Page 79 of The Fast Lane

Pretty sure I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

THIRTY-THREE

Note to self:

Send Cal a fruit basket.

For reasons.

Tuesday, five days before the wedding

Las Vegas

After a mostly good night’s sleep—Hallie woke at the ungodly hour of four thirty—we got on the road before eight and arrived in Vegas in the afternoon. We drove down the Strip where, even during the day, there were hordes of people, flashing lights and so much activity, it was hard to know where to look. Blinking, neon signs called out to “come on in” or advertised an “all-you-can-eat” buffet or announced they had the best quickie wedding packages.

Cal called to check in after we’d made it to our hotel, a chain motel with an outdoor pool off the Strip. Melanie’s parents and grandparents were arriving the next day, which had her racing around to make sure everything was “perfect.”

“So, I guess now’s not the time to tell you about the centerpieces.”

“What about the centerpieces?” a voice yelled from the other room. Cal winced.

“She heard that?” I asked.

“It’s like her senses are heightened.” Cal shook his head. “The other day, she smelled Mexican food on my breath from three rooms away.”

“That’s because Mexican food seeps into your pores and lingers. It’s gross.” Melanie’s face appeared on the screen, her hair pulled into a messy bun and dark smudges under her eyes. “Tell me about the centerpieces.”

Why did I suddenly feel like I’d just poked the bear?

“Um, yeah, the centerpieces. Well, one of Mom’s boxes of wedding stuff accidentally fell and opened and…”

“And?” Melanie’s eyes narrowed. “Did you break something?”

“No, not that. Have you seen the centerpiece candles?”

“Of course. Your mom and I have been talking and planning for months.”

With an apologetic smile, I held one up.

Cal gawked. “Are those brea?—”

Melanie whapped the back of his head. “Calvin Coolidge Ramos! They are hills. Very clearly hills.”

“Are they?” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Shooting his beloved a disbelieving glance, Cal rubbed the back of his head. “Mel, honey. Those are not hills.”

“Yes, they are,” she snapped. “Ali, you can see they’re hills, right?”

Cal glanced at me helplessly. I swallowed. They looked as much like hills as I looked like a kangaroo. If I had to guess, I’d say they looked like C cups. Being diplomatic seemed the best course of action. “I guess some could describe them as hills, but?—”

“Well, there you go,” Melanie cut in, looking victorious. “They are hills.”

“…others could see something else entirely.”

“Those people are idiots.” She gave her future husband a pointed look and stomped off-screen.

“Wow,” I whispered.

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