Chapter 7 Noah
seven
Noah
Vegas is the exact opposite of Emerald Creek.
Hot.
Dry.
Crowded.
Neon lights everywhere.
Concrete, steel, and glass structures.
Artificial grass, real palm trees.
Casinos, restaurants, concerts, shows, both on the street and in every recess of every building.
I hate it.
“Ohmygod I love it!” Willow shrieks gleefully as we pass street artists adding to the ambient heat by blowing flames out of their mouths.
“Look! Dragon men!” They’re pretty much naked, too, which I can’t blame them for.
I speed up while Willow stays behind. We’re on our way back from the courthouse, marriage license in hand.
We could have darted into the first wedding chapel we encountered, but back in Emerald Creek, Willow made me pack a suit “so no one can say we didn’t plan this.
” She sent me links to hotels with all-included wedding packages with a bunch of over-excited emojis, signed off “can’t wait, xoxo,” then promptly called to say this was “just in case someone wanted to see proof.”
Proof that we’re a real couple, marrying for love even if no one saw it coming.
My plan once in Vegas was to get married and get out. But now I have Willow to take into account, and she seems to have other ideas.
Giving in to these is the least I can do.
She catches up to me. “Did you see those tats?”
“Uh, yeah, pretty cool,” I lie. I didn’t notice tattoos.
I was too busy getting out of the heat while evaluating the likelihood that one of them might screw up and inhale flames.
Would their insides burn? What would be the life-saving gesture a random passerby—me—would need to administer to save their life?
She falls in step with me. “You must have seen this a million times.”
“Me? No. Why d’you say that? It’s my first time in Vegas.”
She stops in her tracks, mouth agape. “Noah Callaway!”
I stop and turn to face her. She’s got her fists on her hips, fire in her eyes hotter than any flamethrower could summon, and a sheen of sweat on her forehead that I wouldn’t mind—
“You little poser. You can drop the cool nerd act with me!” She beams a smile brighter than the brutal desert sun.
I raise my hands in protest but can’t help the burst of laughter coming from my chest. “I’m not posing. I uh…” My laughter gets caught in my throat. I drop my head and mirror her fist-on-hip pose. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m sorry. I’m gonna make an effort.”
She nods. “Good. Now come here.” She whips her phone out and pulls me against her.
“Smile! Pretend you’re about to marry the love of your life.
” Our joined faces are staring back at us in the rectangle of her phone, smiles plastered on, and Willow’s eyes light up.
She takes the picture then lets me go, the sweet scent of her skin lingering around me.
“I’ll post it on ECHoes later,” she says, referring to Emerald Creek’s own social media, one I created to keep everyone safe yet constantly in touch.
As she looks at the screen, a shadow mars her face, quickly replaced by another beaming smile. “I bet you’d like the casino.” She pockets her phone as we cross the street in front of our hotel. “D’you want to go real quick?”
“What makes you think I’d like it?”
“It’s… math. You like math, don’t you?”
Math? “Would you like to go to the casino?”
She shrugs. “Nah. Besides I should get ready for the wedding.” She says it like this is a major ceremony, when it’s only a formality.
“Our reservation is in two hours. Plenty of time to go gambling if you’d like.
” I point to the slot machines in the darkened lobby, a sea of them, and to the blackjack tables beyond.
I’ve been grumpy, and I want to make it up to her.
If gambling is what she wants right now, gambling is what she’ll get.
“Two hours? Oooh, I need to hurry.” She dashes to the bank of elevators.
I chuckle. I didn’t take Willow for a woman who needed two hours to get ready. I need to seriously revise all my assumptions when it comes to her.
“I’ll go get us some water,” I say as she walks away from me.
I picked one of Vegas’s top hotels and booked us the lavish wedding package, which includes two suites, flowers, champagne, thirty minutes at the wedding chapel and T-shirts. Yes, fucking T-shirts.
What it does not come with, is enough water to keep us alive. We’re both parched, and Willow mentioned that whatever comes out of the tap makes her feel queasy, so I go back into the heat to a convenience store I noticed on the way and get us several gallons of water.
“Is your suite as cool as mine?” she asks when she opens her door for me half an hour later. “Come in for a minute.” She’s wrapped in a plush robe, her hair falling in wet waves on her shoulders, her scent of vanilla dangerously enticing.
I was going to haul her water in anyway, so I follow her inside. Her suite is a little nicer than mine. Set in a corner of the building, its floor to ceiling windows offer views on the brightly lit city at our feet and on the mountains in the distance, their tops snow-capped.
She nods. “Did you see this?” she adds without missing a beat, grabbing a remote.
One press of a button, and a large TV screen slides up from the foot of her king-size bed.
Another press, and what I thought was a vanity revolves to reveal a minibar to the tinny sound of “Here Comes The Bride.” “This suite is dreamy. I just want to live here forever.”
Her pink-painted toes dig into the plush carpet, matching fingernails playing in the wisps of her wet hair. Her robe opens slightly, revealing the milky swell of her breast. Turning my back to her, I grab two glasses from the minibar and pour us water.
“Thanks so much,” she says again and gulps her water, her throat bobbing up and down as she swallows.
Noticing all the details in which Willow is beautiful is all kinds of wrong, so I avert my gaze and skim the rest of her suite, my eyes trailing inadvertently to the open door leading to her bedroom.
Fuck. There’s a freaking wedding gown on the bed. After her advice that I pack a suit, I did expect a pretty dress, maybe white if she had one.
I did not expect a wedding dress.
The knot of guilt in my stomach tightens. Is this really the only wedding Willow thinks she’ll ever get? Because judging by her excitement, by the dress, by the fact she’s painted her nails—it’s a huge deal for her.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
I set my glass down, close the distance between us and give her a brief hug.
“Thank you.” What I want to say is I’m sorry, but that would unravel the tangled threads of my guilt, and I need to go through with this wedding.
I didn’t bring us all the way to Vegas to back off because of some bullshit that belongs in a therapist’s notebook.
She shakes slightly under my touch and her breath catches. “It’s fine,” she says, turning away from me and gulping the rest of her water.
I step back quickly. Something’s off with Willow, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
First she doesn’t believe in marriage, but she has very set ideas on how my wedding should go.
Then she says that I should find someone else, but barges in my home in the middle of night and declares we shouldn’t waste any more time.
Following that, she’s offended about me wanting to compensate her financially.
Finally when I say a simple thank you, she looks about to cry.
“Come knock on my door when you’re ready,” I say, giving the view from her window one last glance.
Right then, the Sphere lights up with the logo of my favorite group, Phish. Live at the Sphere, the moving display announces. I haven’t heard them live in so long, seeing their name sprawled here is a reminder of everything I gave up to hold it together in Emerald Creek. Bitterness fills my mouth.
Willow gasps, clutching at her chest. “Ohmygaaawd! Phish is in town!” She turns to me, eyes rounded. Then her face falls a little and she adds, “They’re probably sold out.”
I frown and smile at the same time. “You like Phish?”
“Who doesn’t?” she shrieks.
“You’d be surprised,” I answer as she says, “They’re my favorite band.”
Turning back to the Sphere where their name sprawls on an off-purple background, she coos, “awww,” and starts humming.
I pull out my phone. “Farmhouse? Really?”
“Don’t judge. You wouldn’t understand,” she says with a mock pout.
“Try me. Let’s see. Your mom played it while cleaning the house before you could even walk?”
Another of those fucking clouds passes through her gaze, but she quickly smiles. “Close enough. What’s your favorite piece? Wait, let me guess…” The Sphere’s display changes to a smiley, and she focuses her gaze on me, one finger on her lips.
“I don’t have a favorite,” I volunteer.
“Right. It all depends on your—”
“Mood,” we both say with a quick laugh.
Fuck. I haven’t felt so light in… a long, long time. My thumbs fly on the screen of my phone.
“Okay, but what would you say is their most iconic?” she pushes.
“Ah, I’m a classic guy—”
“Bathtub gin,” we say at the same time.
“Solid,” she says and what can I say? Her approval means something to me. Here’s one thing I’m not fucking up with her.
“How ’bout you? Most iconic?” I ask back.
“Take a guess.”
“Harry Hood?”
She tilts her head. “Truth?”
I frown. “Come on. Always.”
“Blaze.”
“Ah, yeah. I can see that. Uplifting.” I nod. That kind of suits the idea I have of Willow. Shucking a hard childhood to make something out of herself, or at least, live life on her own terms.
“It’s a good sign, right?” She turns to face the Sphere again, now displaying abstract mobile shapes, and sets her hands on her hips. “I think it’s a good sign.”
“What d’you mean, a good sign?”
“They’re from Vermont. We’re from Vermont. What are the odds?”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, narrowing her gaze on my phone.
“Trying to get us tickets.”
She stays silent for a beat. Two. “For Phish?” she asks in a whisper.
I run my thumbs on the screen and glance at her. “Yeah,” I say, smiling.
“For real?”
I laugh. “Yes.” A feeling of careless happiness bubbles up, stretching my lips in a big smile.
“Are you sure?”
I turn my phone to her, showing her our tickets.
She throws herself in my arms. This is not the awkward, polite thank-you hug I gave her earlier. This is a full-on display of gratefulness.
Willow, I’m discovering, is generous in her displays of affection.
I pat her awkwardly on the back. If I were to hug her back, it could get… not what she meant it to be. Hers is a real thank-you hug.
As for me, the excitement about seeing Phish later tonight doesn’t erase my lingering emotion about Willow. It only exacerbates it. The curve of her breast, now pressed against me, remains burned in my sensory memory. Forcing myself to pretend stone indifference is a necessity.
I clear my throat. “Knock on my door when you’re ready?”
She lets go of me and says, “You should go first. I’ll meet you at the chapel.”
I raise an eyebrow, but she continues with a smile. “It’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding.”
The vision of Willow walking alone through a Vegas hotel in a wedding gown makes me sad. “You know it’s a fake wedding, right? Bad luck is sort of built in.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. People get married for a bunch of different reasons. It might be fake in our hearts, but it’s a real wedding. The rules still apply.”
She has a point. This wedding better be airtight real if it’s to accomplish its purpose.
But how the fuck is me seeing her in her dress prior to the ceremony jeopardizing that? “I’ll see you down there, then.”
“Don’t forget your boutonniere,” she says, pointing to the console. Next to a simple pink bouquet, there’s a matching rosebud in a plastic tube. My heartbeat increases. These were Mom’s favorite flowers.