Rhys
Grand (grahnd) a—Big, massive, overwhelming
Emmy hugs her arms to her body, and her heels click against the Las Vegas pavement as we walk along the Strip. Had we known Evie and Q were going to ditch us for several hours, we would have worn jackets.
“Did you know this tower is half the size of the real one?” Her chin tilts up to look at the faux Eiffel Tower.
“You’ve seen the real Eiffel Tower?” I ask. “In Paris?” My eyes trace the crisscrossed metal slats that make up the impostor tower. This is the closest I will ever get to Paris.
She nods. “Yeah. My parents took Evie and me when we graduated high school. Don’t get me wrong; this one is pretty cool, but the real thing is much more impressive.”
I squint up at the tower. The sun is setting behind it, casting pink and purple hues across the desert sky.
Emmy taps another text to Evie. She waits for a response, but when nothing comes, she shoves her phone back into her pocket. “She must not have reception. Maybe we should look for her.”
“Just a guess, but I don’t think they want to be found.” Two hours ago, we were all so excited to be out of the car and stretching our legs that we didn’t think to state a meet-up place or a return time. Something I regret now that we’re ready to get back on the road and complete the second half of our car ride to LA.
Emmy sighs. “Yeah, maybe.”
Across the street, a loud explosion sounds, and Emmy all but jumps into my arms. Music blares over loudspeakers, and her head whips around to look for the source. She giggles when she sees water dancing thirty feet above the large lake in front of the Bellagio. Her eyes light up, and she grabs my hand and pulls me across the walkway that leads right to the show. “Come on!” she says. “We can still make it!”
I couldn’t fight her enthusiasm if I wanted to.
When we get across the street to the large fountain, which is at least the size of half a dozen Olympic-sized swimming pools, there are so many people walking on the sidewalk that I have to pull Emmy close to squeeze to the front so we can see. Wrapping her in my arms, together we watch the mechanically choreographed arcs of water explode into the air in sync with an old Sinatra song. Emmy sways in my arms and sighs contentedly.
My stress melts away as I realize I have an entire weekend free of responsibility. I don’t have to worry about Mom or making money or school. For one weekend, I’m free. All I have to do is enjoy my girl. I let my muscles relax around Emmy, and she leans her back against my chest.
A slight breeze catches her hair. The silky blonde strands tickle my cheeks, and her sweet blueberry-coconut scent touches my nose. I brush her hair to one side, resting my check against hers. “Dance with me?”
Emmy glances side to side like she’s trying to find a sanctioned dance floor. “Here?”
I pull her close, and we sway under the sunset. Everything falls away: the music, the dancing waters, the crowd passing us by on the street, everything except Emmy and me and this perfect night.
I know things won’t always be as good as they are in this moment. We’ll have to compromise on many things. Little things like paper or plastic. And big things like what religion we raise our kids in. It’s just that none of that matters anymore. Not even the big stuff. Because I know—this is the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with. This is the girl I want to wake up next to in the morning. This is the girl I want to tuck into bed each night. This is the girl I want by my side for the rest of my life.
The music swells, and all the doubt I’ve felt since talking with Supe clears. I can see mine and Emmy’s future. The family I want to be ours. Little girls with Emmy’s blonde hair. And rowdy boys. Christmas mornings and Easter Sundays.
The song ends, and the fountain turns off, bringing our dance to an end. I press a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I’m in love with you,” I whisper into her ear.
Her mouth lifts into a smile against mine. “I love you too,” she says. “So much.”
We seal our confessions with a kiss. Once, twice, and then again. We’re in love. I couldn’t be happier if I were dreaming. This is the girl I want to be my wife. I just have to convince her how committed I am to her.
* * *
As the iron scroll gates open like a red curtain revealing a game-show prize, I realize I’ve vastly underestimated the type of wealth Emmy comes from.
At the end of a cobblestone driveway sits a house so large it can hardly be described as a house. An estate, a mansion, a plantation even, but not a house. I laugh under my breath. I probably have more in common with the people Emmy’s parents pay to keep this place up than I do with Emmy’s family. How will I ever get her father’s permission to marry her?
The cobblestone driveway leads to the front steps, but Q has to stop much sooner because a fleet of luxury cars prevents us from going any farther.
I look down at Emmy sleeping in my arms. A wet stain grows on my sleeve; apparently she wasn’t lying about drooling. And my khaki’s, which I was already uncomfortable in, are now hopelessly wrinkled. So much for making a good impression with Emmy’s parents.
Q shuts off the truck, and without the sound of the engine to lull her in her sleep, Emmy blinks awake.
“We’re here.” I reach for the handle and push the door open. Since Evie and Q disappeared for a few hours, we hit LA traffic, so it’s much later than we intended to arrive.
“You could have told me you lived in the most expensive part of Hollywood,” I whisper to Emmy as I help her out of the car.
“I don’t. I live in Provo.”
“You know what I mean.”
She laces our hands. “I do. And it doesn’t matter. It’s just a house.”
As we walk up to the door, it feels like I’m shrinking by the second.
Emmy squeezes my hand. “My parents are going to love you. Trust me. You have nothing to worry about.”
Somehow I’m not sure about that.
* * *
When we get to the front door, Emmy takes out a key. The house is unusually dark. It’s late but not so late that everyone should already be asleep. Maybe they went to a movie or something.
Emmy pulls me inside, and as soon as my feet hit the hardwood floor, I know I will never fit into Emmy’s world. The ceilings are high, the hallways wide, and the spiral staircase hugging the far wall is like something out of a movie—the kind of movie where a butler waits at the door and offers to carry you up the stairs.
I look over at Q, hoping for some clue as to how to act in this kind of world, but find he’s more worried about kissing his girlfriend than making a good first impression on her parents. I’ll give the guy credit for confidence, but he’s lacking a brain. I would never kiss a girl like that in her parents’ home.
Emmy lets go of my hand and feels for a light switch on the far wall. I nearly jump out of my skin when I spot a guy crouched at the base of the stairs, trying but failing miserably at being inconspicuous. I nudge Emmy, and she follows my gaze. She giggles and then cups her hand over my ear and whispers, “Ghosts in the graveyard.”
“I have no clue what that means.”
“It’s like hide-and-go-seek but in the dark.” She points at the ripped guy at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s my brother Jason.”
Jason touches his fingers to his brow and then salutes me.
Before I have time to process the fact that I’m being introduced to the guy who is probably the next Heisman trophy winner, the lights turn on and a younger version of Jason jumps out in front of us. “Gotcha!” he shouts. His eyes flash from me to Emmy. “Dang it!”
Jason saunters out from behind the banister. “You lose again, baby brother.”
“And that’s my younger brother, Drew.” Emmy motions to the younger kid.
Drew shoots a cold glare at Jason. “I always lose when you’re around.”
“Things have apparently not gotten better between the two of them since Evie and I went away to school.”
“Boys!” a woman scolds, abandoning her hiding spot in the kitchen. “We have guests. Control your feud for one weekend, please.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Jason.”
“You too.”
Emmy’s brother Drew rolls his eyes and stomps up the stairs. Jason laughs and then walks into the kitchen.
The woman, most likely Emmy’s mom, straightens and walks to where Emmy and I stand in the foyer. “You must be Quinton. Evie has told me so much about you.”
Can she not tell her own kids apart? “Actually, ma’am, I’m Rhys.”
Her mom looks at me, confused, then at her daughter. “Emmy?”
I shift side to side.
Emmy leans into my side. “She’s kidding.”
Her mom smiles. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Emmy told me about how you mixed them up when you first met. I’ve been waiting to do that since I heard you were coming.”
“She told you about that, did she?”
“She did, but I’m sorry to say I don’t know much about you. It’s Rhys, right?”
“Yes. Rhys Solario.” I extend my hand.
She shakes it and then smiles at Emmy. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
I glance at Emmy, unsure how to react.
“She’s kidding again. I’ve talked her ear off about you.”
“Right.” My voice wavers.
“She has,” her mom says, dropping her act. “I’m pleased to meet you, Rhys. I’m sorry for giving you a hard time.”
“Where’s Dad?” Emmy asks.
Her mom points to the family room, where Mr. Jennings stands behind the couch. Evie and Q now sit a respectful distance apart. Judging by Mr. Jennings’s pinched eyebrows and clenched fists, whatever spot he was hiding in gave him the perfect view of their kiss.
He clears his throat, and Q jumps to his feet. Mr. Jennings watches Q like an angry Doberman ready to defend his territory.
“Hello, sir. I’m Q.” He trips on the edge of the rug as he walks around the couch to meet Emmy and Evie’s dad.
“That’s not a name, that’s a letter. What is your name?”
Q pales. “Quinton, sir. Quinton Walker.”
Her dad’s head remains still as he assesses Q. “Quinton, you can take the guest room next to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.”
Q nods sheepishly.
“Evie, we’ll talk about this later.” He replaces his hardened frown with a welcoming smile as he walks into the foyer. “And who is this young man?” he asks Emmy.
Emmy pulls me closer. “Dad, this is Rhys. And, Rhys, this is my dad, Stephen Jennings.”
Mr. Jennings shakes my hand with a firm grip. “I trust you’ve been looking out for my little girl?” her father asks, but what I think he means is “I have a bullet with your name on it; do I have a reason to use it?”
I swallow hard. “I have, sir.”
He smiles at Emmy adoringly, approvingly even, then turns back to me. “Nice to meet you, son.”
Emmy squeezes my arm. “See. I knew they would love you.”
They do seem to. Odd. I expected them to hate me. Has Emmy not told her parents I’m not a member?