Adie reached up and tapped the visor twice. “For luck,” he said.
We raced every yellow light on the boulevard, the asphalt glittering with crushed glass. It was like rolling atop the night sky. Adie looked over and smiled, white buildings blurring behind his white teeth. He drummed his long fingers on the steering wheel.
“Are Michelle’s parents going to be there?” I asked.
“We can’t not go.” Adie had dimples that only appeared when he didn’t smile all the way. When he grinned, they disappeared. It was the strangest goddamn thing.
“Eat a couple of these,” he said. He handed me a tin of cannabis-infused chocolate-covered blueberries.
“How many?”
“Just two. They’re highly medicated. I don’t want you getting all quiet and weird on me.”
The light at Sepulveda turned yellow, but he pressed on. It went red right as we hit the white line of the crosswalk. A black Cadillac swooped in on my side, lurching forward on its brakes, smoke billowing from the wheel wells, horn swelling like a siren. We floated through the intersection and Adie reached up and tapped the visor again.
“That shit works, Nash.” Dimples.
Michelle opened the door just as I reached for the knob, and I fumbled the walnut bowl full of quinoa salad. I hadn’t covered it with plastic wrap. At last year’s dinner, Michelle had launched into a wine-drenched tirade about DuPont that culminated in an invitation for me to leave, a hasty rescindment, mascara-shaded tears drying on her cheeks.
“You look dapper,” she said, grabbing the lapels of my coat and tugging them down. “I know Adie helped you with this. There’s no way you would have picked those shoes.” She took my face in her warms hands and kissed both of my cheeks.
“Unhand that man,” Adie said, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close.
I tugged on his sweater. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get this stuff on the table before her dad carves the turkey.”
“He said he’d do it in the kitchen. I didn’t make it your fault.”
“Goddammit,” I said. “Let’s not start this way. Everyone hates the vegetarian.”
“You guys are high, aren’t you? Go eat some hummus and philosophize with my mom. I’ll put on some music that’ll make you feel happy.”
The dining table was immaculate. White linens ordered like gravestones. Silverware polished and gleaming. Water pitchers sweating beside ceramic butter trays.
“You’re staring,” Adie whispered.
Michelle flitted by. Her perfume was floral, jasmine-musky. It made my nose itch.
“Really?” I said. “Simon and Garfunkel?”
She flashed a middle finger without looking over her shoulder.
Michelle’s father walked out of the kitchen through the sky-blue doorframe and chuckled. He was a short man who used to be tall, hunched in a way that made growing old seem unfair. He had tufts of curly white hair above each ear, the rest of his head shiny and pink save the dark oval spots like lima beans.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Boys.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you call each other these days.”
Adie snorted, and I floated around the dining room looking at reflections in the silverware. I was relieved when I remembered the blueberries we’d eaten. Time stretched and contracted and then we were all sitting at the table.
“Pass that cabernet, will you,” her father said.
“Yes, sir.” I stood and handed him the bottle, holding my tie so it wouldn’t swing into the gravy tray shining with congealed fat.
“Thank you, Nashville,” he said. Michelle looked down at her plate and then found my eyes.
“I think he prefers Nash, dear,” her mother said. I could feel my eyes shaking beneath the hundred-watt bulbs.
“His parents named him Nashville for a reason,” he said. “A name means something.”
“Daddy.”
I could see Adie’s reflection in my soup spoon, his perfect mouth upside down. He drummed his fingertips on the white tablecloth. There was a woodblock print behind him, a snowy day in Japan with beautiful women and their delicate umbrellas. I took deep breaths, and the earth turned through a black space, and then her father stood up and tapped a knife against his wine glass.
“To my beautiful daughter, without whom I would be a bumbling idiot of a man—and with whom I might still be considered the same.” Everyone chuckled. Adie coughed into his fist. “And to Nashville, the place.”
“Sit down, old man,” Adie said.
Her father stood frozen like a statue, his face reddening. I was just about to stand when he closed his eyes hard, mouth a taut line. Then he took up the carving knife and shook it in Adie’s direction.
“I fought for you, you son of a bitch.”
“I wasn’t even born yet.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t have been born at all. Maybe neither of you should’ve been.”
“Daddy.”
“Pass the wine,” I said. “Please.” He lowered the carving knife and tapped the blade lightly against the table in a deliberate, slow cadence. His hand was shaking almost imperceptibly when he reached for the bottle.
“Here you are, Nash,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “And, really, you’re not that old.”
Adie was smiling at me, no dimples. He tapped two fingers on the table and nodded. I filled my glass almost to the rim. Michelle stifled a laugh behind her hand, and then her mother chuckled. Before long, we were all laughing, even her father. The noise drowned out the rain pattering down on the skylight above the dining room. My quinoa salad went largely untouched. Adie held my hand beneath the table, and I imagined the glittering streets of Hollywood. Soon enough, my glass was empty.
