Can I See You Again? (23 page)

“How can you not like weddings?” I ask Nixon, standing beside his charcoal gray Ford F-250 truck.

“They're a waste of money. Why obligate my friends to buy me a toaster?” He heaves my bag into the truck bed. “Jesus, it's just for one night, you know.”

I hand him a second bag. “Maybe your friends want to buy you a toaster.”

“How many toasters does one man need?”

The tension that blanketed over us the last time we were together has lifted. “Well, I'm sure your cousin is very excited.”

My phone rings.
Hee-haw . . . hee-haw.

Damn.
I keep forgetting to change that.

“Excuse me, one sec.” I step aside and answer Sean's call. “Hey.”

“You on the road?”

“Just about.” I comb my fingers through my ponytail. “What's up?”

“I'm gonna swing back by your place and grab the ring.”

“Sure. It's in the drawer of my nightstand. Why?”

“When I cleaned off that spot the other day, I thought I noticed a loose stone. I didn't want you to worry if you came home and found your ring missing.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Of course, I could've left you a note.” He laughs. “Too soon?”

“Too soon.”

Ding-ding.

“Hey, my other line is ringing. I better go.”

“All right, I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

I click over to Candace's call. “Hello.”

“So glad I caught you. Scotty's at your office for a photo, but you aren't there.”

“Change of plans.”
On purpose.
“Nick picked me up at my house.” Nixon and I high-five.

“Bree, this is becoming quite suspicious.”

Shoot. She's getting antsy. How much longer can I fend off her need for a photo op?
“Sorry, Candace, I don't know what you mean.”

“Not only is Nick incredibly evasive, but we've yet to find a urologist matching his description in any of the physician databases, nor the Tough Mudder race results. Readers are questioning who Nick really is. They're upset, as am I, that we aren't getting answers.”

I feel bad she's under pressure.

“Scotty can come to you.”

I don't feel
that
bad. “What . . . did you . . . say? Dang, we've got crummy reception. I'm . . . losing . . . you . . .” I hang up.

“You do realize you'll rot in hell for all these lies?” Nixon teases.

“Someone's gotta keep you company.”

“I'm a saint. Just look at all I've done for you lately.”

“Yes, well, I'd like to think it's been less than awful posing as my boyfriend.”

“It's tough, but I'm getting through.”

“Ha. I'm the best fake girlfriend you've ever had.”

“Yeah? Let's see how well you convince my family we're in love.” He shuts the tailgate. “Let's roll.”

Road construction and flashing pylons close the on-ramp to I-5 north, diverting us, along with a train of other vehicles, through a maze of side streets.

“I swear, they're always working on these roads.”

“Job security,” Nixon says, turning right. “There's an auxiliary cord in this console. Put some music on?”

“Yeah, sure.” I plug in my phone and select my light rock Pandora station. Maroon 5's “Payphone” ballad reverberates through his speakers.

“Something else?” he says.

“What's wrong with this song?”

“Nothing, if the singer is
supposed
to sound like a drowning cat.”

Jo said something similar once. They're both right. “Fine, Mr. Picky Pants, what music do you like?”

“Anything but this.”

I search for a classic rock radio station and select the Red Hot Chili Peppers' “Californication.” “Better?”

“Better.”

We approach a stop sign and wait in the turning lane behind several cars.

I cast my eyes across the street toward a couple of young girls. They bounce and titter while coloring rainbows with sidewalk chalk underneath a tall pecan tree that shades the pathway. There's a gash in the tree's lower trunk, a foot-long deep slit that's healed but not forgotten.

It's as if a boulder drops onto my chest.

Is this . . . ?

I study the bordering houses and confirm what I feared.
Oh, God.
We came the roundabout way; I didn't realize we were in this neighborhood. The same neighborhood where fifteen years ago fire truck sirens blared and ambulance lights flashed, and fuel pooled at the curb before snaking down the street into the gutters. Police officers asked questions and told people to stand back. All the while, I sat numb, picking away at the tree's wound.

At once, the car's air is too thick. The sounds of the street too piercing. A decade and a half has passed and yet the pain is as raw as if the mangled steel of Dad's Jeep just now slices my forearm.

“Um . . . please . . . can you . . .” My voice is barely above a whisper.

“What's wrong, Bree?” Nixon shifts his gaze between me and the oncoming traffic, inching forward into the middle of the crossing streets, waiting to turn left.

I close my eyes and grasp the console. Digging my nails deep into the leather, I ready myself for the crunch of metal, the seat belt's burn as it cuts into my chest, Mom's screams.

I ready myself for the dizziness, the spins, Jo's cries as she falls to her knees in the hospital lobby, and the silence in the evenings, all the years later, when she and I sat alone in the big old house.

Nixon places his hand over mine.

We pass through the street unscathed and he pulls over. “You all right?”

Nothing happened, Bree. Nothing more than anxiety and paranoia taking control.
“Yeah, sorry.”

“Don't be sorry.” He slips he hand away and pauses before asking, “Was that . . .
the
intersection?”

I nod, staring out the window.

“Anything I can do?”

“No, thanks. Let's keep going. I'm okay.” It isn't until several blocks later that my stiffened back relaxes and I can inhale a couple of breaths, release my grip on the console.

My anxiety settles into embarrassment a few miles later.
What must Nixon think of me?
I claim to be this focused, assiduous businesswoman, and yet I shudder like a beaten dog at the sight of asphalt, an old tree, and a stoplight. Not to mention, I bullied him into joining my masquerade. Some noble, self-sufficient, forward-thinking woman I am. Allowing my present and future to hinge on my past.

After clearing the Southern California gridlock, we climb through the low mountains toward the paver-lined driveway of his parents' Spanish-style hillside home. The moment the beige stucco and terra-cotta roof comes into view, the skin on the nape of my neck prickles. Suddenly this doesn't seem like a good idea.

“Let's go in first,” he says, “I'll grab our suitcases later. I need a forklift for yours, anyway.”

“Wait.” I grab him by the arm. “What's our story?”

“We've been over this.”

“Humor me.”

“We're casually dating. We met at your office. You like Maroon 5 and I'm willing to look past it.”

“Be serious. I'm about to meet your parents.” I check my reflection in the car's side mirror.
Damn, why didn't I do something with my bangs?
“Tell me more stuff about you, little nuggets to throw out in conversation.”

“Like what?”

“Do you have any tattoos? Ever been in a bar fight? What's your favorite movie?”

“No. Twice.
Caddyshack.
”

“You've been in two bar fights?”

He points to a hairline scar on the side of his right hand.

“Did you win?”

“Knocked him out cold.”

I pinch my lips together.
Hmmm . . . isn't that sexy as hell.
Not that it matters here nor there . . . I'm just taking note.

“C'mon, you'll be fine. Let's go.”

We follow the curvy sidewalk, lined with green grass. Rosebushes decorate the property edge overlooking the valley and city. We near the front door and my neck flames with heat, but I recite positive thoughts in my head.
For Jo, for the book, for the house.

“You should've worn a turtleneck.”

“I know.” I reach to scratch my skin, but Nixon grabs my hand and squeezes it tight.

“There's nothing to worry about. We've been at this for weeks now. Candace and Randi don't suspect a thing. No one else will, either.”

“Okay, you're right. We're masters at deception. Funny thing is, it's been fairly easy pretending to be in love.”
Wait . . . what did I just say?

“What did you just say?”

Before I answer, Mrs. Voss swings open the front door wearing a
Last time I cooked, only three people got sick
apron.
“¡Mi chico guapo!”

“Hi, Mom.”

She kisses each of his cheeks, then wraps her arms around Nixon's broad shoulders and squeezes tight enough to leave handprints in his shirt. She turns toward me and clasps my hands with both of her own. “Welcome, Bree.”

“Thank you. It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Voss.”

“Call me Mom or Mama. When you're in my home, you're part of my family.”

“Thank you . . . Mama.” I haven't called someone that for fifteen years. It feels nice.
Really nice.
My scar tingles.

“Let me have a good look at you.” She fans my arms wide and inspects me from head to toe. “Tsk-tsk-tsk.”

What's wrong?

She says to Nixon, “
Tales caderas estrechas.
”

“Sí.”
He laughs.

This isn't funny. What the hell are they saying?

“Ella no será capaz de bombear más de tres o cuatro bebés.”

“It'll be okay.” Nixon pats her shoulder.

“No lo sé.”
She frowns.

Nixon chuckles and says to me, “Mom's afraid with your narrow hips you can't pump out more than three or four babies.”

Oh, God.

“We'll fatten you up at dinner.” Mrs. Voss hooks her arm underneath mine. “I must say, Bree, I liked you that first day we spoke. I came home and told Nixon's father, ‘Now that's a woman our boy should date.'” She peeks over her shoulder to Nixon. “Grab some wine, will you?”

“Sure.” He opens the coat closet and reveals a couple of stashed cases of Francis Coppola Chardonnay.

“It's Southern California,” Mrs. Voss says. “We don't need coats, but we do need wine.”

“Absolutely!”

We head into the open-layout kitchen, circled with spot-free windows overlooking a lima-bean-shaped pool. A built-in stainless barbecue sits beside a rectangular teak table fenced with six wicker-backed chairs. “George, the kids are here.”

The shape of Nixon's nose is mirrored in this man. It must be Nixon's dad.

George says nothing, nor does he look up from his
Los Angeles Times
crossword puzzle.

“I swear that man can't hear a damn thing I say.”

“I can hear just fine.” He sets the paper down and peers over his reading glasses toward Nixon. “How you doing, son?”

Nixon pats his dad on the arm. “Good to see you, Dad. This is Bree.”

“Bree.” He extends his hand. “It's a pleasure.”

“Thank you. It's nice to meet you, as well.”

“What's with the walk down memory lane?” Nixon points at an opened box of family pictures on the table.

“Your father thinks we had a white Honda. Bet me twenty bucks.”

“He's wrong?”

“Of course he is. Thirty-seven years together and you'd think he'd be smarter than to make a bet with me. The car was as blue as the sky. Somewhere in that pile is a picture to prove it.”

“What's a five-letter word for deep anxiety?” Nixon's father asks with his pencil hovered over his puzzle.

“Dread?” Mrs. Voss answers.

“Starts with the letter
A
.”

“Angst?” I interject.

He smiles at me. “That fits.”

I lean close for him to pat me on the head.

Nixon pulls out a photo from the stack and hands it to me. “Check me out.” A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old version of Nixon is decked out in a black tux with polished shoes. He stands beside a curly-haired girl dressed in an off-shoulder floor-length chiffon gown. A pink carnation corsage is strapped to her wrist.

“Prom?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Here we go.” Mrs. Voss hands Nixon and me a glass of wine. “Cheers to love.”

“Cheers.” We sip.

“Let's sit.”

Nixon slides the chair out beside his mom, but she shakes her head. “No. No. That's for Bree. You sit across. Get the almonds from the pantry, too.” She pats the seat and motions for me to join her.

“Thanks, Mrs. Voss . . . er, Mama.”

We sift through the mound of pictures: Christmas mornings with bows taped in Nixon's toddler bed-head hair, various family birthdays, track and swim meets, he and a group of friends cheering at a Padres baseball game. We chuckle at a shot of Nixon dressed in his high school graduation cap and gown and muse on a tender photo of Nixon cradling his tiny newborn nephew at the hospital.

Tears line the lower lids of Mrs. Voss's eyes as she nudges her shoulder with my own. “I am blessed with a beautiful family.”

“Yes, you are.” I muster a softhearted smile, but shame strangles my heart.
What the hell am I doing? Chumming it up with Mrs. Voss. Calling her Mama. Pretending this moment is real.
This is wrong. So wrong. Nixon's family is lovely. Lovely. And I'm playing them for fools.

“What's a four-letter word for contemptible one?” George asks.

B-r-e-e.