Back When You Were Easier to Love (18 page)

Zan. Just the split-second sound of his name rubs up against my freshly scraped insides.

I look at Noah, look at the crescent-moon of crust left on his plate. It reminds me of Homecoming, of pizza back when he was just Noah Talbot, some guy I didn’t know or want to know. Back then he would have said, “You miss Zan, don’t you?” and I would have said, “Of course I miss Zan, you idiot.”

But that time is long past now. Now Noah says, “You miss Zan, don’t you?” and I say, “Kinda,” because I do miss Zan, but he’s mean. He’s so, so mean I shouldn’t miss him. He’s so, so mean I’m wondering if I remember him right, or if I made it all up. Because how can things go from right to wrong so quickly?

“How can something start out so good and turn out so bad?” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but I don’t mind that I’ve said it out loud. The tables here are high, and the chairs, too, so my feet dangle midair.

Noah shrugs. “How can something start out so bad and turn out so good?”

I swing my feet. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Noah smoothes out his napkin, its creamy white stained an orange-red. “Like with us. We started out maybe not so good. But I think of us now and I think . . . we’re good.”

“I guess it works that way, too. I guess the whole world is made up of things coming together and things falling apart.”

“But this thing with Zan, this thing falling apart, it’s more important than anything getting put together?”

“What?” Is he talking about him and me? Is he talking about us coming together? As friends? As more? I search his face for clues, but I can’t read him.

Then I hear something, and I tell my thoughts to be quiet, and I listen harder and I hear it. The woman on the radio is singing “Loving you is easy ’cause you’re beautiful.” I think about Alex/Zan, back when he was just Zan and still beautiful to me, how he still is and will always be beautiful, easy to love. There are parts of him that are ugly—big, ragged chunks of him that are ugly. But that little leftover beautiful part—that’s enough to make him easy to love.

I’ll always love him, and I always thought that made me so much better than the other girls with their weak love. Maybe it doesn’t, though. Maybe it’d be better if I could stop loving him. If I don’t, will I ever be able to love somebody else?

“Do you hear that?” I say, but Noah just shakes his head and by then the song’s drifted into a bunch of “la-lala-la-na-nah’s” anyway so that doesn’t help. “Never mind. I guess we better get back on the road.”

“Yeah,” says Noah, crumpling his napkin back up. “Let’s go.”

I never think
about things like cars starting.

I mean, it’s obvious that I’m not a car person from the fact I didn’t give Noah’s classic car a second thought. Maybe Mattia’s Rabbit is also a classic, and instead of being annoyed by its shortcomings, I should be impressed that a classic like that still runs. But I’m not. I don’t think about cars running.

Until they don’t.

Which is the case when Noah starts the car after we have lunch. He puts the key in the ignition, turns it, and nothing happens. I don’t notice, because I’m all into my navigator routine, in which I buckle up, consult the atlas, and otherwise look official and pay zero attention.

“What’s wrong with the SAAB?” asks Noah, as if I will miraculously know.

To remind him that I’m not a car person, I say, “Something’s wrong with the SAAB?”

Noah’s eyebrows crinkle. “Yeah, something’s wrong. The car’s not starting.” He tries the key again. There’s not even a choking-false-start start-up sound. Nothing.

I try to be helpful. “Maybe you should check under the hood.”

“Maybe. It’s just usually not engine problems if the car won’t even start.” He scratches his head, like you see in old-timey sitcoms, and I can’t help laughing.

“This isn’t funny, Joy!” he says loudly, and I look over at him. His eyes have frozen over. In fact, I’ve never seen them so frosty—like two Minnesota lakes in January. We’ve seen each other at our bed-headed best. We’ve driven for hours on end, just us. We’ve been yelled at by Ultimate-Frisbee pseudojocks. We’ve been trashed in a bad poem. We’ve taken moonlight walks and consumed mass quantities of food together. I’ve never see him look like this.

So I think of it from his perspective. I am interested in cars. I am interested in the SAAB 900 in particular. I am interested in
my
SAAB 900 in most particular. My SAAB 900 is having mechanical difficulties.
And
I’m in Vegas. All I can think about is how to fix my baby.

After I’ve channeled my inner Noah, I say “I’ll check the owner’s manual,” and flip open the glove box while he checks under the hood.

The owner’s manual turns out to be more confusing than my AP biology textbook. I have to keep leaning out the car door and asking things like: “What’s the chassis? How many cylinders does the car have, and does it matter?” Also, the owner’s manual is falling apart, so I can’t open it all the way without the spine giving out.

“Put back the manual,” Noah demands, after I inform him about the car’s apparent lack of safety features. His tone softens. “Just say a prayer for us, okay?”

It’s a very Noah Talbot, Soccer-Lovin’-All-Around-Good-Mormon-Boy thing to do. But it’s also a very Joy Afterclein thing to do. Some things can be both, and prayer is one of them. Prayer fits everybody. This I believe.

So I pray. I pray that the SAAB can start, that we can get home from this trip safely, that I can stop loving Zan so much that I can’t love anything else. That I can figure out who I am without him, what I want to be without him. That I can stop thinking about him every second of every minute of every hour. That he can stop invading my thoughts even when I’m thinking about something—someone—else. Then I remember I’m supposed to be praying about our ride home, so I ask again for the SAAB to start. Amen.

God answers prayers
in His own way and in His own time. It’s the first thing they teach you in Primary. His answer to this prayer?

You guys are on your own on this one. At least for now.

Noah slinks into the front seat, dejected. “I have no idea what’s wrong. Or how to fix it.” He bangs his head against the steering wheel, but I know better than to laugh. “We’re going to have to get it towed. Not to mention repaired.”

I stare at the back of his blond head, seeing all the strands up close, wondering what it’d be like to touch them. I sigh. “Bad news bears.”

He lifts his head and stares at me. “What did you say?”

“Bad news bears.” It occurs to me that I’m not sure where I picked up this phrase, or where it comes from. “It means something not good has happened.”

“I know what it means!” Noah is mad now. This is the closest I’ve ever heard him to yelling. “I mean, not because I’ve ever heard it before, but because I figured it out. Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know, I think I heard someone say it as a kid, although I don’t know where they got it from—”

“That’s not what I mean!” The tirade continues. “I mean, why would you say that
now
? This is a crisis, not bad news bears! My car was in perfect condition, and I don’t know what happened.”

It’s actually frightening to see him this upset. Noah Talbot, so relaxed, so easygoing, so ... opposite of me. Here he is flying off the handle and getting obsessed so ... like me. Freaky.

I know what this means. This means I have to step up to the plate, take one for the team, all those sports metaphors that mean I need to take care of this for him like he’s taken care of so many things for me.

“Listen, I’m sorry.” I put my hand on his shoulder. Only because that’s what taking one for the team means, of course. Not for any other reason.

He shrugs it away. I don’t know whether it’s because he’s upset still, or because he doesn’t want me touching him.

I decide it doesn’t hurt my feelings. I decide the short, stabby pain inside me isn’t really there. “I know I should have taken this more seriously. I know the SAAB’s your baby. So look at it this way—we’re on the Strip, not in the middle of nowhere. I’ll call a mechanic, get a tow service, and this will all get taken care of . . .” I search for the right phrase. “Lickety-split. This will all get taken care of lickety-split.”

It works, and he smiles.

“Now, do you want to come inside with me, where it’s cool, while I get some numbers and make some calls?”

“Can I just stay out here?” Noah strokes the dashboard, in a gesture loving enough to make my expression soften. Even for a car.

“I’ll be right back.”

I’ve said it
before and I’ll say it again: I’m not a car person. But when I think of foreign cars, I think of these: Lamborghini. Mercedes-Benz. BMW. I do not think of the SAAB 900.

Thing is, it turns out that all those people who are car people do consider the SAAB a foreign car. And that would be totally fine with me. I’d say, hey, you go on thinking what you think, I’ll go on thinking what I think, and we’ll be just fine. Except that all these people who think SAABs are foreign cars refuse to fix them.

Also, auto mechanics are some of the most unhelpful people on the planet. After summers spent as a part-time receptionist for my dad, I know how to do phone calls—but evidently these guys don’t. It takes me seven—yes,
seven
—calls to track down a mechanic who a) works on foreign cars, b) works on SAABs, and c) is open weekends. The soonest he can get the car back to me? Tomorrow. As in, one night and one day from now.

Fortunately, I have a plan. Unfortunately, I think it’s going to go over worse than my buffet idea did.

Especially when I hear Noah’s reaction to the news we’re not leaving here anytime soon.

“Tomorrow?” He sputters. “What are we supposed to do tonight? It’s not even three in the afternoon yet, and they’re so sure they can’t fix it today?”

“They close at five,” I say, unhelpfully.

“I don’t have a credit card,” says Noah. “I’m going to have to use all the cash I have to fix the SAAB. We have nowhere to stay. We’re homeless!”

I feel my cue to step in. “We’re not homeless, Noah. Get a grip.”

“Why? Do
you
have a credit card?”

“Yes, but it’s only for emergencies.” I bite my lip.

“This
is
an emergency!”

“Yes, but ... well, my parents pay it off for me. That’s why it’s only for emergencies. I don’t want them to get a huge bill while I’m living it up in Las Vegas.”

“Living it up? You’re just getting a place to sleep!” A look of realization crosses his face. “This isn’t about the money, is it? You just don’t want your mom and dad to know we stopped in Las Vegas.”

“So? Would you want your parents to know?”

“My parents don’t even know I went to California,” he admits. “They think I went to Brad Sidle’s condo in Park City.”

“What?”

“I know, I know. I should have told them the truth. I just couldn’t. It seemed . . . I don’t know, too weird.”

I wonder which part he thinks is weird: going to California, or going to California with me. No matter what, he didn’t tell his parents, though. We’re partners in crime. Who’d have thought? “I told my parents I was with Charlotte.”

He nods, and of course there’s no lecture like I would have expected if he hadn’t been the first to admit he lied, too. “So where does all this leave us?”

“Well, I have a plan, which you may or may not like.”

“Shoot,” he says.

“Since we’re technically too young to rent a room in this city anyway, I think the only place we could check into is somewhere without a casino. When I was looking up mechanics, I got a brochure at the front desk for Lucky Seven Motel. The rooms are cheap enough that I could pay for one with the money I have left. Then we wouldn’t have to charge it.”

“Pay for
one
? For us to share?”

“Right. We’d get two beds.” I give him a small smile.

“Except that it’d be a motel! With a girl! Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if anyone knew I took a girl to a
motel
?”

“You’re not taking me. I’m paying, so I’m taking you.”

“Like that’s better!”

“I’m open to other options,” I tell him, because I know there aren’t any.

“You take the room. I’ll sleep outside.”

“Maybe you can get one of those inflatable lounge chairs and spend the night floating in the pool.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s why it’s so ridiculous. Let’s be reasonable here. We can only afford one room. We’re not romantically involved. We’re just doing what we have to do. This is a unique situation.”

“We couldn’t have predicted it. It’s almost unavoidable.”

“Almost? It’s completely unavoidable.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s try it.”

“Okay. Fine.”

 

The sign on the wall of the Lucky Seven front office says: ABSOLUTELY NO LOCALS. The desk attendant’s name is Ruth, and she has an accent. It sounds like a cross between German and Spanish. “You’d like a room, yes?”

Before I can answer, Noah asks her why locals can’t check in.

“The locals who stay here? Either hookers or dealers. Trash the rooms. Never leave.”

“Oh.” I know that he wishes he hadn’t asked.

“We’d like a room for tonight, please. Nonsmoking with two queens.” I hope I sound polite and mature, in case they have a rule against teenagers, too.

“Rooms come in two types: two beds, double, or one bed, queen. No two queens.”

I’ve never stayed anywhere this cheap, and maybe I am just as sheltered as the Havenites in their cardboard world, but I’m starting to think that’s not necessarily a bad thing. “Okay, then nonsmoking, two beds.”

Ruth checks the computer, an outdated PC with a fat monitor. “Only nonsmoking room left has one bed.”