“Yeah,” she replied, seeming a little starstruck. “Ummm . . . can I get you something to drink?”
“I know it’s still a little early,” I said sheepishly, “but I would love a strawberry margarita.”
“A Fat Tire, please,” Vaughn told the waitress, who still hadn’t looked at him.
In fact, Danielle didn’t even scribble anything on her notepad. She just continued to stare at me, now looking more than a little disgusted. I almost wanted to ask her if a strawberry margarita killed her mother.
“Is something wrong?” I said finally.
“Are you sure you want a margarita?” she asked.
Vaughn and I exchanged looks of confusion. “I’m well over twenty-one, I assure you,” I replied, in case that was the problem.
This earned me an even dirtier look. “Look, if you want to drink, I can’t stop you,” she said. “But I don’t have to be happy about it.”
Danielle turned on her heels and marched back to the bar, leaving me and Vaughn bewildered. “Did I miss something?” I asked, laughing.
“Maybe she’s Mormon and doesn’t drink?” he suggested.
I shook my head. “Then she shouldn’t work in a bar. Plus . . . she didn’t seem to care about your beer.”
“Touché,” Vaughn replied, shrugging. “Does it really matter? The only consequence of Danielle’s words is her ever-shrinking tip.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I agreed. But I was still bothered by the waitress’s behavior; I know I shouldn’t care what someone else thinks of me, but I always do. I’m perpetually that weird, desperate little girl who’s willing to pull up her dress for attention.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” Vaughn told me.
“Have you met Daisy’s father?” I asked. I hadn’t really thought about the peculiarity of his absence until just now. Not that I’d spent a lot of time with Daisy until Miami, but part of me was starting to think her father didn’t really exist. Even though Faith hadn’t traveled with them to Florida, she was still referenced quite a bit. No one talked about Daisy’s father at all.
Vaughn smirked and made a face I couldn’t read. “Yes, I’ve met Deacon.” He nodded slowly, still with that same expression plastered on his face. “Many, many times.”
“His name is Deacon? Deacon Dixson?” At this, Vaughn nodded. “So they’re Deacon and Faith. . . . That’s a little too perfect for my taste.”
“Nothing about them is perfect,” he said.
Before he could say any more, a man walked over with our drinks. Surprised, I looked around for Danielle, who was watching us nervously from behind the bar. When she caught my gaze, she quickly looked away.
The man set Vaughn’s beer in front of him but continued to hold my margarita. “You ordered the margarita, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, now even more confused.
“And you are aware of the dangers of alcohol?”
Again, I looked to Vaughn, wondering what this was about. I was starting to feel like we’d stumbled into some weird religious sect. Why run a bar if you have so much trouble serving alcohol? “Acutely,” I answered, irritated. “As are most people.”
“All right, then,” the man said, setting down my drink. “I hope you enjoy it.” From his tone of voice, I think he really hoped I’d choke on a chunk of ice and die.
As soon as he left the table, I stared at Vaughn in astonishment. “What the hell was that all about?”
• • •
“ Y ou know, I wouldn’t peg you as one of L.A.’s infamous ghostwriters,” Vaughn told me two hours later as we sat on the beach. We had long since stopped talking about Daisy and her entourage.
“I’m not,” I freely admitted. The prevailing wisdom in Hollywood is to “fake it till you make it,” meaning that I should have gone to the ends of the Earth to pretend I was some unknown literary hotshot, even if that meant lying outright. But I am a terrible liar under any circumstances. “I’m an
“I know it’s still a little early,” I said sheepishly, “but I would love a strawberry margarita.”
“A Fat Tire, please,” Vaughn told the waitress, who still hadn’t looked at him.
In fact, Danielle didn’t even scribble anything on her notepad. She just continued to stare at me, now looking more than a little disgusted. I almost wanted to ask her if a strawberry margarita killed her mother.
“Is something wrong?” I said finally.
“Are you sure you want a margarita?” she asked.
Vaughn and I exchanged looks of confusion. “I’m well over twenty-one, I assure you,” I replied, in case that was the problem.
This earned me an even dirtier look. “Look, if you want to drink, I can’t stop you,” she said. “But I don’t have to be happy about it.”
Danielle turned on her heels and marched back to the bar, leaving me and Vaughn bewildered. “Did I miss something?” I asked, laughing.
“Maybe she’s Mormon and doesn’t drink?” he suggested.
I shook my head. “Then she shouldn’t work in a bar. Plus . . . she didn’t seem to care about your beer.”
“Touché,” Vaughn replied, shrugging. “Does it really matter? The only consequence of Danielle’s words is her ever-shrinking tip.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I agreed. But I was still bothered by the waitress’s behavior; I know I shouldn’t care what someone else thinks of me, but I always do. I’m perpetually that weird, desperate little girl who’s willing to pull up her dress for attention.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” Vaughn told me.
“Have you met Daisy’s father?” I asked. I hadn’t really thought about the peculiarity of his absence until just now. Not that I’d spent a lot of time with Daisy until Miami, but part of me was starting to think her father didn’t really exist. Even though Faith hadn’t traveled with them to Florida, she was still referenced quite a bit. No one talked about Daisy’s father at all.
Vaughn smirked and made a face I couldn’t read. “Yes, I’ve met Deacon.” He nodded slowly, still with that same expression plastered on his face. “Many, many times.”
“His name is Deacon? Deacon Dixson?” At this, Vaughn nodded. “So they’re Deacon and Faith. . . . That’s a little too perfect for my taste.”
“Nothing about them is perfect,” he said.
Before he could say any more, a man walked over with our drinks. Surprised, I looked around for Danielle, who was watching us nervously from behind the bar. When she caught my gaze, she quickly looked away.
The man set Vaughn’s beer in front of him but continued to hold my margarita. “You ordered the margarita, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, now even more confused.
“And you are aware of the dangers of alcohol?”
Again, I looked to Vaughn, wondering what this was about. I was starting to feel like we’d stumbled into some weird religious sect. Why run a bar if you have so much trouble serving alcohol? “Acutely,” I answered, irritated. “As are most people.”
“All right, then,” the man said, setting down my drink. “I hope you enjoy it.” From his tone of voice, I think he really hoped I’d choke on a chunk of ice and die.
As soon as he left the table, I stared at Vaughn in astonishment. “What the hell was that all about?”
• • •
“ Y ou know, I wouldn’t peg you as one of L.A.’s infamous ghostwriters,” Vaughn told me two hours later as we sat on the beach. We had long since stopped talking about Daisy and her entourage.
“I’m not,” I freely admitted. The prevailing wisdom in Hollywood is to “fake it till you make it,” meaning that I should have gone to the ends of the Earth to pretend I was some unknown literary hotshot, even if that meant lying outright. But I am a terrible liar under any circumstances. “I’m an
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