A Cross-Country Christmas(9)

Will turned into a parking lot in front of the obvious tourist trap, pulled into a space, and put the car in park.

If he couldn’t charm her, maybe he could at least throw her off her game.

“For someone who used to pretend kiss me on her pillow, you sure do hate me an awful lot,” he said.

Her face instantly reddened, and he almost regretted teasing her.

Almost.

“I didn’t. . .” she shook her head, visibly flustered. “I don’t. . .hate you.”

He turned to her. “Okay, honestly, how hard was it for you to say that?”

She ignored his question. “Where are we?”

They both looked up at the logo of Big Mom’s Wigwams.

She started, “Is that. . .a large woman’s rear end?”

He finished, “. . .poking out of a wigwam. Yes. Yes, it is.”

He didn’t tell Lauren, but he actually remembered this place. Vividly. After all, how could he forget? Seeing a huge woman’s butt sticking out of a tent at age ten? That was classic!

Will’s eyes fell to the entrance, and he was transported back to the first time he’d taken this trip. When he was planning, he was glad to see some of the landmarks he’d hit back then were still going strong today, including this one, which was unlike any other diner he’d ever visited.

“And I didn’t pretend to kiss you on my pillow.” She stiffened.

“It’s okay, Lo,” he said. “We all had our crushes.”

She squared off with him. “Don’t call me Lo.” Then she got out of the SUV and slammed the door.

Will took a deep breath before getting out himself. He walked around the front of the car. “Why do you hate me so much? We don’t even really know each other.”

She folded her arms, and set her jaw. “I know plenty about you.”

“Really?” He mimicked her stance. “Enlighten me.”

“Please, Will.” She cocked her head to one side, almost with pity. “You’re not that hard to figure out. You’re such a cliché.”

“I object to that.” He frowned. “Lauren. Do you care to elaborate?”

She seemed to consider it for a split second, looking him up and down, and then said, “Nope.”

Wow, she’s gorgeous. She has no idea.

She turned toward the diner. “What are we even doing here?”

He pointed at the logo. “Do you even need to ask?”

“If there’s a big fat woman in a tent in there, I’m calling the police.”

“Do it. That call would make the 9-1-1 operator’s day.” He pulled out his phone and held it out to her. “Will you take a picture of me in front of this place?”

She mocked coyness and sing-songed, “Do you want me to make you a scrapbook, too?”

He feigned seriousness. “Do you want to make me a scrapbook?” Then he flashed a smile.

His smile flustered her, he could tell. She groaned and snatched the phone, but just as she did a text came in. She looked at the screen, almost like she couldn’t help but read it. Her face changed. She handed the phone back.

Rosa: I don’t want you to feel guilty, but we really need you. Call when you can?





He cleared it quickly and glanced up. The expression on her face seemed to say “Exactly. Cliché.”

“I, uh, just need a picture with the sign in the background,” he said.

She shrugged, resigned, but obliged. After she’d taken the photo, she handed the phone back to him.

He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Hey. . .you aren’t hungry, are you? This place has surprisingly good pancakes,”

“I don’t eat pancakes,” she said.

“What are you talking about? Everyone eats pancakes.” He started toward the door, unsure if she would follow. She did.

“I don’t,” she said. “Especially for lunch. We don’t all look like underwear models.”

She said the last part under her breath, and he turned so she wouldn’t see him stifle a real laugh. Lauren was feistier than he remembered, and she was feisty to begin with. He kind of liked it. Refreshing, having someone say exactly what they’re thinking.

And oddly, he was starting to like that his charm seemed to have no effect on her.

He held the door open for her, then waited in anticipation for her reaction to the interior of Big Mom’s Wigwam Diner and Café.

The décor was an assault on their eyes. Camping paraphernalia and dreamcatchers and southwest style rugs had been hung haphazardly all over the walls, leaving virtually no trace of the cream-colored background. It was as if every person who’d ever eaten there had left behind a memento, and nothing about it was remotely cohesive.

On the back wall of the space, was a large wigwam, sides rolled open to reveal the door to the kitchen—and over the top of that door—a very ample, three-dimensional woman’s behind.

Just like he remembered.

“Maybe you’ll get an idea for your next set?” Will smirked over at her, but Lauren’s wide eyes held no amusement.

“You want to eat here?” She turned toward him. “It doesn’t exactly seem clean.”

“Oh, come on, live a little.” He led them to a booth next to the front window, and after sitting, Lauren immediately hid behind the menu.