Notes From the Backseat (22 page)

“Oh, you mean after I bit it off?” I looked at my shoes. “I was totally out of line, Coop. I'm mortified.”

“You're human,” he said. “I probably didn't handle things all that great, myself.”

I peeked up at him. “You're not mad?”

He chuckled and smoothed my hair with the palm of his hand. “Kitten. Come on. How could I stay mad at you?”

I couldn't resist another moment. I threw myself into his arms. He pinned me against his chest in a strong, solid hug. My head filled with his smell and everything disappeared: the meadow, the fat man rambling into the mike about Redwood Summer, the screaming children, the whining mosquitoes. All I knew was the safe, sublime warmth of his body against mine.

When he released me at last, we both started to speak simultaneously. I said, “Coop, I'm sorry,” and he said, “I shouldn't have—”

“You go,” I said.

“No, you,” he insisted.

I decided it was now or never. He'd already seen evidence of my pettiest, least attractive side, so there was no reason to hold anything back. “I'm psychotically jealous, okay? I've broken up with every guy I ever dated—none of my relationships last more than three months—because I freak out. I can't trust people. My father screwed around and I got caught in the middle and I guess it scarred me. I'm emotionally warped. Damaged goods. And that's why I've been such a complete idiot this weekend.”

Coop nodded solemnly. “I see.”

I waited for him to continue. When he didn't, I said, “I see? Is that all you're going to say?”

He said, “You didn't act like an idiot this weekend.”

“I didn't?”

He grinned. “Well, you were under duress.”

“You can say that again.”

He brushed his fingers across my cheek lightly. “Dannika's not my type. You are. You're an original. Who else would table dance at the Tip Top one night, and give a heartwarming speech about marriage less than twenty-four hours later?”

I punched his arm. “I was the undercover rescue effort, I'll have you know.”

“Yeah, well, you had agent provocateur underwear, anyway.”

I shrugged. “How was I supposed to know I'd be so good at it?”

He bent down and put his mouth to mine, tentative at first, asking questions. As I leaned against him, parting my lips, he kissed me more deeply, until we were both a little drunk.

“How touching.”

The kiss ended abruptly at the sound of Dannika's voice. We both turned and there she was, her hair amber in the flickering light of the tiki torches. The outside world came zooming back into focus; all I wanted was to crawl back inside Coop's kiss, let it eclipse the wedding guests and the picnic blankets and the sneering goddess before me.

“Hey, Dannika.” I decided to make a stab at peacemaking. I had the guy; I could afford to be generous. “I'm sorry I got so heavy with you earlier.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Looks like your little tantrum got results.”

Coop stepped forward. “You think that's funny? I don't think that's funny.”

“Apparently, you're not
thinking
at all,” she said.

Around us, I noticed that the guests were starting to turn in our direction. The rambling guy in suspenders had finally surrendered the mike, but nobody else was toasting. In fact, they were shushing each other, honing in on our little spectacle-in-progress.

“Danni, why does everything have to be a test with you?” Coop paid no attention to their stares. “The minute I get close to someone, you have to butt in, see if I'm still your friend.”

“That is
so
not true,” she cried. “She's just manipulating you.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyes were dark again, that pure mallard green. “And what do you call what
you're
doing?”

Her hand flew to her chest and she scoffed, indignant. “I'm your friend!”

“Then act like one.” He slung an arm around my shoulder, pulled me close. “I love Gwen, okay? If you really care about me, you'll treat her with respect.”

Her jaw dropped. “What are you
saying?
”

“I'm not letting this one go—and I won't let you interfere. I've let you have your way for years, Danni, but this time I'm putting my foot down.”

The verb
to swoon
comes to mind. He looked so incredibly attractive, standing there defending me, defending
us.
I wanted to gloat, to cry out
nah-nah-nah-nah-nah,
to do a giddy spin, my hands in the air.

But then I turned to Dannika, and my cockiness faded. Our eyes locked; chills of recognition bloomed along my spine. We were exactly alike. We both loved him and feared each other.

“It's okay.” My words were filled with a tenderness that surprised me. “I know how you feel.”

“You don't.”

“I do. Trust me.” I took a step toward her. “You don't have to lose him.”

Her bottom lip started to quiver and she looked around furtively, like a cornered animal. “I just wanted…” Her voice trailed off.

“I know. But he needs both of us. So let's not fight.”

“I can't—” Her voice broke. “I don't—”

“You don't have to say anything.” I seized her hand, squeezed her fingers in mine. “We'll work it out, okay? We will.”

She emitted a small, strangled sound—part sob, part giggle—and nodded.

I heard clapping nearby and turned to see Ohm, still manning the bar. He was watching me, his eyebrows arched in a look that was half touched, half amused. Then a few others joined in and it kept growing, until there were four hundred hands applauding and cheering our maudlin little moment. What the hell? In the last twenty-four hours I'd stripped down to my go-go boots, starred in two impromptu scenes as the spoiled, possessive brat. For once, I was playing a role I could embrace: a girl confident enough to wear her kitten heels with class.

I turned to the crowd assembled in the dusky twilight and took a bow.

I'd like to think it's exactly what Jackie would have done.

 

Later that night, after a fight broke out between a redheaded Rasta and the three-hundred pound woman in the flowered muumuu, things got a little crazy. Phil tossed the garter (mine, actually, I'd lent it to Joni—but I didn't mind); Joni pitched the bouquet (the girl's got a mean arm—it nearly knocked the wind out of me when I caught it). The fog rolled in, thick and opaque as cotton batting, and still we danced under the stars we couldn't see. We faked our way through some loose, sloppy steps that were part elementary school square dancing, part salsa until the bluegrass band grew palsied with exhaustion. Then Ohm abandoned the bar to DJ, and we danced to all the terrible top-forty shit from our miserable teenage years; we even did the Macarena, though I pray to God there's no footage to prove it.

“I can't believe Phil's actually dancing to ‘Fields of Gold.' He must be wasted.” Coop was holding me close, the entire length of his body pressed against mine, and I was having a little trouble following the thread of conversation. I'd only had two glasses of champagne all afternoon, but I was drunk on his proximity.

“Why?” It was a sleepy mumble directed at his shoulder.

“According to him, Sting is the Antichrist. Anything that's not linked historically to The Kinks or the Ramones, he'd rather die than listen to. Let alone dance to.”

I turned my head a little and shuffled us around so I could still press my cheek against his chest while checking out the bride and groom. Phil was dipping Joni as she giggled like a child. “Guess it must be love.”

“Yeah,” Coop said. “Either that or he's pussy-whipped.”

I smiled up at him. “Is there a difference?”

He considered this. “For a man? Probably not.”

Before Dad took off, he came over and pulled me into a warm, lingering embrace—our second now in four years. “Don't be a stranger,” he said into my ear.

I smiled. “Me? Would I do that?”

He just chuckled and shook Coop's hand. “Great meeting you, Coop. Take care of this little scamp, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” He mock-saluted. “Good meeting you, too.”

Then Kelly hugged us both, saying to me, “I can't believe we finally got to meet.”

“Sorry it took so long,” I said, stealing a sideways glance at Dad.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, we've been out of touch.” He pinned me with his eyes, and I remembered why he was such a good coach, back in the day. It was that face. It could terrify, entertain or inspire. It was probably what made him such a good womanizer, too. “But we're going to change that, aren't we, Gwen?”

“Yeah.” My voice was tight and small with emotion. When I felt my throat relax enough to let words through again, I added, “We're going to try.”

“When are you getting married?” Coop asked Kelly.

“We haven't nailed a date yet,” she said, “but we'll let you know when we do.”

The third and final look between Dad and I went like this:

Me:
I like her; don't mess it up.

Him:
I'll give it my best shot.

After they'd gone, Coop just stared at me. We were still dancing; I could feel his eyes boring into the top of my skull.

“What?” I asked when he didn't look away.

“You are a woman of many surprises, Gwen Matson.”

I grinned in what I hoped was a delicious, come-hither way. “Speaking of surprises, let's go upstairs.”

“Why?” He turned his head and squinted at me suspiciously. “What is it now?”

I traced a finger down his tie. “You think my underwear was good last night? You should see it tonight.”

His eyes glazed slightly. “Not another word,” he said. “Let's go.”

 

Okay, you lascivious little bodice-ripper junkie; one last sex scene for you and then it's off to beddie-bye for both of us. It's after one, Coop's snoring beside me, and I've been writing so long my hand's turning into a hideously gnarled claw, but I know you won't forgive me unless I finish it off with a little smut.

There was a good deal of kissing on the spiral staircase. I was giddy with the smell and feel of him. We hadn't had sex since Thursday, which was only the night before last, but it seemed impossibly long ago. The weekend had become epic in its scope. I guess when you battle a blond nemesis, marry off a bald stripper and reunite with not one but both of your emotionally damaged parental units, time warps a bit. I led him up the curving spire with my lips and tongue, teasing him every step of the way. When we were almost to the landing, he got impatient and slipped past me to the top step, his hands fondling my breasts with hot, drunk fingers. We stumbled, bumping teeth. My foot missed the next step and I staggered again. As my waist pressed against the iron banister I felt how easy it would be to tumble backward over the railing and plunge through the center of that corkscrew stairway. Falling. I understood for the first time why they call it that, falling in love. It was this vertigo they were talking about, this crazy elevator drop in your stomach. Losing control. It was the very thing I'd fought against since that night on the porch in Sebastopol, watching my mother disintegrate as she screamed at a stranger's door. But losing control was good now. It was better than good; it was frightening and delicious.

Coop dragged me into the guest room and locked the door. He started pawing at the buttons on my little jacket, but I slapped his hands, pulled him over to the bed and pushed him backward. He sat up, looking surprised. He tried to catch hold of my waist but I evaded him.

“What are you up to now, little vixen?” His voice was hoarse and his eyes narrowed to slits.

“Private show for the best man,” I said. “Bride's orders.” Then I lit the candles Joni had given me, ran to the closet and put on her best wig, one she wore as Bella; it was straight, dark red, and it fell all the way to the middle of my back. I felt very naughty in it, like someone you shouldn't trust with your boyfriend for five minutes.

“Wow,” Coop mumbled when I came out. “Who're you now?”

“Who do you want me to be?”

He shook his head. “I just want you naked.”

“All in good time, Mr. Cooper.”

He wore a bleary, endearing look of fascination as I took off my gloves very slowly, biting each finger and tugging with my teeth. When the gloves were off, I started on the jacket. By the time I worked my way down to the last button and the scalloped peplum fell open, he was propped up against the pillows, enjoying the show. I peeled it off and turned my back on him. It took every ounce of control to let it fall on the floor. It was the right effect—the essential baring of shoulder blades in candlelight, all that red hair—and I couldn't ruin it by reaching for a hanger or even folding it neatly, but still it was torture. A girl like me just doesn't drop her rayon faille on the floor. If that's not evidence of love, I don't know what is.