“Oh, no,” I said, pulling around the corner of our block right around three in the afternoon.
A Volvo was parked in our driveway. Parking in someone else’s driveway was a big no-no in our neighborhood and usually the result of a sense of entitlement or an honest mistake. I could see someone leaning against the driver’s door, and once I got around the car, I could see who it was.
“Crimeney.”
“He’s fast, that guy,” Dad said.
I pulled up behind the Volvo. The car’s color was a deep, molten gold, and Dash Wallace was tapping on his phone. He put it in his pocket when we got out of the car. He ran to help Dad but was brushed off.
“I’m fine, Mr. Four RBIs.”
“I had a good game.” He looked at me with half a smirk.
“That’s a flashy car.” Dad swung his cane at it.
“It’s a Volvo.”
“It’s gold,” I interjected.
“It’s insoluble.” He fell into step next to me. “And it’s yours.”
He put his hand over mine, clasping it. I felt the hard box of the key in his palm. When I pulled my hand up, the key was in it.
I stopped. “Dash.”
“Let’s take it for a spin.”
I stopped, looked at it then Dad, who was at the door, jingling his keys. My mouth was open. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to accept it. My car was worth four hundred dollars, and it needed a three-hundred-dollar tune-up.
“Go!” Dad dismissed me with a wave. “Go with your khaver. Buys you a car.” He shook his head, mumbling, “Couple of mensches here.”
“What does that mean?”
“A minute ago you were a putz. Mensch is a big improvement,” I said.
Dad opened the door, waved, and shut it without even asking if I wanted to come in. I faced Dash, my khaver—boyfriend. Out of my league yet somehow in my life.
“I want to talk about my batting average,” he said.
“Me too. And I’m driving.”
forty-four
Vivian
I’d never thought much of Volvos. It wasn’t a Mercedes or a Porsche or anything. But I got it. As soon as the engine hummed to life and the RPMs cooled a split second later, I knew why it was a gold Volvo. It was safe. The sweetness of his gesture melted my corners into curves.
The driveway went around the back alley and onto a side street.
“You know I can’t accept this, right?”
“Head north to Sunset. Take it east.”
“Hello? Did you hear me?”
I headed north. The turn signal had a low, deep clicking sound that felt more expensive than the high-pitched clack of my Nissan’s signal. The dash lights were crisp yet easy on the eyes, and the leather smell was ambrosia. All of the finest details—there to piss me off.
“Yes,” he said. “I heard you.”
“Well?”
“Well what? You’re just uncomfortable with the size of it. The expense. And I’m uncomfortable with you driving that piece of shit you have in the driveway. So one of us is going to have to get over it, and since it’s a matter of life and death over fifty-five miles an hour, I win. Left on LaBrea to Hollywood.”
“Where am I driving? Can you tell me? I was raised here. I might know the place.” My voice was saturated with irritation. When I looked at him, he was smiling. “What? Why are you grinning? Is there some kind of problem? Do you not take me seriously?”
“I do. I’m sorry. Barnsdall Art Park.”
He turned away and looked out the window. I knew it was because he was smiling. Even when he reached for my knee, then my thigh, he looked away.
“Stop smiling,” I grumbled.
“Can’t.”
“Were you this irritating when we met?”
“I was charming. Very charming.”
“Where did Mr. Charming go?”
“That guy didn’t have staying power.”
“But Mr. Irritating? He’ll stick around?”
“Unfortunately. Go up to the top please.”
I went past the gate at Barnsdall and up the hill. His hand crawled up my thigh, and my body had the usual response, which was something between highly aroused and melting into lava.
I parked.
Barnsdall Art Park sat atop a low hill in East Hollywood. Frank Lloyd Wright had designed and built a residence with a theater and art gallery overlooking two sides of the city. Because the parking lot was the only piece of the puzzle at ground level, the park was historically underused, making it a great place for a pro baseball player to walk around without being recognized.
He put his arm around me and led me over the grass. A few couples and trios sat in the stone alcoves, chatting and laughing in the late afternoon shadows. He led me to a ledge overlooking the north side of the park, in view of the Hollywood sign and the high contrast lighting of the setting sun over the hills. He brushed dirt off the top of the stone wall and offered me his hand.
I took it and sat on the ledge overlooking the city. He hopped over, onto the side of the hill.
“This is nice,” I said.
He stood and wedged himself between my legs. “Vivian?” He linked his fingers together at my lower back.
“Dash.”
“Seeing you behind the dugout meant a lot to me. I want you to be at every game.”
I put my forearms on his shoulders and locked my fingers together. “I want to be there, technically.”