edge.
“Prepare to lose.” I brace my fingers on the surface to push off and shimmy my saucer back and forth. “Ready to go?”
“Five, four.” He begins the countdown. “Three.”
Something tickles my left hand. I twitch in reflex and look down.
“Two,” Boone says at the same time I scream.
A white lizard skitters over my hand and disappears behind us.
I flail my arm, sending myself off balance. The sled slides forward but I’m only holding on with one hand. Time speeds up. The sled drags me down the dune sideways until I release my grip. I have too much momentum and instead of stopping, I execute a gold medal somersault and roll to the bottom of the slope on my back. I have no idea where the saucer went.
With the last shred of my dignity, I raise my arm in victory. “I won!”
“Shit! Are you okay?” Boone jogs toward me, sometimes sliding and causing mini avalanches in the sand.
By the time he reaches me, I’m sitting upright and dusting off. “Everything survived intact. I might have a few scrapes and bruises, mostly to my ego.”
His eyes hold genuine concern when he crouches in front of me. As he sweeps sand off my arms, his touch is gentle. The burn from the rough grains fades under his hand.
“Why aren’t you laughing? I’m sure that was hysterical.” I scan my arms and legs for scrapes.
His jaw ticks. “I was worried you’d break something. What happened up there?”
“A ghost lizard stood on my hand. I freaked out a little.”
He squeezes his thumb and index finger close together. “A little.”
Standing, he holds out his hand for me to use to leverage myself off the ground. A spark of static electricity shocks my palm where we touch.
“I still won. Lucy, one. Boone, two. Let’s go again.”
This makes him laugh. “I didn’t figure you for the competitive type.”
“I’m more stubborn. Once I set my mind to something, I’m laser focused.” I make pew-pew sounds while pointing my fingers at him.
He must find this adorable, because he sweeps me into his arms and kisses me. It’s not a casual peck. Oh no, Boone goes all in. He bends me back and sweeps his tongue against mine. Just when I think he might suggest we get naked and make love on the gypsum, he stands me upright. Clearly, he has more self-restraint than I do.
Head swimming from his kiss, I trudge up the hill in a stupor.
I lose again, but I take comfort in my one, spectacular victory.
Ditching the saucers, we take a hike farther into the dunes. A few yucca plants jut out between gypsum mounds and other ghost lizards skitter across the surface. It’s eerie and beautiful.
Holding my hand, Boone helps me up the final steep step of a dune. Spinning around, I try to spot the truck but see nothing other than white dunes in every direction. Without the mountains to the west, I’d be completely lost. In the quiet, with only the wind gently blowing through the valley, my stomach grumbles.
“Hungry?” He laughs, clearly hearing my stomach monster.
“Starved. I don’t suppose there’s a snack bar around the next dune, is there?”
“No, but I know a place.”
A half hour later, Boone pulls his truck into a gravel parking area full of car-size potholes outside what looks like an old furniture store or small used car lot.
“Trust me?” he asks.
“No,” I reply quickly. “Not at all.”
“Still doubt me?”
“Yes.”
“I promised sledding in the middle of summer in a desert and delivered.”
“Yes, but you forced me to follow you into a hole in the ground where millions of bats live.”
His shoulders lift when he makes his innocent face, all big eyes and closed mouth smile. “You loved it. In fact, if I remember correctly, you talked about living down there.”
“In case of nuclear fallout. And if we could put up a giant net between the snack bar and the bats.” I stand by my demands. Getting serious for a second, I tell him, “I loved the caverns and seeing them with you, knowing what a deep connection your family has to them.”
I didn’t even mean to make a pun, but he smiles. “Very deep.”
“I was trying to say thank you.”
He gives me a soft kiss and whispers against my lips, “I know. And you’re welcome.”
Because us kissing in his truck always leads to more, I take advantage of his proximity and kiss him back.
A breathless few minutes later, he ends the kissing with a quick peck to my lips.
“Come on.” He opens his door. “I’m starving.”
I eye the glass front of the single story building. Nothing about this place screams “best burger of my life” like Boone promised.
On the other hand, it’s not underground and not a single green skin alien face decorates the exterior. And Las Chicas was delicious. I’ve had dreams about the sopapillas, honey, and naked Boone.
We slip into a booth along the back wall and wait for a server.
Boone rests his arm along the top of his banquette, looking like a supermodel in a jeans ad. Brushing a hand over my head, I feel the grit of fine grains of gypsum.
“I’ll be right back. In a sign of trust, please order for me.” I scoot along the bench and find the sign for restrooms.
Inside of the single bathroom, I lean close to the dingy mirror. My hair is worse than I imagined. A sunburn blooms on my nose and cheeks. White gypsum dots my hairline and a smear of it crosses my forehead.
How is it possible Boone looks like he stepped out of a magazine and I’m the after photo of someone who got lost in the desert for days? Bending at the waist, I run my hands through my hair and shake out my T-shirt. A circle of white appears on the floor around me. We dumped sand out of our sneakers before we got in the truck, and I’m still leaving half of the dunes in here.
If the bathroom wasn’t the only one for the restaurant and also in need of a deep cleaning, I’d be tempted to strip naked and shake out all my clothing. I have a feeling there’s white powder everywhere.
Wetting a stack of paper towels, I execute a quick wipe down of my exposed skin. The cold water feels good on my sun-heated skin.
Someone raps on the door while turning the handle.
“Occupied,” I shout. “One minute.”
“Lucy? You okay?” Boone’s voice carries through the closed door. “Food’s ready.”
“Sorry. Be right out!” How long have I been in here? I’m either a bigger disaster than I thought or this place has the quickest service ever.
My dark hair is a fluffy halo around my head before I locate a ponytail holder in my pocket and do a quick braid. It’s not perfect, but that’s the look all the cool girls wear at festivals. Should be good enough for Alamogordo. Happy I no longer resemble the single inhabitant of a deserted island, I tell myself some words of encouragemen
t in the mirror.
“Lucy, you’re a mess, but at least you have a charming personality.”
It’s the best pep talk I can manage right now.
Standing next to our booth, a waitress leans her hip against the table, her full attention a laser beam focused on Boone. She’s working all the angles of flirtation. I observe her master performance.
Hair twist. Check.
Forward lean to expose a little more cleavage. Check.
Biting on the tip of her pen. Check.
Giggling at everything coming out of his mouth. Vomit.
I can’t blame her for trying her best, but she must wonder why he ordered two plates and has a purse sitting on the bench opposite him. Perhaps she’s so completely mesmerized by his good looks, she hasn’t noticed. It’s possible. I’ve been standing behind her for at least a minute and she hasn’t stopped talking.
Boone peers around her and gives me a wide-eyed plea for help. If I weren’t so hungry, I’d leave him on his own. Instead, I take pity on him—and my growling stomach, but mostly him—and slide onto the bench seat in front of a messy burger stuffed in a plastic oval tray over-spilling with fries.
“This looks like heaven,” I say, essentially blocking any further flirtation by my simple existence.
Or so I think.
Girlfriend slides her attention over to me, scans my nest of hair and disheveled clothes, and then goes right back to telling Boone about herself. While I munch on fries, we learn she grew up in Alamogordo, but left when she graduated high school and married a pilot. That apparently didn’t work out since she’s back where she started.
As fascinating as the story is so far, I cut her off. “Can you bring me some mayo when you get a chance? That’d be great. Thanks.”
“Uh, sure. You need anything more, sweetheart?” she asks Boone, who hasn’t touched his food.
“No, we’re all set,” he grumbles, his jaw set tight.
After she wanders off, he bursts into a fit of loud laughter. “Why didn’t you save me?”
“I did. I asked for mayo. Classic waitress trick. Ketchup and mustard are typically kept on the tables or a nearby station, but she’ll have to go back to the kitchen to get mayonnaise, which should be refrigerated. I bought us some time. Hopefully some other handsome man will want a burger and she’ll move on to her next target.”