“And what are we supposed to do?” Fran cried from the porch.
“Stay as long as you like,” said John. “Good-bye, Fran. Good-bye, Tim!”
“See you at the wedding!” Amanda called over her shoulder. She climbed into the car and slammed the door.
John glanced behind him. Fran was marching down the walkway, a one-woman armada, her bosom an impregnable force resting on a shelf of gut.
By the time John hit the driver’s seat, Amanda had pulled down her sunshade and was pretending to search through her purse. “Gun it, baby,” she said, without looking up.
John did, screeching backward into the road and then forward and out. Somewhere down the road, as he finally did up his seat belt, he asked Amanda, “What wedding? What are you talking about?”
“My cousin Ariel is getting married in three weeks.”
“That’s awfully fast.”
“It’s of the shotgun variety, although officially we don’t know that. Are we really going to L.A.?”
“No. We’re going to Kansas.”
“Oh.”
“But after that, you can go to L.A. If that’s what you really want.”
“Oh God.” Amanda dropped her head back and stared out the windshield. They pulled up at a stoplight, and she was silent for the entire red. “Are you sure?” she said when the light finally changed.
“As long as you’re really sure this is what you want.”
John glanced at her a couple of times, the second time in alarm, because tears were streaming down her face. But when she reached over and laid a hand on the back of his neck, her expression became almost beatific.
“I do. I really, really do. But are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“Yes.”
They were both reflective for a moment. Then John reached over and patted her thigh. “Yes. I am.”
Sara Gruen
