Chapter 14
“Are we high?” I lean forward, peering through the windshield, but the view doesn’t change. “Maybe the kid at the coffee shop slipped some acid into our coffee or something?”
“Except that I didn’t drink any coffee,” Wes says, cocking his head sharply as one of the clowns outside the restaurant executes a sloppy front roll only to immediately bound into the air and scurry up a thick pole at the edge of the patio like a spider monkey.
“Wow.” My jaw drops as the clown climbs higher and higher, his hands a blur on the small metal handholds. In under a minute, he reaches the top of the pole and rings a bell, summoning a round of cheers from the other clowns milling about. A few raise their wineglasses in his honor as the sound of a whoopie cushion being violently emptied echoes through the air, so loud I can hear it from inside the still-closed camper.
“Maybe we don’t want to eat here,” Wes murmurs, scowling at the unusual crowd.
“I think that was a whoopie cushion,” I say, pointing to a group of silently giggling clowns reinflating a giant pink balloon near the outdoor bar.
Wes’s brow smooths. “Thank God. But still…clowns. I’m not a fan. They’re worse than gnomes.”
“I mean, clowns are creepy, yes, but they seem harmless.” I glance back at the clown practically flying down the pole, his ruffled costume billowing in the breeze. “At least to other people. I’m not sure it’s safe to be climbing poles after drinking wine. And it’s going to be dark soon.”
As if summoned by my words, the exterior lights flicker on, illuminating the patio and the front of the cozy-looking little restaurant. The golden bricks blend into the landscape and there isn’t another building in sight, making it very easy to imagine what it must have been like to pull up to the prison in the 1800s.
“And I really want to look inside,” I say, glancing back at Wes, who looks a little pale. But I chalk it up to hunger pains and nod toward the entrance. “Come on, let’s at least take a peek. Maybe things are less crazy in there. I’ll put Freya in her crate, and we can go.”
He nods and swallows hard. “All right.”
By the time Freya’s tucked in with a little treat and we’ve exited the camper, sweat is breaking out on his upper lip.
I hesitate near the door, frowning up at him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You’re sweating.” I point at his increasingly dewy face.
He swipes at his lip with the back of his hand. “Sorry. Guess I got a little hot in the sun through the windshield.” He reaches for the door, jerking it open before shooting a quick glance toward the patio. “Let’s head inside. It’s probably cooler in there.”
But it isn’t cooler in the restaurant. It’s actually a little warmer than the breezy spring evening, probably because it’s packed to the gills with more clowns.
All kinds of clowns. There are traditional white-faced clowns with their red noses resting beside their plates as they eat. There are edgy clowns with sad makeup and gritty steampunk-inspired outfits. There are cute little clown kids and sullen clown teenagers and terrifying horror clowns with razor-sharp prosthetic teeth I imagine make eating difficult, and everything in between. The small dining area has a surprising number of tables, and every one of them is filled with circus folk.
Well, except for an older couple in the far corner, who are slurping soup as fast as they can and watching their surroundings nervously.
I turn to Wes, intending to ask him what he thinks such a large gathering of clowns might be up to out in the middle of nowhere. But when I see his face, I start to wonder about more important things.
“Are you about to pass out?” I whisper, resting a gentle hand on his back. “Do you need to put your head between your knees? Or we can go if you want.”
He shakes his head, forcing a tight smile for the hostess approaching from across the room. “No. It’s fine. You’re hungry. I’m hungry. And this is the only restaurant for another hundred miles.”
I’m about to suggest that we could drive back to Sioux Falls or make do with the sandwiches and snacks in the camper, when the breathless hostess arrives in front of us.
Thankfully, the petite brunette isn’t in clown gear and her eyes wrinkle warmly as she says, “You must be McGuire, party of two. You’re so lucky! We had a last-minute cancellation right before you booked.” She collects two menus from the stand near the entrance to the dining area and nods for us to follow her. “We have you at a high-top table in the cell room. Right this way.”
As I move forward, Wes reaches out, claiming my hand and holding on tight as we start after the woman. Instantly, I know this has nothing to do with flirting or romance. His palm is cold and clammy, and as we pass by one of the horror clown tables, where a woman with a blood-soaked ruffle is calculating the tip with the aid of her cell phone, he starts to tremble.
I squeeze his hand, giving him what I hope is a reassuring smile as we step through the narrow threshold into what was obviously once the holding area for prisoners detained here. There aren’t any doors on the cells anymore, but the bars still stand, serving as separators for the three large booths on that side of the room.
Booths that are also filled with clowns…
As our hostess sets the menus on a high-top table in the corner, by an open window overlooking the grassland beyond—thank God, in case Wes needs to make an urgent escape—I ask, “So what’s going on here tonight? With the…” I nod over my shoulder with a smile.
She laughs. “It’s so fun, right?”
Wes murmurs something too wobbly to sound like an agreement and claims the seat closest to the window.
“My uncle runs the clown college in Sioux Falls. Pagliacci in Pink?” She waves a hand when my blank face apparently reveals I have no idea what she’s talking about. “It’s famous in clown circles. We’ve had clowns in our family all the way back to seventeenth century Italy. And we’ve hosted the clown college reunion every year since it opened in 1974.” She glances around with a soft laugh. “Though we might have to look for another venue next year. It’s getting so big! Thank goodness it’s nice out tonight so we could seat some people on the patio.”
As I slide into the seat across from Wes, the hostess reaches for a pitcher of water on the table by the window, filling our glasses as she says, “The specials tonight are a grilled octopus appetizer with toasted bread and an olive tapenade and a gorgeous filet mignon with truffle butter and a small serving of lobster ravioli on the side. That comes with your choice of green beans or grilled Broccolini, and your server will be right with you.”
I thank her, turning back to Wes as soon as she’s hustled into the other room. “Seriously, are you going to be okay to eat here? Is this like…a phobia for you?”
He nods ever so slightly and lifts his menu, brandishing it like a shield in front of his chest. “Yep.”
My forehead wrinkling, I whisper, “Then let’s go. Crawl out the window. I’ll meet you back by the camper.”
He shakes his head again. “No. I need to get the hell over it. It’s ridiculous. These are just normal people, enjoying a celebration and a nice meal, nothing to be afraid of.”
I cock my head. “Well, I don’t know about the normal part but I agree that there’s nothing to be afraid of. But fear isn’t always logical, and that’s okay.”
He claims his cloth napkin, dabbing at his damp face. “Except that it’s not. I’m thirty-three years old. I should be over getting trapped in the haunted funhouse at the county fair when I was six.”
I wince sympathetically. “Who says? You were just a baby. That must have been really scary. Why did your parents let you go into a place like that? Let alone all by yourself?”
“It wasn’t my parents, and I wasn’t alone. At least not at first,” he says, his gaze darting around the room, like he’s on the lookout for snipers. “It was Barrett. Hazard of having older brothers. Barrett was nine and determined to do the haunted funhouse for the first time. Drew was seven and too scared to go with him, so I volunteered, wanting to prove I was a big boy and Drew was a whiny baby.” He exhales a shaky laugh. “But I was not, in fact, a big boy. Neither was Barrett, but he had a better sense of direction. When he ran, he found the way out pretty quickly. I got lost in the mirror room with a morbidly obese clown with food stains all over his costume. He kept laughing and popping out behind different mirrors, while I cried.”
I reach across the table, giving his forearm a squeeze. “You poor thing. That’s horrible, Wes. No wonder you were traumatized. That man deserves to have a hot poker shoved up his backside for torturing a kid like that.”
His lips curve in a wobbly smile. “Thanks.”
“And Barrett wasn’t a very brave big brother.” I shrug. “But he was only nine, so I guess I’ll forgive him.” I pet Wes’s arm, racking my brain for something to say to help get his mind off those ugly memories. I find inspiration in the feel of his crisp arm hair beneath my fingers. “When I was little, I used to pet my grandpa’s arm hair like this and pretend it was a cat named Fluffy. Gramps would play along, making meowing noises and pretending to drink milk out of my glass.”
Wes’s smile widens. “Sounds like a cool guy.”
“He was. And the only one in the family as weird as me. I miss him.”
“You’re not weird,” he says, his gaze locking on mine for the first time since we sat down. “You’re fun. I’ll never forget that time I walked into the catering office and you and Mel were on the prep tables, throwing potatoes at each other and using sheet pans as shields.”
I laugh. “It had been a long week. And we had a lot of baby potatoes about to go bad, so…”
“It was great. I wanted to join in.”
I smile. “You should have. You’re allowed to be silly, too, you know. You don’t always have to be the calm, sweet, levelheaded one who sees all sides of the issue.”
His lips hitch up on one side. “Spoken by a woman who doesn’t come from an enormous family. That’s not how it works when you’re one of eight. There are only so many ways to stand out in a pack of kids that large. Once you find something that gets you positive attention, you stick to it, even when you’re grown.” He stretches his neck to one side. “It’s hard to break out of those patterns, especially when everyone you care about is still counting on you to be the same old Wes.”
Nodding, I narrow my eyes, pondering the predicament, wondering if maybe we both need a break from our status quo. Maybe this last-minute trip is a blessing in disguise, a chance to connect with a side of ourselves we don’t get to express in our everyday lives.
I love any excuse to let my hair down and play, whether it’s running around the catering shop, pretending to be a witch with Chase, or putting on a goofy British accent with Mel while we make fish and chips. But I imagine a lawyer doesn’t get as many chances to let his hair down.
And maybe that’s just what Wes needs, a chance to be the man he is deep down inside, not the responsible guy everyone in his family counts on to be measured and reasonable all the time.
Our waiter arrives just as a plan begins to form. The tiny old woman with an apron full of pens takes our order for a bottle of the Cabernet Franc and the charcuterie board to start and departs.
Before Wes can start looking around the room and get freaked out again, I decide to apprise him of my brilliant idea. “You know what I think? I think we should do an experiment on this trip.”
He sips his water. “What kind of experiment?”
“A ‘be whoever you want to be’ experiment. I’m the only person around who knows you, and I honestly don’t know you that well. And to me, you aren’t sweet, levelheaded Wesley McGuire. You’re badass Wesley McGuire who saved my life in the woods and…” I trail off, blushing as I think of the other things he did to me in the woods, things that make me think of him as anything but “sweet.” I clear my throat and add, “So, yeah. I don’t have any preconceived notions. I’m a good travel buddy to have along if you want to feel free to be whoever you want to be.”
A light flickers in his eyes. “It’s so weird that you said that.”
“I told you I was weird,” I tease, and am rewarded by a smile.
“No, I mean…I was thinking the same thing. But I was thinking we could take it a step further. That we could pretend a little. Christian and Starling were in the middle of one of their role-playing things when I called him this morning and—”
“Role-playing?” My brows shoot up. “You mean…role-playing role-playing?”
“Well, yeah,” he says, looking unsure of himself. “Sorry. I just assumed you’d heard about their leaked sex tape, the one where she was a princess and he was a serving boy or whatever? I obviously didn’t watch it, but it was big news around town.”
“Oh, I know. I heard about it. I just didn’t realize it was an ongoing thing for them.” I bite my lip, fighting a smile. “Are they always royalty or…”
Wes laughs and lifts his hands into the air, releasing his death grip on the menu for the first time since we sat down. “I don’t know. We don’t talk about the specifics. I just know it’s something they really love. They were having a great time this morning, pretending Sterling was a sun goddess or something while they watched the sunrise.”
I grin. “Sounds nice. They’re a cute couple.”
“They are,” he agrees. “And I think they might be on to something. Sometimes it’s nice to step outside the everyday and do something different, be someone different. Even if it’s just for a little while. And I didn’t mean anything…sexual. We could role-play as something purely platonic.”
Our waiter returns at that moment, her perfect timing ensuring I have a few minutes to think about his suggestion as she pours the wine and assures us that the charcuterie board will be out in a few minutes. We place our entrée orders—the steak special for Wes and the sausage and pepper pasta for me—and she bustles off again.
When she’s gone, I ask, “So who do you think we should be? Criminals on the run from the law? Two archeologists out in the field, hunting for fossils in the Utah desert?”
He grins, clearly pleased at my willingness to play along. “Interesting options. I honestly hadn’t thought further than the suggestion. I just thought it might be a nice way for us to have a fresh start. Without any of the…regrettable stuff making the trip awkward. That way, we’d have the chance to see how we might have gotten along if—”
“If we hadn’t had an illicit night in the woods and then things got really awkward for eighteen months?” I supply, seeing what he’s up to now.
But I’m not angry about it.
In fact, I’m kind of…relieved.
I’m not good at holding grudges. Being angry with Wes and hurt by Wes, then awkward around him, once the anger and hurt faded, has sucked. And the whole Daria and Darcy thing has only made it suck more.
This is probably the only vacation I’ll be able to take until late August, when I’m planning to tackle part of the Appalachian Trail on my solo trek. Do I really want to spend that being upset about Daria and angry at Wes all over again?
“Yeah,” Wes says, his voice husky and low. “I’m sure that sounds selfish, and it is, I guess, a little. I just don’t want to cause you any more pain and I thought, this might be a way to make the trip something you can truly enjoy.”
I sip my wine, studying him over the rim of the glass. What do I have to lose? Just because Wes and I decide to let the past go for a week, doesn’t mean I’m going to forget what happened. Once we’re back home, all the history and drama and expectations from our family and friends will still be there. We’ll have no choice but to deal with reality.
But until then…
I set my glass down. “All right.”
His expression lifts. “Yeah? You want to give it a try?”
“I do,” I confirm as a food runner delivers our charcuterie, a gorgeous spread that makes me at least ten percent happier just laying eyes on it. “Let’s figure out who we want to pretend to be over meat and cheese.”
He smiles like a kid set loose with a bag of potatoes and a sheet pan shield and I laugh.
“What?” he asks. “Am I too excited?”
I shake my head, still laughing, “No, you’re funny. I like this silly side of you.”
“And I love your dimple,” he says fondly. “I’ve missed seeing it. You haven’t smiled much around me lately.”
I touch a finger to my right cheek. “You noticed that?”
“I did,” he murmurs.
“I hated it when I was a kid. I thought it looked strange. Having a dimple on only one side and not the other.”
“I think it’s cute. Really cute,” he says, reaching for a slice of salami. “So, we’ve established you’re an extremely cute woman with an adorable dimple that I’m pretty obsessed with.” He sighs dramatically. “It’s a start, but we’re going to need a lot more backstory.”
Grinning, I agree, “So much more.”
We spend the next hour and a half eating, drinking, and dreaming and it is, without a doubt, the best night I’ve had in ages. With our past set aside, Wes and I are free to be who we truly are, two people who get along really well. Who share similar senses of humor and taste in food and enjoy an impromptu juggling act when one breaks out at the table in the corner.
“I’m so glad the new me isn’t afraid of clowns,” Wes says when the show is over and the applause from the rest of the dining room has died down.
“Really?” I ask. “You don’t feel sweaty and twitchy anymore?”
He laughs, leaning in as he whispers, “Maybe a little, but I’m going to fake it until I make it.”
“Good for you,” I say, hoping I can do the same.
Fake it until I’ve made it home and Wes and I can go back to politely avoiding each other.
But until then, I’m not going to think about the future. I’m going to be right here, right now, with my old friend, “Preston”—Wes’s middle name—a treasure hunter who has a mission for us in the wilds of Southern Utah.