Between You and Me by Emma McLaughlin & Nicola Kraus

Author:Emma McLaughlin & Nicola Kraus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

Chapter Eight

After hitting the LAX tarmac, I case the city, reassessing potential venues for vulnerabilities to aerial, land, and oceanic telephoto assault. Having exhausted the options, I pull into a parking lot to snarf a hot dog and find myself staring with caffeine-dilated eyes at a windowless single-story building. “City of Angels Bowling Alley,” I sarcastically update Kelsey on the speakerphone. To my surprise, she goes nuts.

“Aaron loves to bowl! Make it home, Lo, on its most perfect day. And make it us. I lovelove love it. Whatever it takes!”

Translation: no budget. And I don’t mean like it wasn’t drawn up. I mean, like, get the greenhouse in Holland that can flash-harvest whatever we want. The type of no budget of which bridal dreams are made and wedding planners’ spines broken. “Whatever” spiraled into an amount that, while not quite enough to restore democracy to a medium-size dictatorship, could plausibly fund an attempt at ousting the dictator. Price became weirdly meaningless. Five thousand to get it here by Tuesday? Ten thousand to have it rush-engraved? The courier is leaving for the South of France to get centerpiece pebbles, and they only have first-class tickets left? Done, done, and done. I have actually worn out the strip on an American Express Black card.

In the last fourteen days, I have located an unopened bottle of the perfume our Grandma Ruth wore that was discontinued eleven years ago, had nail polish made in the exact shade of Kelsey’s Madrid hotel-room sheets, and reunited the band whose song was playing when Kelsey and Aaron first locked lips on the dance floor. And at every exchange, every transaction, every pickup and dropoff with the assistant of an assistant of an assistant, I’ve overseen the signing of a nondisclosure form in triplicate. It states that the signer will never mention that he or she has participated in the preparations for Kelsey Wade’s “birthday party” or risk the loss of home, family, and pets. My hotel room has become a warren of boxes overflowing with these things that I continue to think would make a striking art installation.

But as I stand at the entrance to the transformed bowling alley, I have to say, it’s really something. The fireproof ceiling tiles are hidden beneath yellow and white ticking, like our grandmother’s porch-swing cushions, making it feel as if we’re in a tent on a sunny day. The fluorescents have been swapped out for milk-painted wagon-wheel chandeliers. The walls are made of perfectly symmetrical blooms of yellow roses like Ruth grew in her backyard. I don’t mean dotted, I mean packed, a full perfect bloom for every square inch. A wide plank floor has been laid over the lanes and gutters. It originates from an old barn I located outside Portland that we had deconstructed and shipped down, which was cheaper than paying the go-to faux painter guy to make a new floor look old. P.S., I’m coming back as that dude.

The piped-in smell of freshly cut hay, the Mason jars of gin fizzes, and the faint soundtrack of crickets make me think of, well, honestly .

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