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Authors: Karen E. Olson
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office.
I sighed and followed him. This was not going to be fun at all. I tried to remind myself why I went along with this in the first place, but I honestly couldn’t remember. Maybe it was because I was tired and he caught me off guard.
Jeff didn’t stop in his office but went out a back door, his car keys jingling in his hand. He held the door open for me, and I saw the gold Pontiac parked in the alley.
“If we’re supposed to be incognito, why are we going in that?” I asked.
“I don’t think it’s going to matter,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me.
I sunk down into the seat and fastened my seat belt as he climbed in. He gave me a sideways glance.
“Sure you don’t want to stop somewhere and get a pair of jeans or something?”
I took a deep breath. “Just drive, Jeff.”
The smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he kept it at bay.
We were a block away when I realized something.
“Aren’t you even going to try to have a cigarette with me in the car?” I asked.
Jeff did smile now, and he took his hand off the wheel for a second to pull up his short sleeve. A small beige patch was stuck to his bicep.
“I’m quitting,” he said.
“That’s great.”
“I’m doing it for you, Kavanaugh.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I got tired of you telling me to put out my butts.”
He couldn’t be serious. Could he? The problem was, I really couldn’t tell. And he knew it, too. He started to laugh.
“I had a doctor’s appointment last week. The doc suggested it. Said I might not want to die of cancer or anything.”
“I’m glad you’re listening to him,” I said, still not sure how he wanted me to respond.
“Are you really glad, Kavanaugh? Would you miss me if I kicked?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.
I turned my head and stared out the window. Would I miss him? Maybe. Jeff Coleman had grown on me since our first encounters, when we totally hated each other. He constantly teased me about my “upscale” shop and how I thought I was “too good” for a shop like Murder Ink. I knew my mother would tell me that he wouldn’t tease me if he didn’t like me, but the whole idea of girls suffering through boys’ teasing just because the girls think the boys like them seemed to be a precursor for women getting into abusive relationships. Oh, he verbally abuses you? He does it only because he likes you; so live with it.
I’d like to think that women had advanced past that since it was the twenty-first century now, but unfortunately that sort of thing has never changed.
Jeff took a toothpick out of his front shirt pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, chewing gently on it. His eyes were on the road, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as if to music.
The radio was off.
It didn’t take too long to get to That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. I knew it right away. The big white plastic heart sign hovered over the building, red and pink plastic ribbons weaving through the name of the chapel. And underneath, WEDDING CHAPEL flashed like a strobe. Below that, DRIVE-THROUGH, smaller. The building itself was long and squat, a long driveway, not unlike a bank drive-through, extending along the front of the building and out toward the side. The overhang dripped greenery and flowers, and as we pulled in, I could see they were fake. And not of very good quality, either. The stucco had been white at one point, but time had tinged it with gray.
It bothered me that Sylvia and Bernie had chosen this worn-out remnant as the place where they’d exchanged vows. Maybe they should’ve gone across the street to the chapel that had a bigger-than-life cutout of Elvis in a tux and doing a dance move over the entrance.
Surprisingly, however, there were three cars in line at That’s Amore as we turned the corner. And then I saw the probable reason why: a sign advertising a special rate of twenty-five dollars if you had your own car.
Up ahead, I could see a Dean Martin
I sighed and followed him. This was not going to be fun at all. I tried to remind myself why I went along with this in the first place, but I honestly couldn’t remember. Maybe it was because I was tired and he caught me off guard.
Jeff didn’t stop in his office but went out a back door, his car keys jingling in his hand. He held the door open for me, and I saw the gold Pontiac parked in the alley.
“If we’re supposed to be incognito, why are we going in that?” I asked.
“I don’t think it’s going to matter,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me.
I sunk down into the seat and fastened my seat belt as he climbed in. He gave me a sideways glance.
“Sure you don’t want to stop somewhere and get a pair of jeans or something?”
I took a deep breath. “Just drive, Jeff.”
The smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he kept it at bay.
We were a block away when I realized something.
“Aren’t you even going to try to have a cigarette with me in the car?” I asked.
Jeff did smile now, and he took his hand off the wheel for a second to pull up his short sleeve. A small beige patch was stuck to his bicep.
“I’m quitting,” he said.
“That’s great.”
“I’m doing it for you, Kavanaugh.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I got tired of you telling me to put out my butts.”
He couldn’t be serious. Could he? The problem was, I really couldn’t tell. And he knew it, too. He started to laugh.
“I had a doctor’s appointment last week. The doc suggested it. Said I might not want to die of cancer or anything.”
“I’m glad you’re listening to him,” I said, still not sure how he wanted me to respond.
“Are you really glad, Kavanaugh? Would you miss me if I kicked?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.
I turned my head and stared out the window. Would I miss him? Maybe. Jeff Coleman had grown on me since our first encounters, when we totally hated each other. He constantly teased me about my “upscale” shop and how I thought I was “too good” for a shop like Murder Ink. I knew my mother would tell me that he wouldn’t tease me if he didn’t like me, but the whole idea of girls suffering through boys’ teasing just because the girls think the boys like them seemed to be a precursor for women getting into abusive relationships. Oh, he verbally abuses you? He does it only because he likes you; so live with it.
I’d like to think that women had advanced past that since it was the twenty-first century now, but unfortunately that sort of thing has never changed.
Jeff took a toothpick out of his front shirt pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, chewing gently on it. His eyes were on the road, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as if to music.
The radio was off.
It didn’t take too long to get to That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. I knew it right away. The big white plastic heart sign hovered over the building, red and pink plastic ribbons weaving through the name of the chapel. And underneath, WEDDING CHAPEL flashed like a strobe. Below that, DRIVE-THROUGH, smaller. The building itself was long and squat, a long driveway, not unlike a bank drive-through, extending along the front of the building and out toward the side. The overhang dripped greenery and flowers, and as we pulled in, I could see they were fake. And not of very good quality, either. The stucco had been white at one point, but time had tinged it with gray.
It bothered me that Sylvia and Bernie had chosen this worn-out remnant as the place where they’d exchanged vows. Maybe they should’ve gone across the street to the chapel that had a bigger-than-life cutout of Elvis in a tux and doing a dance move over the entrance.
Surprisingly, however, there were three cars in line at That’s Amore as we turned the corner. And then I saw the probable reason why: a sign advertising a special rate of twenty-five dollars if you had your own car.
Up ahead, I could see a Dean Martin
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