Chapter 49
Chapter
It’s Friday afternoon, and Mark Winterson is driving his Mercedes like a maniac.
We’re on a two-lane road snaking through the Angeles National Forest, headed around a blind curve, and he’s decided to hop into the wrong side to overtake multiple cars in a no-passing zone.
“God, where did these people learn to drive?” he mutters to himself, designer sunglasses glinting in the light. “They’re barely going the speed limit.”
It seems like a rational response to slow down when you’re taking hairpin turns three thousand feet up into the San Gabriel Mountains, but what do I know? If another car came around the bend and hit us head-on, we’d probably tumble down the side of a cliff.
Finally, he gets back onto the right side of the road, and I stare at the craggy mountain face rising up above us, waiting for the terror to leave my body.
The mountains are strangely green because of the rain we’ve had recently, and tall stalks of foothill yucca with crowns of pale yellow flowers whip past us on the side of the road.
“My mom called that one Our Lord’s Candle,” I say, voice wavering, pointing to the yucca blooms. “Doesn’t it look candle-like?”
“It does,” he says, smiling like he just remembered I exist.
And then it occurs to me that I should probably update her, at least.
ruby.ocampo:
Mom, Mark and I are driving out to Vegas!
I can’t stand the idea that there’s nothing I can do for her anymore. I’m still sharing updates with her, hoping against hope that something will be the difference-maker. Maybe seeing that we’re going on vacation together will make her think it’s really serious? Put her at ease enough to let go?
But I’m not holding my breath the way I used to as I upload a photo of Mark Winterson in profile, speeding through the mountains.
sampaguita72:
Good! You should be having some fun!
What did I tell you? Life is short
I’m glad you cleared things up with that boyfriend of yours
He seems good for you
My stomach clenches tighter than it already had from Mark Winterson’s driving.
“Your aunt doing all right?” he asks.
“She’s great.” I wave the phone vaguely before sliding it back into my purse. “She just has lots of opinions about where we should go.”
“I think I’ve got it covered,” he says with a condescending smirk.
Okay, Ruby. Focus. How do I steer the conversation in the direction of Erickson without being too obvious?
But Mark Winterson punches the gas, taking a curve too fast, and all I can think about is clinging to the sides of my seat.
We make it down to flat land, and the mood relaxes.
On either side of us, the desert stretches out, baked brown earth and pale green scrubby brush, jagged shapes of the mountains hugging the horizon in either direction.
It feels like we’re passing into another world together; for a long time, we let his audiobook do the talking, and neither of us speaks at all.
It’s the golden hour when we pass the World’s Tallest Thermometer glowing on the side of the road, the bright red that stands in for mercury hovering just under one hundred degrees. Avoid Overheating, an orange sign warns, signaling the start of the Baker Grade. Turn Off AC Next 16 Miles.
The sun sinks lower in the sky as Mark Winterson weaves—pushing 100 miles per hour, air conditioner blasting—around the older cars that are straining to climb the steep slope. Another sign whizzes past, saying Elevation 2000 Feet.
“Why aren’t these people moving!” He sighs, exasperated, adjusting his grip on the wheel as his gold watch catches the light. Elevation 3000 Feet, another sign says, so soon after the last one. We pass a truck with its hood popped open on the side of the road.
Every time I’d drive out to Vegas with Mom and her old station wagon would struggle up this incline, she’d pinch my arm and say, “Ruby, make sure you end up with a man who drives a car that can go ninety up the Baker Grade with the AC on.” Weirdly specific advice, but okay, I’d always think. But now the irony makes me feel faint.
After a while we pass into Nevada, coasting downhill again, and the lights of Las Vegas come into view.
I remember how magical it seemed the first time I made this trip, sitting in back with Greg while Mom and Tita Wendy chatted up front.
For the rest of that weekend, our moms switched off watching us by the hotel pool while the other one went to gamble.
I remember how refreshed Mom looked, lounging poolside, sipping a cocktail. How she said, Even if it’s just a fantasy, I love coming here because I get to feel rich.
As we cruise down the Strip, I glance at Mark Winterson, his profile lit by the glow of the neon lights. I’m not going to make it through this weekend unless I compartmentalize. Pretend he’s a nice guy and we could potentially have a nice time.
We check into our room (on the fifth floor, low enough that Mark Winterson can take the stairs) and do some exploring: wandering around the food court on the second level, strolling down the passageway that connects this hotel to the others on the strip.
On the way back, we pass through the casino floor with its blinking lights and electronic pinging sounds. The smell of cigarette smoke makes me nostalgic.
“Oooh, I love slot machines,” I say, clapping my hands together. “The twenty-five-cent ones.”
Mark Winterson laughs like I’m so quaint.
“They’re weirdly soothing!” I protest. “They’re almost, like…meditative. What was that thing your mom was talking about at dinner? Mindfulness?”
“I don’t think that’s what that means.” He chortles. “I hate games where it’s just random. Need it to be at least a little bit about skill.”
I guess that tracks, for someone who seems to believe he’s in control of his own destiny.
We head back to our room and get ready for dinner, neon signs dancing outside the large window. I open my overnight bag and pull out a sundress, and Mark Winterson clears his throat.
“So I made reservations…” He trails off and gestures toward the dress. “That doesn’t quite fit the vibe, I think. But I brought something for you to wear.”
“Oh!”
He opens his big hard-shell suitcase and takes out a garment bag, and I can see a second one hiding underneath it.
“What’s that one?”
He grins and closes the suitcase. “A surprise for later.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been to dinner somewhere quite this fancy in my life.
There’s a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling that looks like it must weigh more than I do.
Tasteful moldings adorn the walls, and silver carts pass by loaded with opulent desserts and an entire bakery’s worth of bread.
There are flower arrangements stationed all around the room—it feels like someone is about to get married in here.
Mark Winterson orders appetizers for both of us, and an amuse-bouche that involves some kind of foam comes out first, followed by a caviar dish that appears to be literally topped with a thin sheet of gold.
“There’s gold in them-there caviar,” I say in an old-timey voice, waving my fork for emphasis.
Mark Winterson gives me a thin smile. Maybe he’s getting tired of me. My jokes aren’t so novel to him anymore.
Our meal progresses, and he seems tense, chewing his food and staring into the middle distance. The longer the silence stretches out, the harder it gets to shove down my rising panic.
You could search for the rest of your life and still not figure out how to free Mom! She’ll be trapped there forever!
And Mark Winterson is going to find me out and sue me! He’s going to ruin me—bury me! What the fuck am I doing here!
Goosebumps rise on my back, exposed in this dress he picked out for me to wear. (Starter kit for being Mark Winterson’s girlfriend: Invest in more than one backless bra.)
I’ve been admonishing myself to stand as straight as possible all night, and the tension is building between my shoulder blades.
“Anything to drink?” the waiter asks.
“Whiskey, please!” I say, and when it arrives, I throw the drink back as quickly as possible, then order another.
Mark Winterson raises his eyebrows. “You okay there?”
“Just stressed from work.” I point at him. “You must be so stressed! Big deal in progress. Aren’t you going to have a drink?”
He straightens his jacket. “Gotta keep my wits about me for tomorrow, unfortunately.”
I swirl the liquid in my glass, finish it off, and flag the waiter down for one more. Around the time the main course arrives, I start to feel calmer. Certainly looser.
“It was interesting meeting your parents,” I say. “Your dad…seems like a tough cookie?”
He scoffs, corner of his mouth tilting up. “Yeah. He thinks I’m too soft to make it in this business. Loves to remind me.” He pitches his voice lower. “You’ll never get anywhere if you want everyone to like you, Mark.”
I make sure to give him an appreciative laugh. “Erickson seems to think you’re getting somewhere? Having you come out here. Giving you more responsibility.”
Mark Winterson fidgets with his silverware. “He’s one of my dad’s best friends. They’re pretty similar.” He takes a long gulp of water and sets it down heavily on the table. “Except he actually believes in me.”
Oh God, what a setup. Erickson must have him wrapped around his finger.
Another fake business card flashes in my mind:
Mark Winterson
Terrible Driver
His Own Man, Definitely NOT That Celebrity
Hella Daddy Issues
That third drink is really catching up to me. Everything feels a bit funnier. He’s going to sue me! Haha! And I don’t even want to think about how much this meal costs. When the dessert cart arrives, I actually clap a hand on Mark Winterson’s shoulder and exclaim, “Shut up!”
The noise in the dining room seems to get louder, and my head starts to feel like it’s a balloon filled with helium, fixing to float away.
I take another selfie to send to my “aunt”—my eyes closed, head resting sloppily on his shoulder while he smiles stiffly, hand raised in a wave—and upload it into the haunted Slack DM.
sampaguita72:
You look so good together!
Hope you’re having a good time!
I’m so drunk by the time we’re heading back to the room, I can barely walk. I’m holding the wall for balance, but the floor doesn’t seem to want to stay in one place.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come with him on this trip. Maybe I really am in over my head.
Then the world tilts as he scoops me up off my feet and carries me inside.