As I shake my head, his smile grows. And then, because he makes it too easy, I say, “Paul McCartney’s kind of overrated, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me?”
I nod toward the radio, which is playing “Bohemian Rhapsody.” “Paul McCartney,” I repeat, as though he’s missing something obvious.
“What does he have to do with anything? This is Queen.”
I squint. “Uh... no. I don’t think it is.”
He accidentally steps on the brake, then corrects. “Are you serious?”
“I’m pretty sure this is Paul McCartney. The guy from the Rolling Stones.”
“WHAT?”
Alex passionately lectures me on the three different bands, their members, their songs, the fact that calling any of them overrated is an insult to the arts—nay, to all of humanity—until he catches my smirk and then completely loses his mind.
“Raising my blood pressure for fun,” he grumbles.
I try to whistle. “This is a barn owl.”
“It isnot.”
In a delightful stroke of fortune, the next song on the radiois “You’re So Vain,” which I sing directly into his face. “Look, Alex! They’re playing your song.Aww.”
“I bet that to you,allsongs are about me.”
He grins, never removing his eyes from the road, as I sputter in response. I hate how he does that, hate it so much I lose the ability to speak. Turning all my arrows around in midair and redirecting them at me. But on the other side of that coin is another talent I can’t be mad at: his ability to distract me into a better mood. Making me forget I was crying not all that long ago.
We veer into the murder mystery dinner theater parking lot, a stream of cars ahead of us and behind us all belonging to the wedding party. I hop out, refusing to make eye contact with Alex due to some principle I haven’t determined yet, which he barely acknowledges, sliding right into step with his cousins, chatting with them. Trevor waves from the restaurant door, which he opened for Teyonna.
“Ro! Why’d you ride with him for?” To Alex: “King, you flirting with my girl?”
“No,” he returns with a lazy dazzle of a smile. “I’m flirting with mine.”
I bristle, hurrying past him. “You wish.”
“Oh, Ro,” Trevor whispers when we’re alone, his voice pained. “Please, no. One of us was supposed to be successful with this ‘make them sorry’ thing! I’ll never be the strong one. It had to be you.”
“What show are they doing today? I can’t watchWinds of Aubervilleone more time. Ted’s a sweetheart, but the man couldn’t reach high notes with a ladder.”
“Not Alex. You deserve a man with more style than that—do you really want a guy who wears jeans and a plain-ass T-shirt every day? The same jeans, too. It’s like he found one that fitright and bought twenty identical pairs. Or worse—he only has one pair! Let me set you up with my boy Keith. He’s got an albino snake big as your thigh, named Amber, and the most incredible collection of slim-fit chinos.”
I decide I do not hear him.
The Yoons reserved half the restaurant, long gleaming tables pushed together. The recessed lights are dim, walls aglow with neon steins and signedMoonstruckmovie posters. Joan Finkel and Wanda Horowitz, two ladies who are in a perpetual state of 1950s dress and have been doing these shows for as long as I can remember—yet never seem to age—are moving set pieces around onstage, prepping for the show that begins in a few minutes. Judging by the men’s mining clothes and the ladies’ long white nightgowns, we’re being treated toThe Lavender Lady, an embellished re-creation of a local ghost story.
I wait for Trevor and Alex to pick their seats, then choose a spot far from both of them. Trevor stands up and walks directly over the empty chairs, dropping into the one beside mine.
“I know your father did not teach you to act like that in restaurants,” I snip, darting a glance at Alex. He’s watching us with transparent displeasure. We don’t look away from each other until the lights are killed, vanishing him. Yellow hyacinth flashes through my mind, bright in the black room.
I shiver.
“Calm down, Mother.” Trevor recites his order to the waitress, I give mine (manicotti with two-pound bricks of cheese inside. I’m talking cheese that wants to make a tender loving home inside your arteries), and the show begins. Twenty minutes later, I’m only just beginning to cool off.
Trevor borrows a swig of my lemonade. “Ro,” he whispers, “give it to me straight. Are you boinking Alex?”
I dip my fingertips into my glass. Flick him in the face with lemonade.
