Fanfare Page 7

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.

  The hole I started digging for myself one blasted text message at a time grew rapidly in both size and capacity.

  “What are you thinking about?” he demanded softly.

  I shook my head to prevent a pensive cloud from noticeably settling on my disposition, then aimed a carefully constructed smile filled with carefree radiance at Tom.

  He stared back at me with an appraising look on his face. “You’re not fooling me,” he murmured.

  “Damn.” I sighed. It was alarming how Tom could read me so well. “I guess I’m just a little nervous,” I admitted in a small voice. It was true, even if I didn’t actually answer his initial question.

  “I am, too. But it gets easier each time I see you.”

  Must change the direction of the conversation . . . right now. “How did everything go on the flight? Did anyone recognize you?”

  He frowned knowingly at my pitiful attempt to deflect. After pausing an excruciating moment more, he decided to play along.

  “They let me on the plane before anyone else. I buried my face in a magazine while the other people boarded, so I don’t think anyone noticed. The flight attendant tried to say something to me once we were airborne, but I pretended to be asleep.”

  “I knew that whole acting thing would come in handy someday,” I teased.

  He chuckled as he reached over to change the song playing on my iPod. Two emotions dueled inside my head at his subtle display of comfort in my presence. It warmed my spirit at the same time that it absolutely terrified me.

  For the last two months, we had been in constant communication. My email inbox was filled with messages from bobdylan85@yahoo.co.uk, and every other night my phone would ring at odd hours, prompting conversations filled with hushed laughter and insightful discussion on things as mundane as what we had for dinner, and issues pertaining to the economic crisis. Tom had quickly become a very close . . . friend. There was no other word for it. The tenor of our communications never blatantly crossed the line, nor did it ever clearly indicate that the relationship was moving in a romantic direction. Unfortunately, I was both troubled and comforted by these seemingly incontrovertible facts.

  I wanted to kick my own ass.

  The fear and hurt that had spent nearly a year lying hidden in the deepest reaches of my psyche caused me a great deal of mental anguish as they reared their ugly heads in the forefront of my mind with growing frequency. The residual pain I felt whenever my long-dead heart stirred at the thought of Tom stopped me from consciously cultivating anything meaningful when it came to him. And yet . . . he was so kind. So smart. So patient. So funny. So incredibly . . . down-to-earth. It was harder and harder for my fickle heart to listen to the constant warnings of my mind.

  “You’re doing it again, Cristina,” Tom muttered next to me. I glanced over at him. He carefully studied my
visage with narrowed eyes and a set jaw. He tried hard to stop his mouth from uttering the words he instinctively wanted to say as he shifted his pressed lips slowly from side to side. The stern expression on his face made the definition of his features even more pronounced . . . it actually looked . . . incredibly sexy. ¡Coño!

  “Doing what?” I said breathlessly.

  “Driving me insane.”

  “Huh?” The tempo of my heart increased.

  “You’re thinking a lot of things and trying to hide it. I wish you wouldn’t,” he stated simply.

  I opened my mouth to respond with a lighthearted quip, but he stopped me before I could say anything.

  “Please, don’t make a joke. You belittle your feelings and insult my intelligence at the same time.” His voice was soft, direct. Shaming.

  My cheeks flushed. I clamped my teeth together in anger and embarrassment.

  He sighed and took off his hat to run his fingers rapidly through the shaggy mop of hair on his head. “I’m sorry. That was stupid. I’ve really been looking forward to seeing you . . . I shouldn’t give you a hard time,” he said apologetically.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered.

  “It’s not, but I hope we’ll deal with it properly one day.”

  I stared straight ahead and let the music fill the void of silence in the car for a while. I hated that he understood me so well as to see through the shell I showcased to the world. I wasn’t going to get away with merely being witty and lighthearted in his presence much longer.

  “You’re really brave to come and meet my friends,” I stated good-naturedly with a kind grin of forgiveness in his direction.

  He returned the smile. “I feel like I know them well already because you won’t shut up about them.” His eyes flashed with thankful mirth.

  “I can’t help it. I wouldn’t worry too much though. Hana is going to love you. Gita . . . might take a little while, but she’ll come around.”

  He chuckled. “Well, so much for not worrying . . . It’s a pretty city, by the way.” He gazed at the skyline in the distance to our left. The lights of uptown Charlotte twinkled with flashing effervescence. It was a pretty city . . . even if it couldn’t compare to a New York or a Los Angeles, Charlotte had a charm and grace that was all its own.

  “I love it here. You can experience city life when you want to, but Charlotte hasn’t lost its grasp on its roots . . . sometimes in a bad way, but more often in a good way,” I remarked honestly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we are in the south. People are generally warm and hospitable, but it’s not nearly as progressive as . . . London, for instance,” I responded.

  “London is not as warm and hospitable as it could be, so I suppose there are pluses and minuses to each.” Tom had a way of being obscenely diplomatic and fair-minded. I often teased that he should have gone into politics rather than the movie industry. He usually remarked that the two weren’t very different anyway. Of course, on top of everything else, he also had to have a quick sense of humor.

  I pulled into the spot in front of Naz and Hana’s home while Tom hid behind the hat and sunglasses once more. I saw Hana peeking through the blinds in the front and stifled a giggle. She had probably waited there, wearing a perfectly pressed apron for the last twenty minutes. I made sure no one else was around us before we moved silently from the car to the front door, unseen. It opened soundlessly before us, and my nostrils were inundated by the delicious scents of the Middle East: cumin, cinnamon, coriandor, nutmeg, turmeric. I breathed in deeply. In a past life, I think I must have been from this part of the world. The food and the music always called to me with an inexplicable familiarity.

  “Well, it’s about time!” The lyrical voice of my best friend echoed peevishly around us.

  As I foretold, Hana Fateri stood in front of me wearing designer jeans and a turquoise kurta blouse from India covered with a carefully pressed apron bearing the words “Chef de Cuisine.” Her waist-length hair was knotted in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She stuck her hand out towards Tom before I even had a chance to say anything.

  “I’m Hana. It’s really nice to meet you, Tom,” she chirped. The look on her face was preciously mock-worthy. She was trying so hard to remain calm and treat Tom as though he were merely an average human being instead of a famous celebrity whose face emblazoned the magazines and blogs she loved so much.

  In stark contrast, Gita Talukdar was still seated in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest, staring warily at Tom the Movie Star. In one fluid motion, she rose to walk towards us with the graceful lope of a stalking panther. She waited patiently to be introduced. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tom smile quickly when he realized how enlightening a testament the differences in a mere introduction were to their personalities.

  He put out his right hand and smiled awkwardly at Gita. “I’m Tom. You must be Gita.”

  Wordlessly, she held out her hand and shook his firmly with a nod of assertion. She ran her gaze over his tall frame with a shameless look of open judgment.

  “Jesus, Gita! Can you be any more obvious?” Hana cried as she smacked Gita’s arm.

  “Shut it, Fateri. I can’t help who I am,” she muttered as the color rose in her neck.

  “I like it. No bullshit. It really doesn’t bother me,” Tom responded genially. He began pulling off his shoes as I had directed him to do earlier. No shoes were permitted in Hana’s house past the front door. Halfway through awkwardly removing his left sneaker, he teetered perilously to one side and would have crashed to the floor if I hadn’t grabbed his arm just in time. So much for not being bothered.

  The chuckle of a male voice echoed from the staircase landing off to the side. Naz strolled down the stairs with a huge grin on his face. I wasn’t the least bit worried about Tom and Naz getting along. Everyone loved Nazir. I couldn’t articulate exactly why that was the case without oversimplifying his personality—you just had to meet him to understand.

  “Really, you could have kept on your shoes. You just need to wash the floors before you leave,” Naz jested warmly as he approached Tom with his hand extended in welcome.

  Tom smiled gratefully at Naz. See what I mean? “You must be Nazir. Thanks so much for letting me stay here this weekend.”

  “Call me Naz. Yes, like the rapper. Don’t even bother making up a joke . . . I’ve heard them all, man. Can I get you something to drink?” Naz successfully pulled Tom into the kitchen and away from the studious gaze of feminine eyes.

  “Damn, he’s cute!” Hana whispered loudly as they disappeared from view.

  “He’s a little skinny, Cris. Does he eat?” Gita murmured disapprovingly.

  I ignored both their comments and linked my elbows through their arms as we made our way to where Tom and Naz leaned against the cabinets, drinking beers and chatting.

  “Something smells amazing,” Tom said in an appreciative tone.

  “Do you like Moroccan food? I’ve made a tagine,” Hana beamed with pride at him.

  “If it tastes like it smells, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

  “Hana’s a fabulous cook. If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds,” Gita stated in an imperious manner that dared anyone to challenge her assertion.

  “I would too, but she beats the weight off me,” Naz deadpanned. Hana threw the kitchen towel at him while we chuckled in response.

  Soon we had taken a seat around the table where plates of couscous and an exotic concoction of chicken, chickpeas, tomatoes, pine nuts, and eggplant steamed in each of our faces. As the food disappeared and the wine Tom brought as a gift began to flow more freely, the sounds of jibing and laughter echoed around me in a manner that lent itself to a deep sense of peace. All was right in the world as long as I could be with the people I loved. Tom immediately fell into sync with Naz’s sense of humor and showered so much praise on Hana’s culinary prowess that she flushed with pleasure. Even Gita’s initial frostiness began to thaw at the sound of
his boyish laughter. I was so proud of how elegant and worldly my friends were.

  After the food faded into memory, Naz walked over to the stereo to switch on some music while we all cleared the table. The evening had progressed flawlessly.

  “Ass and titties, ass and titties, ass and titties . . . and big booty bitches!” were the booming words that screamed their way out of the Bose speakers before a mortified Naz Fateri managed to silence their insolence.

  The total stillness of shock permeated the room.

  Naz stared in complete chagrin at Tom for a split second . . . until Tom began shouting with unbridled laughter. I guffawed along with him and turned to see Hana’s hands clapped over her mouth and her wide eyes shining with an unmistakable glint of humor. Soon, Gita was clutching her stomach in pain while her shoulders shook with the silent strain.

  “Honey?” Naz began as he looked at Hana with utter embarrassment. It just elicited another bout of laughter from Tom.

  Hana set her face unrepentantly. “I’m not going to apologize or offer explanations for my taste in music . . . however, I’m sorry if the language offended Tom. Oh well, I guess I’m officially the crazy friend!” She sniffed.

  “You’re not sorry, at all!” Gita cackled.

  “I actually think it’s pretty fucking hilarious, and I’m the furthest thing from offended. It completely fits the picture I had of you,” Tom said once the latest fit of mirth had died down.

  “Meaning?” Hana asked with curiosity.

  “I knew you had to be incredibly interesting because Cris never runs out of things to tell me about her friends. Sometimes, the ‘crazy friend’ is the best of the bunch. This just proves there are many layers to you, and I think I’m going to have a great time getting to know them all.”

  That did it. Gita Talukdar smiled in earnest for the first time at Tom the Movie Star.

  My heart. My beaten heart shuddered under the strain of feeling alive again.

  “Do you want to go with me to rent a movie?” I asked Tom around eleven that night.

  “Sure!”

  I was a little dismayed by how quickly he leapt to his feet.