Fanfare (8 page)

I snorted blithely. “Relax, Grandpa. This is Atlanta; you won’t get anywhere if you don’t make a break for it. You haven’t even seen crazy yet . . . ride with my cousin in San Juan and allow her to redefine the term ‘lunatic’ for you. You’ll never complain about me again.”

“Do all Puerto Ricans drive like they have nothing to live for?” he teased.

“That’s the problem with you prudish Brits. You think that anyone figuratively coloring outside the lines must mean they have some dark desire to inflict harm. Don’t read into mundane things like driving, Lord Tennyson. I haven’t killed anyone yet, and I don’t necessarily break rules . . . I just like to bend them.”

He laughed loudly as he released the handle. “All right, Chip. I’ll attempt to overlook your psychotic driving. You’ll have to answer some questions to distract me from pondering the meaning of my life as it flashes before my eyes.”

“You know, my friend Gita theorizes that people drive the way they live,” I mused in an attempt to stop him from asking me questions.

“If that’s the case, you live life recklessly and entirely too fast.” He chuckled to himself.

“Well, that theory is incredibly flawed if that’s the case. I could probably stand to live life a bit more recklessly. I’m the furthest thing from being a risk taker,” I admitted.

“All evidence to the contrary . . . maybe the way you drive is more of an outlet for the way you live—like a chance to exist on the edge for just a moment.”

“Hah! How do you drive?”

“Atrociously! I’m extremely cautious, and I drive very slowly It’s probably because I have very little experience with it. I keep feeling like I’m going to kill someone every time I get behind the wheel. Learning to drive a car in L.A. was probably a piss-poor idea . . . I never actually had to drive in London.”

“I’ll bet all those Beverly Hills speed demons love having to drive behind you,” I joked.

“Honestly, that’s one of the reasons I’m so nervous when I drive. Yanks are unbelievably impatient. It’s effing hilarious to watch the guy behind me go bat shit because I didn’t gun the engine so he could make the light. I can see him shouting about my mum like his life depends on it.” He laughed again, and I realized how much I liked to hear him enjoying himself.

Ugh. Further proof I was in over my head.

“I’ve noticed that you like being an observer,” I said with a half-smile.

He raised his left eyebrow in my direction. “I’ve noticed that you like avoiding questions.”

“See, now I just want to switch on the radio. I hate it when you’re right.”

He chuckled good-naturedly. “I’m a very patient man when I choose to be. You can switch on the radio if you’d like.”

Not wanting to look a gift-horse in the mouth, I flipped stations until I found something I recognized that didn’t antagonize my awkwardness. I placed a mental ban on anything sappy or interlaced with sentiments of love.

Radiohead. Perfectly innocuous.

As Planet Telex blared from the speakers, a comfortable silence developed between us. I peered at him from behind my sunglasses and realized we both mouthed the words to the song in perfect synchronization. He glanced in my direction, and when he noted the same thing, we smiled at each other again. I saw his left hand turn over in his lap and his fingers curl slowly into his palm. It was as if he were holding an invisible hand. I begged myself not to look into it at the same time that my stomach warmed over at the thought of him touching me.

“This is my favorite Radiohead album,” I blurted aloud without thought.

“Mine, too. Your iPod brought back a lot of fond memories of me in high school listening to this band obsessively and wishing I could be Thom Yorke.” He ran his fingers absentmindedly through his shaggy mop of hair. Whenever he felt uncomfortable, he spoke incredibly fast. I had a hard time breaking apart the words and turning them into coherent thoughts.

“Well, I think you’re probably cuter than Thom Yorke, so I wouldn’t lament the fact that your dream didn’t come true.”

“So, you think I’m cute?” He grinned crookedly again, and his eyes glittered with amusement.

“Passably. Don’t get cocky now. I’d still pick Thom Yorke over you any day.” I pursed my lips mockingly.

“It’s okay if you admit it. I think you’re quite pretty.”

My face flushed, so I reverted to my trustworthy habit of making a wisecrack to avoid feeling self-conscious. Basically, I uttered the first thing that came to mind when I returned his careful gaze.

“Actually, your nose is a bit crooked.” Damn! I’m such an idiot!

He barked a short guffaw of surprise. “Your eyes are a little small,” he deadpanned subsequently.

“Your eyebrows are way too bushy.”

“Your teeth take over your face when you smile,” he retorted without missing a beat.

I bared my teeth in a Cheshire cat grin and squinted my eyes simultaneously to enhance their smallness. My nose wrinkled with the effort, making the overall effect propitiously unattractive.

That did it. Both of us hooted with amusement as we continued to mock the “flaws” in each other. I was surprised at how self-aware he appeared to be for a movie star. His unabashed laughter reminded me a bit of a child being tickled—it was incredibly charming.

We were still insulting each other under our breaths as we prepared to walk into the Korean restaurant in Duluth. He temporarily conceded the match when I brought up his hobo-inspired hair again. Before we left the comfort of the car, he pulled the cap he’d held in his hand onto his head and lifted his collar to conceal his face as much as possible.

“Hey, Dick Tracy . . . are you going to eat in disguise?” I asked.

“I don’t know if we made it here without anyone following us. I’ll take off the coat once we’re inside.”

“Are you serious?” I asked in surprise.

“Unfortunately.”

I frowned to myself. In the half-hour drive to Koreatown, I had managed to forget that Tom was a well-recognized celebrity. For the first time, it occurred to me that unflattering photographs of me in my Che shirt stuffing my mouth with bulgogi barbeque might make it onto the net. Instinctively, I pulled the collar of my coat up around my face and lowered my head into it.

Tom chuckled under his breath when he saw me.

Thankfully, the bored Korean girl at the front of the restaurant didn’t look closely at Tom’s face as she led us to our table. His posture was tense, and he took a deliberate look around the restaurant before his shoulders relaxed and he removed his coat. I followed suit.

“I guess this is what it would have felt like if I had joined the CIA,” I joked nervously.

“You wanted to be in the CIA?”

“I toyed with the idea when I first graduated from college. Thankfully, that whole Valerie Plame thing happened, and I decided against that career. I don’t actually want that much attention.” I smiled in an attempt to make both of us feel more comfortable.

“If your recent attempt at subterfuge is your best effort, it was a good decision on your part,” he jibed with an easy grin.

“I’m sure all of your career dreams when you were younger made total sense.”

“Of course. I actually aspired to be a ninja when I was a little boy. I would dress up in black and tie my mother’s scarf around my head. Then I’d hide behind doors and scare the piss out of my sister. I even went as far as to create completely useless ninja stars out of kitchen foil,” he chuckled at my responding laughter.

We began talking about other careers we had contemplated as our food was brought to the table, and the grill turned on in between us. The smell of garlic, soy sauce, and green onion filled my nose and brought memories of my friends to mind. I tried to teach him how to use chopsticks properly, and soon I had forgotten yet again that we were anything but a guy and a girl out to dinner.

I was regaling him with a story about my friends when I noticed he stared at me with a contemplative look on his face.

“What?” I asked point blank.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . I really like you. You’re very easy to like.”

Don’t worry. You’ll find someone else. You’re very easy to like.

Ryan’s words echoed through my mind and caused my entire body to freeze in place as though I had been doused with an unexpected stream of cryogenic fluid.

Tom’s face took on a look of extreme confusion as he watched the rapid change in my demeanor.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing,” I said under my breath.

He exhaled in frustration and leaned his upper body over the table. With his left hand, he gingerly wrapped his fingers around my right wrist and lifted it from its resting place by my plate. The knuckles in my clenched fist were highlighted in white. He stared for a measured moment at the tension in my hand and then looked back at my face with concern.

“Look, this is much more than ‘nothing.’ All I said was that I liked you. It shouldn’t have prompted that kind of response.” His voice was kind and completely devoid of accusation.

I just looked at him. Did I owe him an explanation? I didn’t think so . . . but the look on his face was so worried that I knew I had to say something.

He smiled gently. “Now, if I had told you a tarantula was poised on your shoulder sharpening its fangs, your response would have made total sense.” I really appreciated his cheesy attempt to lighten the mood.

I curved the right corner of my lips with effort. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I’m sorry I overreacted. I was . . . hurt . . . recently by someone I cared a lot about. He told me I would get over it and find someone else soon because I’m easy to like. It’s just difficult for me to hear it again.”

I looked down and away as my gaze focused on his hand wrapped around my wrist. It was the first time he had ever touched me, and a feeling of warmth traveled up the length of my arm and into my stomach. Sensing my line of sight, he released his grasp on my hand and immediately pulled away.

“I’m sorry. I must say that he sounds like a bit of a wanker.”

“He probably was . . . I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of freak now.” I realized as I was saying the words that Tom’s perception of me had begun to matter . . . a lot.

“No. Not at all. Things are beginning to make more sense, though. I’ll keep being patient. Eventually I hope you trust me enough to tell me what happened.”

“Thank you.” I was genuinely touched by the fact he didn’t try to pry more information out of me.

“Always.” He grinned lightly.

“Just so you know . . . I like you, too.” I couldn’t hold back the words. They were frighteningly true.

That night in my hotel room at the Ritz, the nightmare returned with an alteration . . . proving money doesn’t always buy you the right to have beautiful dreams.

The cold finality of Ryan’s words pounded into my heart with the force of a Mack truck, the same as always. He turned to exit through the front door, leaving me in frigid darkness to crumble in my requisite heap of agony and loss on the floor. As my pitiful form grasped at the carpet pilings and my cheek began itching from the pressure of being smashed into the rough fibers, I noticed a small glow in the foyer.

It was extremely faint.

I did not have the strength to investigate it further.

Chapter Seven

I exhaled another metered breath of anticipation as I circled slowly past the Arrival gates at Charlotte/Douglas International Airport.

I was looking for a man in a grey sweatshirt and dark jeans with polarized sunglasses and a blue baseball cap. He was roughly six feet tall and slender, with unkempt hair.

I perused carefully through the crowded mass of people waiting outside to be picked up. It was incredibly important that we move quickly and not draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves.

Soon, I saw my target breeze through the sliding glass doors towing a small rolling suitcase behind him. He moved fast and hunched his head towards the pavement in an effort to hide as much of his face as possible. The hood of his sweatshirt lay bunched against his neck to assist in this endeavor. He glanced quickly upward through the line of cars, refusing to pause for even a moment. He saw me in my Civic and shifted his trajectory in one smooth movement. Wordlessly, I popped open my trunk, and he tossed his suitcase into it. In less than thirty seconds, he had slid into the passenger seat of my car, and I pulled away from the curb.

As we sped down the exit ramp towards Billy Graham Parkway, I turned to face my silent passenger. He pulled the sunglasses off his face and grinned at me with unabashed glee.

“I think we may actually get away with this!” he murmured in disbelief.

Without warning, he reached over and yanked me into a bear hug.

The car swerved in its lane as I reacted to the electrified shock of his touch and the scent of his skin assailing my senses. His hands burned on my arms, and he smelled like a combination of sandalwood and maple syrup. I had to stop myself from inhaling deeply.

“Would you quit it! I want to make it back alive!” I teased as I elbowed out of his embrace with a playful swipe.

“I’m used to flirting with death when you’re driving, remember?” he responded.

“Hah! I’m not the one who got pulled over by the cops at one in the morning last week!”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me. It’s a good thing I didn’t actually drink anything that night.”

I laughed. “What a lame reason to be pulled over too! Forgetting to turn on your headlights? Who does that?”

He mock punched my arm. “I already heard an earful of that from you last Friday. It’s getting old, Cris.”

“Not to me. Plus, you only heard an earful because you woke me up at four in the morning to relate the tale of being forced to take a Breathalyzer test. By the way, if you ever wake me up that late again, I will end you.”

“I guess a lot of people leaving parties in Hollywood after midnight are usually smashed. I didn’t think you would actually wake up and answer the phone. I thought it would be a funny message for you in the morning. Most people don’t answer their phone in the middle of the night!” he responded without missing a beat.

I didn’t reply as I chewed on my lower lip thoughtfully. The reason I had picked up the phone at four in the morning was simple: I couldn’t wait to hear his voice. Ugh.