Fanfare Page 3

  He turned around quickly and walked down the shadowy hallway towards the front door. I forced my feet to stay glued to the carpet. Dramatic visions of me sprinting after him into the darkness and collapsing on my knees in the wet grass flew to mind.

  Please, Ryan! Don’t do this to me! Don’t destroy us!

  No. Never. He could not take my pride from me too.

  The room grew colder, as though he had taken all the warmth away with him. Alone in my anguish, I fell to the floor and dug my nails into the carpet to prevent them from clawing at my skin. Cold. Dark. Suffocating. The vision blurred. . . .

  I woke in the darkness the same way I always did: with a gasp. The tightness in my throat and pain in my cheeks were now predictable. I tried in vain to stop the vicious cycle from completing yet another circuit as the hot, stinging tears coursed soundlessly down my face. I couldn’t prevent them. If I did, the pain would remain and grow until it consumed me. I lay still in my bed and breathed deeply to silence the rapid thud of my pounding heart. Sometimes I wondered if my subconscious recreated this scene to remind me that my heart still worked. If it did, my subconscious was seriously fucked up.

  I silently moved aside the sheets and padded through the darkness to my bathroom. The cold water was soothing on my cheeks and neck. I turned on the light and stared at my reflection. I had a small face with dark brown eyes rimmed in thick lashes that stood in contrast to the lighter bronze tone of my skin. My mahogany-colored hair hung past my shoulders. I was pretty—nothing to write home about, but definitely not a troll. This was one of the trite things I said to myself from time to time in an attempt to move past the pain of reliving my own personal anguish . . . a mini-therapy session with me, myself, and I.

  I bit my lower lip as I continued to peruse my swollen face and red eyes. This was going to be one of those nights. Maybe this recent bout of subconscious self-flagellation was brought on by my conversation with Tom. I was unusually happy those few moments on the phone with him; it reminded me of the good times in my relationship with Ryan when we would stay on the phone until sanity left us, and we laughed together at nothing.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked over to my desk and pulled out my cat-o’-nine-tails. The innocuous box shook in my hands as I lifted the lid. My pain returned, renewed. The engagement ring glittered in the shadows as the light from the bathroom caught its faceted prisms. I was unable to toss it, just like I kept the letters he had written to me when he was deployed in Afghanistan. The pictures and other mementos had been burned or thrown away not long after it happened. I had agreed to do that mostly for Hana. She needed that therapy since I refused to let her even speak to Ryan for fear I would lose my best friend to a prison ward.

  I lifted the sparkling lie from the box and put it on. It still burned my skin, but it wasn’t self-flagellation if you didn’t feel pain. Gita would probably beat me if she knew what I was doing. Hana would just go to the bathroom and cry. I stood there and tried to summon a semblance of the happiness I had felt when the lie rested on my finger in earnest. A time when not even the birds could touch me as I flew through the air on a high of self-content: the best drug in the world.

  It had become harder and harder to retrieve those sentiments. This was what everyone meant when they said “Time heals all things.” I had personally amended that statement in my mind. Now it went: “Time kills all things.” I was probably one of a few select people who would actually laugh at that joke given my situation.

  I curled back into bed and pulled the sheets over my head. I had no reason to feel lonely. I had my loving mother, wonderful friends, my health, and a good head on my shoulders.

  I had no reason to feel lonely. . . .

  Chapter Three

  The buzzing sound of my phone’s message indicator yanked me from my sleep. 6:18 am? Who the hell would text me that early?

  Blocked ID (6:18 am): r u awake?

  What? Irritation poked a hole of lucidity through my cloudy mind. If this turned out to be a wrong number, I’d be pissed.

  Me (6:20 am): Who is this?

  Blocked ID (6:21 am): tom, i know it’s early, srry

  Huh? Why in God’s name was this guy text messaging me? Maybe he had the numbers mixed up. He probably thought he was texting someone else he was supposed to meet or something.

  Me (6:22 am): This is Cristina in North Carolina

  Blocked ID (6:23 am): i know

  He knew? So he honestly meant to text message me this early in the morning? I could have used that extra forty minutes of sleep, but my curiosity was killing me and my mind was whirling again.

  Me: (6:25 am): Do u know what time it is?

  Blocked ID (6:25 am): yes, r u mad?

  Blocked ID (6:27 am): hello?

  Me (6:27 am): I’m thinking. Prolly not.

  Blocked ID (6:28 am): that’s a load off, what r u doing?

  Me (6:28 am): I was sleeping. Now I need to go to work.

  Blocked ID (6:30 am): what do u do?

  Me (6:31 am): I’m a social worker.

  Man, I couldn’t believe I just told a movie star what I did for a living. I almost wanted to make something up, like tell him I’m a porn star or teach skydiving classes. A social worker? Yuck. How terminally uncool was I?

  Blocked ID (6:32 am): i bet ur good at it

  Me (6:32 am): Riiight. What r u doing?

  Blocked ID (6:33 am): hair and makeup L

  Me (6:34 am): LOL

  I really couldn’t help it. I just pictured him sitting forlornly in a chair while someone torturously applied some cakey mess to his face and dumped product after product onto his hair to achieve the same look he managed by simply failing to bathe regularly.

  Me (6:35 am): Did u actually wash ur hair this morning?

  Blocked ID (6:36 am): what do u mean?

  Me (6:36 am): Oh come on. Ur hair is jacked, and u know it.

  Blocked ID (6:37 am): my hair is supposed to be my trademark

  Me (6:38 am): Bum chic is ur trademark? I can find a bum with ur hair in 5 mins.

  Blocked ID (6:38 am): ouch, that hurt

  Me (6:39 am): I’d apologize, but u did wake me up at 6:15

  Blocked ID (6:39 am): i’m a selfish ass, srry

  Me (6:40 am): It’s ok. Why r u in hair and makeup?

  Blocked ID (6:40 am): vanity fair shoot in central park

  God. Why the hell was he talking to me, again?

  Blocked ID (6:43 am): r u still there? should i not have said that?

  Me (6:44 am): No. Sometimes I forget what u are.

  Blocked ID (6:44 am): i like that about u

  Me (6:44 am): It’s just disconcerting.

  Blocked ID (6:44 am): how so?

  Me (6:45 am): Do u honestly want to know?

  Blocked ID (6:45 am): of course

  Me (6:45 am): I don’t know why ur talking to me.

  Blocked ID (6:46 am): i don’t have anyone else to talk to

  Seriously? He was probably surrounded by tons of people fetching him Evian and a whole-wheat bagel while measuring him for his wardrobe and figuring out what poses would work best. He had no one to talk to?

  Me (6:47 am): Srsly? Aren’t there tons of ppl around?

  Blocked ID (6:47 am): yes, but they don’t want to talk

  Me (6:48 am): Were u mean to them? Did u kick their dog?

  Blocked ID (6:48 am): lol, most ppl don’t really want to talk to me

  Blocked ID (6:48 am): it’s kind of like window-shopping

  Me (6:48 am): Why not? U seem ok . . . not too crazy J

  Blocked ID (6:49 am): just ok?

  Me (6:49 am): I mean, aren’t all actors a little screwed up in the head?

  Blocked ID (6:49 am): only the good ones J

  Me (6:49 am): R u a good actor?

  Blocked ID (6:50 am): not yet, but i’m trying

  Me (6:50 am): Well then I don’t get it.

  Blocked ID (6:50 am): think a/b it

  Blocked ID (6:50 am): these ppl care most that
i look sharp in their mag

  Blocked ID (6:51 am): not a/b if i’m happy, c what time they woke me up?

  I could almost picture him laughing to himself at his own joke.

  Me (6:51 am): Yeah, the nerve of those bitches. . . .

  Blocked ID (6:51 am): lol

  Blocked ID (6:53 am): am i keeping u from something?

  I waited a moment more while I stared at the tiny screen of my cell phone. It unnerved me how easy it was to forget my misanthropy whenever I talked to him. I almost felt happy right now. It was the first time I felt happy in the morning in ages. This was not good. It wasn’t going to go anyplace that was healthy for me, and I needed to stop this. Soon.

  Me (6:55 am): Actually, I need to go to work.

  Blocked ID (6:55 am): oh i’m srry

  Me (6:56 am): Plus, I pay per text.

  Blocked ID (6:56 am): shit

  Blocked ID (6:56 am): at the risk of sounding redundant, srry again

  Me (6:57 am): Don’t worry a/b it. Take care.

  Blocked ID (6:57 am): what’s ur email?

  Ugh. Part of me had already began to type my address in response to the involuntary thrill coursing through me. The more cautious side of my psyche, the side I should have listened to whenever things went downhill with Ryan, told me to stop and think about it instead of just doing what felt right.

  I had deduced a few things about Tom in the short set of conversations we had shared so far. He seemed intelligent and witty. As I recalled how he handled my fawning cousins, I also knew that he could be kind even when it was unnecessary. The thing that gave me the greatest pause was the overwhelmingly obvious inference I had made from his words and actions: he was lonely. It shocked me a great deal when I truly realized this. A lonely movie star?

  It wasn’t a big deal to give him my email address. Hey, it wasn’t like I had anything exciting going on in my life that would captivate him for any extended length of time. Plus, he had been so sweet to Steph and Maria yesterday. I couldn’t lie to myself either . . . I really enjoyed talking to him. This was something I could manage. If things got out of hand, I knew I would be able to tell him to find some other mundane distraction from his fantastically glamorous existence. Anyway, I was sure his fascination was akin to a runway model observing the common hausfrau grocery shopping for her family.

  I had no romantic interest in yet another man with screaming red flags surrounding every aspect of his life. “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” were the philosopher George Santayana’s words. I reflected on that quote whenever the desire to give someone a chance would pop into my head. I knew better. I could handle this.

  Me (7:00 am): 7crisp@gmail.com

  Blocked ID (7:00 am): thnx

  A curious flutter in my heart immediately put to question my rational musings of only a moment ago. I furrowed my brow and gritted my teeth with renewed certainty. Movie Star Tom was a temporary diversion in my unbelievably boring existence—completely meaningless, entirely disposable. Absolutely not a big deal.

  During lunch I decided to call Hana to see what she thought of the situation. Since I was pretty sure some semblance of discretion was in order, I made my way back to my car to talk to her. She answered the phone, but I could barely hear her. The music in her car was absolutely deafening with its thumping bass and unintelligible vocals. If classical music stirred the memory of my father, and my mother walked to the beat of Latin drums, then Hana Fateri cruised to life with the most ghetto gangsta rap as a soundtrack. Honestly, it was one of these things I loved to tell people just to shock them.

  Picture this: A half-Korean girl who dressed in designer everything, loved to cook and spend time with her family—essentially a homebody whose favorite pastimes included going to the beach and watching movies with her husband. Charlotte York speeding around in a black BMW to the booming sounds of Three 6 Mafia. Oh, and by the way, she knew every single word of whatever song currently polluted the air and could rap word-perfect along with the tune—lots of colorful stuff about bitches and hos. As a result of her musical predilection, Hana also had one of the more colorful vocabularies I had encountered. To me, all of this just added to her charm. Any form of love is blind.

  “Hello?” I said even louder.

  “Cris? One sec.” She shuffled the phone and turned down the music.

  “Dude, how do you even hear the phone ringing with the music that freaking loud?” I asked.

  “Save it. What’s up?”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Nope. I have to show houses around three o’clock, but right now I’m just taking things to the post office.”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you about something, but I don’t want you to overreact or read too deeply into it,” I warned.

  “What happened?” Her curiosity piqued.

  “So, the other day when I took Steph and Maria to that meet-and-greet thing at the mall, I accidentally left my iPod on the signing table. I went back to the lost and found to get it, and it turned out someone had picked it up and left a cell number for me.”

  “Are you wasting my time with a Gita story?” she asked with a hint of irritation in her voice.

  I laughed. Gita was notorious for talking up a situation prior to relating its events in such a manner that made the actual story incredibly anticlimactic. Essentially, she was a shiteous storyteller.

  “Just give me a second. So I called the number and left a voicemail, and the dude called me back last night. We had a nice conversation, and he text messaged me this morning.”

  “Whoa! You have a crazy stalker? Awesome. Are you going to mess with him?” she asked in amusement.

  I paused for effect. “See, none of that is what makes the story interesting. What makes it interesting is . . . the dude who took my iPod is that Thomas guy from the movie.”

  Dead silence.

  “What?” she whispered. Rendering Hana speechless already earned me a pat on the back.

  “Thomas, the actor slash ghost, took my iPod. We talked on the phone last night and texted each other this morning.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she shrieked. Her voice had risen with each subsequent word so that, by the time she finished, all I could hear were shrill reverberations in the phone.

  “Dude. You don’t need to yell.”

  “Tell me everything. Don’t spare a single detail,” she demanded.

  Hana and I were wont to psychoanalyze everything about men in the obsessive fashion of women everywhere. Gita gave us much-needed balance because she thought wasting time pondering the words and actions of men was basically the equivalent of learning how to make poop edible. At the end of the day, it didn’t change the fact that it was still poop. Gita was honestly more like a guy than most guys I knew. If I told Gita this story, she would probably say, “That’s nice, C. Now, get back to work.”

  I related the events in superfluous detail. She gasped and echoed my statements at all the appropriate intervals.

  “I think he likes you,” she stated with certainty.

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” I responded testily. I had already known she was going to say that, but for some reason it made me even more uncomfortable to hear the words in actuality.

  “Why the hell not?” she insisted.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, he’s a movie star. I’m not Cinderella, nor am I Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman. I never wanted to be. Plus, he doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who wants a project,” I stated with complete honesty.

  “Cristina, don’t be too judgmental.”

  “That’s funny coming from you. If I told you he was a recovering heroin addict, you’d be urging me to call 911 so the police could be dispatched for the dual purpose of retrieving my iPod and making sure he wasn’t using again.”

  “Now, that’s not fair. Honestly, if he works in Hollywood, he could be a recovering heroin addict, too. Thomas, the actor slash ghost slash possible heroin addict,”
she deadpanned.

  We both laughed.

  “So, what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I was thinking . . . is it outrageous for me to think we could be friends?” As I said the words, I realized how much I wanted them to be plausible. I had no desire to tell the actor slash possible heroin addict that I never wanted to talk to him again. The truth was I definitely wanted to continue our conversation. I hoped that didn’t mean anything ominous.

  “I don’t know, Cris. Hollywood-types may not be good friends for us groundlings,” she said unabashedly. “Why don’t you Google him? I know a little bit about him from the random gossip blogs I read everyday, and he doesn’t seem like he would be too big of a toolbag. I can’t remember anything terribly deleterious. Actually, I always thought he seemed kind of awkward . . . like I wanted to take him home, fix him a bowl of soup, and demand that he tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Then why does everyone think he’s so amazing?” I asked.

  “Well, he’s freaking adorable, first of all. Secondly, he’s a decent actor. He’s also got this tortured artist vibe to him that intrigues the minds of angst-ridden teenage girls.”

  “Yuck. I’m done with tortured anything. All he has to do is tell me he reads Nietzsche, and he’s earned an express ticket to Who-the-Hell-Cares.”

  My ex had loved to read morbid philosophy about existentialism, Marxism, nihilism, and any other bleak-ism out there. I pseudo-blamed his penchant for reading this sort of “life has no meaning” crap for why he decided it was okay to ruin mine.

  “Google him. See what you find out there and use your best judgment. If he likes talking to you, he can’t be all that bad. I just hope he’s not one of those twisted fucks who likes to study the insects in their natural environment. Maybe he’s in info-gathering mode. Like a Strasberg method-acting weirdo . . . maybe his next role is a Puerto Rican tranny.” She laughed uproariously at her own joke. Hana didn’t care at all if you failed to find her funny . . . she oftentimes found herself funny enough for several people. Luckily, her dark humor was usually right in sync with mine.

  I chuckled with her. “I need to go, but I’ll call you after work. If you talk to Gita, tell her what’s going on so I don’t have to tell the story again. I never called her back last night . . . damn, maybe I’ll send her an email.”