The Chapel Wars (13 page)

“But sports are all heart.”

“Professional sports are about money. It’s business.”

“And what about life? Can you do that? Just tune things out?”

“Mostly.” I’d somehow tied a knot in my cloth napkin by now. “It makes things easier, don’t you think?”

“No.” His voice was monotone. “When my dad died, I tried that. Trust me. It doesn’t work. Your emotions keep existing whether you want them to or not.”

“Then what do you do with your emotions?”

“Feel them. Sometimes I numb them. Either way, your truths play on.”

Bart Andrews walked by our table again, all judgmental stares and old-man head shakes. I knew what he was thinking, or what he would think if he knew I was falling for the grandson of the man who would love to destroy everything Grandpa Jim had worked for. Grandpa might as well have
given the chapel to Donna—at least she wasn’t romancing the enemy.

Although, I mean, if I were romancing the enemy (not in a calculating way, purely by coincidence) it didn’t hurt to at least ask what, exactly, his grandfather knew about the chapel. And what Dax wanted to do about it.

“I can’t believe you’re this seasoned sports better and all I’ve done is snuck into bingo with Minerva,” Dax was saying, oblivious to Bart and his Accusing Eyes of Accusations. “Poppy gambles a lot. He’s a poker guy.”

“Yeah. About him.” Bart was gone now, after completing the most drawn-out restaurant exit of all time. “I know we said we wouldn’t talk about our chapels. …”

“Yep.” Dax looked me dead in the eye. “We did say that.”

“But, look, I don’t know if you know what’s going on, but at the funeral, your grandpa said he knew our chapel was in trouble. How would he even know that?”

“I told you. We can see how many customers go in there—”

“But that’s not what he was talking about. It’s like he knows … things, and I don’t want him to be another obstacle for us.”

“
Another
obstacle?”

“Any obstacle.”

“But he’s a competitor.”

Our main course was served. I tried to think of exactly what to say as the waiter cleared plates and presented food. Dax ran his finger along the rim of his water glass.

“
I
own the chapel, okay?” My voice shook. And not what I
was planning on sharing. See? Emotions don’t help anything. “My grandpa gave it to me. I’m in charge. I’m supposed to save it. And I’m doing everything, everything I can to make it succeed, but it doesn’t help knowing that Victor Cranston is over there sharpening his devil horns, trying to bring us down somehow.”

“That’s my poppy.”

“Right. And he’s also one of my biggest problems.”

“I just work there part-time. It’s not like I’m privy to the inner workings of the place.” Dax gave a heavy shrug. “I’m sorry if he’s making it hard, but—”

“You’re not going to do anything about it,” I said.

“There’s nothing for me to do.” Dax smacked his hand against the table. Our silverware rattled. “If he’s fixing to hurt your chapel, he’s going to do it. Just like before your grandpa died. Nothing has changed.”

“Except it’s
me
he’s messing with now. Not my grandpa.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Fine.” I cut into my fish, cut into it until it was just a sea of mush. Dax ate some steak, poked at his potato. It was the longest stretch of silence we’d ever shared.

“What would you do?” I clanked my fork against the plate. “How would you feel if my grandpa were alive and yours was dead and we were trying to put
you
out of business?”

“Awful. Both sides are just awful. I wish this wasn’t an issue. I wish … I wish you were just a pretty girl I met at a funeral and our biggest problem was choosing a chain restaurant for
dessert. But that’s not our reality, and the truth is, your grandpa has been trying to put us out of business for years.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

Dax let out an exasperated breath. “Holly. He has. There are the lawsuits, the pranks, all the rumors he’s spread within the industry. That Bart guy probably hates my grandpa because he was told to. I’m sure he was a good man, but it’s a two-way street.”

I pushed my plate away. “If I don’t save Rose of Sharon, I’m losing the closest thing I have to home. Do you understand that?”

“Completely. More than you even know.” Dax rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not saying I want you to lose. I’m just saying I don’t think there is anything I can do about it.”

“You don’t
think
.” I stood. “Thinking isn’t doing. It’s not trying.”

Dax stood up too. It wasn’t easy, being in a booth. There was scooting and fumbling and people watching us. “If I say anything, he’s going to know we’re dating, or whatever this is we’re doing. He’ll know, your family will know, and they’ll go all Montagues and Capulets on each other. The chapels would be the least of our worries.”

I could not listen to his reason. “I … I need air. I’ll be back.”

I hurried outside and plunked myself onto a chipped bench underneath the
GOLDEN STEER
sign. I stared up at the gold cow statue, vaguely remembering some biblical story of God’s chosen people building a golden calf to pray to and Moses getting
mad about it. I would pray to it now; I would pray to anything or anyone.

Dax came out after a few minutes. He slid onto the seat next to me and didn’t talk for seventy-two seconds.

“I paid for dinner,” he said. “They’re putting our food into doggie bags.”

“I said I would pay.”

“And then you ran away.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You walked briskly.”

“Don’t joke.”

Cars whooshed past us on their way to the Strip. All those people had expectations about how they thought their evening would go, just like I did with my careful outfit selection and giddy flirting with Dax. A lot of them would end up just as disappointed as me. They wouldn’t meet that person they hoped they would meet, they wouldn’t win the money they hoped they would make. Vegas was a dream, but a pipe dream that could never be realized.

Dax touched my arm, tentatively. When I didn’t pull away, he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. This kiss was so much softer than our last one—sweet, apologetic, warm. I was glad I didn’t eat any of my fish. If someone in that moment had asked me what I cared about more, Dax or that stupid chapel, I would have handed over the deed to that place and jumped into Dax’s arms. They were much softer than our pews.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Me too.”

“So that’s it,” I said, resigned. “You’re Team Cupid’s Dream.”

He touched his forehead to mine and whispered. “I don’t want it to be Team Chapel. I just want it to be Team Us.”

I kissed him again. I would date Dax. I would save the chapel. It wasn’t either-or for me. I wanted an
and
.

In my parents’ quest for the most amicable divorce ever, they were aggressive at keeping holidays “normal.” They scheduled us alone time with each parent as well as a combined activity of some sort. The Fourth of July, with two barbecues, two sets of fireworks, and a family movie, all while sandwiched between Lecturing Lenore and Jaded James, was one of the most exhausting days of my life. That was, of course, before Christmas.

The day started off at The Space. Mom chose our postdivorce, three-bedroom apartment because it was by the bus stop. At one time, the apartments might have been considered nice, but this would have also been a time when Rollerblades were considered cool. Every few years a new company came in and renamed it some serene Spanish or Italian name, like Sienna Sunrise or Alicante. No matter how many times they repainted the stucco, maybe added some faux stone or spruced up the landscaping,
The Space was just a holding cell, a spot you lived in until your credit cleared or you found a boyfriend with a nicer address.

Aunt Sharon, in town from Phoenix, slept on the couch with her baby, who screamed all night. Mom almost had to use physical force to get us out of bed and in front of the Christmas tree for presents.

Presents. It really was Christmas. The first Christmas where we hadn’t woken up to the smell of breakfast and the sounds of our parents’ voices. It was the first Christmas without married parents and the first Christmas without Grandpa Jim here to make his
chile verde
eggs.

No one could ever make eggs like him, because no one would ever be Grandpa Jim. I would have other relationships in my life, love other people, but I wouldn’t have
that
relationship. I wouldn’t love anyone else in the same way that I did Grandpa Jim. The lack of togetherness and traditions magnified that truth.

Holidays are evil.

And so I started the painful process of trying to ignore emotional triggers as my family went through the motions of opening presents. James was all animated about his new war-themed video game (who doesn’t want to arm their emotionally unstable child with a virtual weapon?), Lenore wanted everyone to know her hand-knit scarves were made out of organic yarn, and that baby just cried and cried.

By the time we were done and everyone started debating whether we should hit up a casino buffet or Denny’s, the stress of holding things in got to be too much. I locked myself in the
bathroom and curled up in the tub. The hexagon tiles were small enough that I could count for a while. I thought I might cry, but I didn’t, just breathed, until I decided that I was going to implode if I didn’t connect in some way with someone.

If I texted my friends on Christmas morning that I’d locked myself in here to count bathroom tiles, they would either not respond because they didn’t know how to respond, or completely miss the hint that I needed help and start talking football. And really, it’s not the easiest emotional clue to pick up on, so I shouldn’t expect anything.

I slid my phone out of my pocket. Maybe it was needy, desperate, I don’t know, but I texted the only person I could think of to text.

ME: Hey. Christmas is hard.

He wrote me back in one minute.

DAX: I’m Jewish.

ME: Oh. Really?

DAX: When it comes to Christmas I am. I’m anything other than any religion that makes today the Worst Day of the Year

ME: Maybe not the worst. I got a juicer. I can drink my vegetables now.

DAX: That must be where the expression “yuletide glee” comes from.

ME: Ha. Yeah.

Then I had nothing. If I couldn’t text the people I knew best a feelings-themed text message, I shouldn’t do it to Dax. I was starting to write, “Well, thanks for writing, talk soon,” when he wrote:

DAX: First holiday is the hardest. Promise.

It was scary, being understood by a person I’d known less than two months. Today had to be torturous for him too, with just his mom and his douche bag of a grandpa. There was this whole other life he would be living if his dad were around.

ME: Thanks for understanding. Hope you get through the day.

DAX: I’ve been getting through the day for the last nine months. Time to light the menorah.

ME: Wait, so are you joking?

DAX: Mazel tov.

I washed my face and joined my family. Lenore and James got me a basket of fruits and vegetables to go along with the juicer, so we drank lemon, apple, carrot, kale, and mango for our Christmas breakfast. It kind of sucked, to be honest, but it could have been worse.

That afternoon was James’s Christmas Day piano concert at a church in nearby Henderson. Dad was supposed to meet us at
the fountain outside the church at two o’clock. Dad didn’t do so well with
supposed to
s.

The baby had a diaper explosion, so Aunt Sharon and Lenore hurried to the church bathroom. I counted the cars that drove into the parking lot. Twelve. None of them Dad’s.

“I’ve got to go in.” James stuck his hand into the fountain and scooped out a quarter. “I’m the main musical event, and Mrs. Georgia is going to be mad.”

Mom glanced at her watch and sighed. “This isn’t like him.”

“Flaking out?” James asked. “Yeah it is. Dad flaked out on us. Open your eyes, woman.”

“James, what did your therapist say about calling me ‘woman’?” Mom asked.

He bit at a nail. “I could call you worse than that.”

“James.” There was a way that Mom said his voice that made me hurt for them both. Like she loved him, but she was so tired of him, which only made him worse, which just restarted the exhausting cycle.

“Lana,” he mimicked.

“We talked about this.”

“I’m not doing anything!” he shouted. A few churchgoers walking into the chapel shot us harsh looks. Yep. Loads of Christmas spirit. “I’m here to play the effing piano and you’re getting mad for no reason!”

Mom looked up and breathed, like God was going to send a guardian angel or saint specializing in teenagers. “We also don’t say ‘effing.’ ”