Chapter Thirty-One
Solange
“We’re such a disappointment,” I tell Brandon as I snuggle into the comforter in our double room at the Mirage. “We should be on the casino floor playing slots or something. I even went to the bank and got two rolls of quarters.”
Brandon barks out a laugh. “What the hell are you going to do with two rolls of quarters?”
“Spend within my means, is what I’m going to do.”
“We’ll go down in a minute,” he says. “We need to get lit first.” Whistling, he flips his suitcase open—and unveils several large bottles of vodka and whiskey and a mind-blowing assortment of travel-size liqueurs.
Slack-jawed, I spring out of the bed and peer inside his bag. “Holy shit, so that’s why you needed to check it at the airport.”
“Exactly,” he says, wearing a self-satisfied smile. “I’m not drinking watered-down liquor for my thirtieth birthday.”
“You brought Solo cups too,” I say, my voice rising an octave as I take in Brandon’s level of preparedness. Bartending is his partial vocation; it figures he wouldn’t rely on someone else’s drinks to achieve his long-anticipated birthday buzz.
We transfer the alcohol from his suitcase to the top of the executive desk, which Brandon has pulled to the center of the room. He stands behind his makeshift bar counter as if he’s poised to make magic. “Any requests?”
“Surprise me.”
And boy, does he. I take a sip of the drink he’s made me and choke. “Good God. Is this grain alcohol?”
He places a hand over his chest and drops his chin. “You wound me.”
“I’m a lightweight, my friend. My inability to handle liquor has nothing to do with your skills.”
“In any case, we’re toasting to the day I was born, and you’re going to drink it as if it’s yummy and delicious and you can’t get enough of it.”
I nod. “Got it.” Then I raise my red plastic cup in the air. “To Brandon. You’re one of the sweetest, gentlest, funniest, and most talented men I know.”
“One of?”
“Yes, I know others. Lots of ’em, in fact, so it’s not like you’re special. Don’t interrupt again.” I take a deep breath and resume my toast. “You, my friend, deserve every single good thing that happens to you, and I know your light is only going to grow brighter in the coming years. Cheers.”
“And cheers to the new job. Breaking in a new roommate would have been a nightmare.” We clink plastics, then he knocks back the entire contents of his cup and pounds his chest.
I follow suit, and this time, the alcohol goes down smoothly, the simmering heat settling in my belly like a warm hug. “Another!”
After a few cocktails, Brandon and I move the party to our respective beds. We’re lying on our sides, facing each other, a foot of space between us. Despite the distance, I can smell the alcohol on his breath from here. He’s at the pity-party stage of inebriation.
“I’m a mess, Solange,” he says. “Still chasing dreams I should have put to rest years ago. What person in their right mind wants to date a struggling actor who bartends on the side? Maybe I’ll find a boyfriend or girlfriend once I’m in a groove. But in the meantime, the occasional date or hookup is good enough.”
“You deserve more than good enough,” I say.
“Just like my future partner deserves me at my best,” he counters. “I’m not there yet.” Then he laughs.
“What?” I ask.
“Remember when we used to joke that if we hadn’t found ‘the one’ by the time I turned thirty, we’d just marry each other?”
I seem to remember a drunken conversation or two along those lines, sure. Is he suggesting what I think he’s suggesting? If he is, things are about to get very awkward between us.
He shifts to lie on his back. “Even if I still wanted to do something like that—and I’m definitely not saying that I do—we wouldn’t be able to.”
“Why the hell not?” I ask, defensive for no good reason.
“Because you already found the one, mama.”
I swing my legs off the bed and sit up. Could Brandon be right? My brain cycles through my experiences with Dean these past few weeks. I want more of those days. More of his kisses. More of just being around him. Teasing him. Talking to him. Doing everything with him. It’s a simple calculation: I’d rather give Dean my love and embrace the probability that he’ll be one of the best things to ever happen to me than protect myself from the possibility that he’ll be my worst mistake. “Oh God, I think I’m in love with Dean.” I fan my face, then drop my head between my thighs. “And I think I’m going to hyperventilate.”
“Well, I’d bet my life savings that Dean feels the same way.”
“Two whole dollars?” I say, still hunched over. “Now that’s a high-stakes wager.”
He lobs a pillow at me, but I swat it away.
“Seriously, though,” Brandon says as he sits up. “He needs to know that he’s going to miss out on a good thing if he doesn’t get his act together.”
I jump to my feet. “You’re right!”
Brandon rises to his knees on the mattress. “You’re a fantastic woman, and any person would be lucky to have you!”
“Exactly!” I say, pacing between the beds.
“And remember, no matter what, Solange, you’ll always have me.”
“You’re the best hype man,” I say, throwing my arms around his shoulders. “But it’s going to take some effort to convince him.”
Brandon falls onto his back again, his eyes narrowing in mischief. “That can be arranged.”
I’m not exactly sure what he has in mind, but when I open my mouth to ask him to elaborate, I lose my train of thought. “I should call Dean!” I say, plucking at individual strands of my hair and staring at them. Perhaps it’s time for highlights. Or a Brazilian blowout. Ooh, a Brazilian wax too. Or a Brazilian butt lift. Now wait a minute . . .
“That’s the alcohol talking.”
“Yes. It’s making me braver than I would be otherwise. Just go with it.”
He waves me away, as though he’s granting me permission to make an ass of myself. “Knock yourself out. But can we head downstairs first? I want to take some pictures in the casino, then walk the streets a bit. You game?”
“For you? Of course!”
“Cool. Don’t forget to tell Dean everything we just talked about. He needs to hear it too.”
Dean
My cell phone rings, pulling me out of my stupor. Setting aside the Chinese takeout I’m eating out of the carton in bed, I lean toward the nightstand and glance at the screen.
Solange.
The phone is in my hands in seconds, and I sit up as I answer, readjusting the pillow behind me. “Hey, is everything okay?”
We’re three hours apart, and it’s just past six o’clock in the evening here. Time is pointless to me these days, though. I’m in this mental netherworld where getting ready for bed before sunset is perfectly appropriate.
The first thing I hear is music. Very loud music. Then shuffling of some kind. “Solange, are you there?” I ask.
“Hey, Dean, sorry to bother you, but I’m in Vegas, and I just wanted to say hello.”
Her speech is slow—not slurred—which means she’s probably tipsy.
“Hello to you too. What’s going on?”
“Well, here’s the thing. I’ve been thinking about what you said the last time we were together.”
Shit. This isn’t a conversation I want to have over the phone. I have declarations to make, assurances to give. They aren’t going to land the same way if we do this now. “Don’t worry about it. I said a lot of things that day, and not all of them are true. We can talk about it when you get back from Vegas if you want.”
“Well, okay, but I wanted to tell you that I’m an amazing woman, and you’re missing out on a good thing. And any person would be lucky to have me as their partner.” She lowers her voice and speaks to someone on her end of the line. “What?” she says to them. “Oh, yeah. I’ll tell him that too.” Then to me, she says, “But you know what? It’ll be okay. I’ll always have Brandon.”
I rake a hand through my hair. She isn’t making any sense, and I can’t do shit about it. I want to be able to state my case, but I need to be in her presence, look in her eyes, hold her. “When can I see you? Can I meet you at the airport when you get back?”
She laughs, but it peters out as if it’s too tiring for her to do anything else. “That airport’s a mess.” She yawns. “I’m exhausted.”
“Solange, where are you?”
“At the bar,” she says. “Brandon’s . . . around. Where are you?”
“In my bed, which is where you should be. I mean, if you’re exhausted, you should be in your hotel bed.”
“Can’t. Brandon’s got plans for us. He’s in this weird, introspective mood.”
If the incessant ringing is any guide, she’s in a casino. And if I were Brandon, I wouldn’t leave her side even for a second. “Solange, do me a favor: Send me a thumbs-up when you’re in your room, okay? Promise?”
“Will do,” she says. “Farewell, Dean. Don’t let the bed rugs bite.”
“Bedbugs, Solange. You mean bedbugs.”
“Yeah. That.”
I hear a click, and the music blaring in the background is no more.
What the hell is going on over there? I pull the pillow from behind me and smother my face with it. I need a damn nap.
* * *
The insistent buzz of my cell phone forces me awake. I shoot out my hand and grab the offending object for the second time.
“Hello?”
“Dean, it’s me.”
It’s Max, and his voice is strained.
“Everything okay?”
“Have you been on Instagram lately?” he asks.
At first blush, it sounds like a random question, but the undercurrent of agitation in his voice suggests it’s not random at all.
“IG? Not lately, no,” I say on a yawn. “I don’t make a regular habit of going on there. What time is it?”
“Just after seven in the evening. Why the hell are you sleeping already?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Whatever. I’m going to send you a pic. Call me back when you see it.”
The photo arrives in a text. My eye travels over everything: the image, the username, the accompanying message. The pic shows the façade of a steel-gray building with a scripted sign indicating that it houses the Marriage License Bureau. The username is @BrandonTheThespian, and the message says: “Going to the chapel and we’re going to get married . . . in the morning.”
I pull back the covers, spring out of bed, and call Max. “What the hell? Is this a joke?”
He blows out a breath. “I can’t be sure. Lina just showed it to me, and she says Solange isn’t answering her phone.”
I never pick at my nails, but I’m gnawing on them now. This can’t be happening. No fucking way. I brace my neck and stomp through the unit as I try to make sense of what’s going on. Brandon once warned me that Solange was one bad relationship away from never dating again and marrying him instead. Is Solange really contemplating this? Is this why she said she’ll always have Brandon? “What should we do?”
“We?” Max barks out. “Oh no, buddy. The question is, what are you going to do about it? I’m here for moral support only. The two of you need to work this out amongst yourselves.”
“I need to stop this wedding,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Yes, you need to stop this wedding.”
“Because I want to be with Solange, and she needs to know that before she does something she can’t easily undo.”
“Holy shit,” Lina says in the background.
“Is Lina eavesdropping?” I ask Max.
“She’s wrapped around my body like a koala. It can’t be helped.”
I smile at the picture he’s painted. “Tell her Solange is upending my life in the worst way, and I’m loving every minute of it.”
“I assure you she heard that. My adorable curmudgeon is grinning so hard.”
“Okay,” I say, already running through the unit gathering what I’ll need for the trip. “I’m getting off the phone. I have a plane to catch—at the crack of dawn, probably.”
“Whoa. Now I know you’re in love.”
I stop short. “How’s that?”
“Because you’re voluntarily heading to DCA on the weekend. I can’t stand that airport; it’s going to be a nightmare.”
“She’s worth it.”
“Glad you think so. We’ll keep trying to reach Solange, and I’ll monitor their IG for any clues as to where they are. If you get to them first, let us know what’s going on, okay?”
“Will do.”
“Good luck, man.”
I’d intended to invite Solange to dinner and share my feelings then. Should have known that was entirely too ordinary for Ms. Pereira. Now I’ll be the one crashing Solange’s wedding. Assuming I can find her, and I’m not too late, that is.