Fanfare Read online

  “Cris, why do you need to go rent a movie? There are tons here!” Gita asked automatically.

  Hana shot her a dark look. “Get something funny!” she said with a smile at us.

  “No problem.”

  We walked outside to my car. The crisp April night was filled with the intoxicating smell of earth and rain blended circumspectly to fashion one of nature’s most perfect perfumes. I breathed in deeply. The sound of grasshoppers and cicadas created a symphony in the flowering azalea branches and completed the sensory experience of a typical spring evening in North Carolina.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Tom stated as we pulled onto the street. I lowered the windows to allow the sounds and smells to enter the car.

  “I think so, too.”

  “Your friends are really great people,” he remarked in a suspiciously husky voice.

  “I can tell that they like you a lot. Thanks so much for being so . . . wonderful,” I said quietly.

  He stared at me for a moment with a gaze that made my pulse race. I looked straight ahead and focused on the road in front of us as a pitiful excuse for my avoidance. The moments ticked by at a languorous pace. I pressed on the accelerator, mentally cursing myself for being such a chickenshit.

  He exhaled slowly with the beginning signs of frustration. Thankfully, our destination loomed in the distance, providing temporary refuge for my cowardly self. I pulled into the parking lot of Blockbuster and slid from my Civic in an obvious hurry.

  He followed me and lowered his hat onto his forehead while he looked around us with the careful study that had become a necessary habit. No one else appeared to be inside Blockbuster, and the teenage boys manning the desk in the front were completely disinterested in us.

  We strolled around the New Releases section without any real purpose. I paused when I saw one of his movies lining the shelves before us. He played a minor role in the film since it was made before his catapulting claim to fame as a sexy specter lusting after a teenage girl.

  “You know,” I whispered, “I’ve never actually seen your work.”

  He groaned under his breath when he saw the film I was eyeing with a wicked gleam of expectation.

  “And you won’t . . . at least, not tonight.”

  “Aw, come on. It could be fun!” I teased.

  He opened his mouth to protest—

  “OH . . . MY . . . GOD!” A shrill voice rang out from behind us.

  “Bloody hell,” Tom muttered in a barely audible register.

  The girl appeared to be about eighteen years old. She smacked on her gum furiously, and her eyes were about to pop out of her head with shock.

  “You’re— You’re—” she stammered as she pointed a trembling finger at Tom.

  He turned to her quickly and plastered an idiotically fake smile on his face. “Not again! I get mistaken for him all the time!” he replied with a thick southern twang that made my jaw drop. “Again” sounded like “uh-geen” and “get” sounded like “git.” There are no words to properly describe the experience of hearing a British man speak like a redneck.

  “No—no . . . you’re . . . there’s no way. You look . . . ” she continued.

  “Just like him? I’ve heard that everywhere. I should probably go along with it to pick up the chicks. Really though, why in . . . tarnation . . . would he be at a Blockbuster in North Carolina on a Saturday night?”

  I could barely contain my laughter as I bit my lower lip in an attempt to remain silent.

  “Uh, I guess you’re right.” She still didn’t believe him completely.

  “I bet my britches he’s in Hollywood at a party right now walkin’ some red carpet.” Tom winked at her like a fool, and she smiled weakly back at him.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry to bother you . . . uh, man you look like him, though!”

  “No trouble at all, darlin’. You take care!” he said quickly.

  As soon as she disappeared from sight, I grabbed his arm and yanked him out of Blockbuster and back to the car.

  I barely had time to shut the door before I started shaking with silent laughter.

  “Tarnation? Seriously? Britches?” I gasped as hilarity-induced tears welled in my eyes.

  “I thought I did a pretty good job,” he responded petulantly.

  “If you were in the Appalachian mountains circa 1950, maybe!” I choked out as another fit of giggles washed over me.

  “I’ll admit I was inspired by reruns of the Andy Griffith Show. Well, you did say you wanted to see my work,” he smiled crookedly as he watched me try to regain control of myself.

  “Tarnation!” I barked again. The tears spilled over and down my cheeks. I leaned towards the glove compartment to find a tissue as I continued half-sighing through small aftershocks of glee in the traditional dénouement that followed a damn good laugh.

  He caught my wrist as I reached over his lap. My laughter stopped immediately. His grey eyes held a look of focused, warm intensity that caused me to feel my heartbeat pound in the tips of my fingers as though I had placed them too near a raging fire moments before. He raised his right hand and slowly wiped the tears on my cheek with his thumb. I sensed every motion of his body in the stillness of the car. Every action had an equal and opposite reaction. He placed his palm on the side of my neck when he was finished drying my tears. I could feel his fingers curl in my hair as he leaned towards me. His intention was clear and his lips parted ever so slightly as they drew nearer. Using the tip of his nose to brush against mine, he tilted my head upwards for a kiss. A highly charged current of energy ran through me. The smell of his skin so close to my face. . . .

  “No!” I gasped involuntarily as fear gripped perilously tight onto my soul. The pounding in my chest and the roaring in my ears drowned out everything else.

  Tom released me and pushed his head into the headrest. He glared at the roof of my car for a moment, struggling with what could only be irritation and disappointment.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He turned to me abruptly. “I know. Unfortunately, that’s not good enough. Not tonight.”

  I pled silently with him. In the rearview mirror, I saw my eyes were filled with dismay. “Please. I . . . don’t know . . . I’m—” I tried.

  In one quick motion, he grabbed my face between both of his hands.

  “No. I can’t continue to guess what’s hurt you this badly. I care too much for that. Even as nothing more than a friend, I’m missing something very important about you.”

  He was right.

  “Why do you want to hide it from me?” he whispered.

  “I don’t,” I murmured back without thought.

  He let go of me, leaned back against the window, and waited for me to talk with a soft expression that nevertheless demanded answers.

  “I want to tell you. I think . . . I’m just afraid of seeing you when you’re armed with the truth,” I said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “I . . . hate it when people feel sorry for me . . . or do things just because they think I’m . . . pitiful . . . or something.” I struggled to find the right words.

  “I could never think you’re pitiful, Cris. Being hurt doesn’t automatically make you pitiful. Letting the hurt consume you does.”

  I nodded slowly and took a deep breath. “I’ve only been in love once in my life so far. He’s also the only man I ever seriously dated. I met him in college through mutual friends. Ryan was . . . is . . . a very intelligent man with a voracious thirst for knowledge. His intellect drew me to him, and we were friends for a few years before we started dating. I thought everything about us was perfect. His dark sarcasm and emotional depth reminded me a lot of my father. After a few years, I never really considered a world where we weren’t together. Last year he proposed to me, and I thought my life was made. No matter what happened to me, I had Ryan by my side to share the good and the bad. He bought a house for us. Everything was perfect. . . .”

  Tom leaned towards me instinctively when I
shuddered at the thought of what came next.

  “He began growing distant. It was almost like he only brought half of himself home to me. I tried to ignore it—pretend nothing was wrong in my perfect world. One night, he . . . told me we were through. He told me to leave. He didn’t want me anymore,” I whispered so that the trembling in my voice wouldn’t be too apparent. I cleared my throat and began again with renewed conviction. “He had found someone else. I guess . . . she was better than me in some way. He never really told me why.

  “I was kind of in a haze after that. Nothing could provoke deep reactions in me. I already told you about my father; the cancer hit about two months after Ryan broke up with me. My father was gone a month after being diagnosed. It was a lot to deal with, but I think life isn’t about living with ease . . . it’s about finding the easiest way to keep living when you’re dealt a shitty hand. I was just given two really heinous hands back-to-back.”

  Through the last bit of my sob story, I chose to focus my gaze on the gearshift. For some reason I couldn’t look at Tom. It wasn’t shame or embarrassment . . . it was something more.

  “Cristina,” he murmured in a soothing voice.

  I exhaled slowly and raised my eyes to his face. I expected to hear the same reactionary stammering I received from dozens of people following the drawn-out explanation of why I was single and suddenly down one parent. “I’m so sorry!” or “You poor thing! You didn’t deserve that!” or “Don’t worry, everything will be okay!”

  FYI: everything was not “okay,” you effing moron.

  Tom said nothing. He carefully brushed away the wispy tendrils of hair that had fallen into my face. His eyes were so filled with caring that I looked down before my emotions were pushed over the edge. His warm lips pressed carefully onto my forehead for an instant. Poignant. Electrifying.

  “Look at me,” he said softly. I shifted my sight upwards.

  “I won’t tell you that everything will be okay. It’s not my responsibility to do that. There is something I will tell you though . . . I’ve never met anyone better than you.”

  He pulled me into his chest and placed his chin on top of my head as he wrapped his arms around me. I rested my face against his cotton shirt and breathed in the scent of him. My heartbeat slowed with comfort.

  At that moment, I couldn’t have asked for more.

  Chapter Eight

  “Next!”

  I dragged my rolling suitcase towards the ticket counter at RDU and momentarily placed my paperwork in my mouth while I rummaged through my purse for my driver’s license.

  “Name?” the bored Delta employee intoned.

  “Cristina Pereira. My confirmation number is MCZ209,” I replied after glancing at my paperwork and handing her my identification.

  “Round trip to LAX?” she chimed.

  I nodded.

  Her fingernails tapped rapidly against the computer keys from behind the desk as she glanced at the screen with an expression akin to mild hypnosis. I heard the printer fire up and spit out the boarding pass below the computer. Damn. I wanted to ask for a seat in the exit row. Five hours trapped in the Economy Class “sardine can” would be a bit more bearable with the additional legroom.

  “Um, are there any seats left in the exit row?” I asked with a bright smile, hoping my cheerful attitude would spur her to help me out.

  She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  “Uh, I don’t mind the responsibility. A bulkhead seat would be great, too,” I stated in mild confusion. Why was she staring at me with such a weird look? I couldn’t be the first person in the world to ask her for a seat with more space!

  She glanced surreptitiously at my petite form from narrowed eyes. Jesus! Is it so wrong for short people to want more legroom?

  “The bulkhead seats are already taken, and there isn’t exit row seating in First Class,” she replied humorlessly.

  My eyebrows shot up in surprise. First Class? I groaned inwardly. Even though it would be amazing to steal someone else’s expensive seat for the trip, it would probably be better for me to avoid tickling my karma so early in this venture.

  “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but you must have made a mistake. I purchased an Economy Class ticket last month,” I stated with a wry smile.

  She sighed with the weight of the world on her shoulders as the patter of her nails against the keyboard resumed.

  “No, ma’am. There’s no mistake. Your ticket was upgraded to First Class just this morning.”

  It took me exactly two seconds. Tom! I pursed my lips together in irritation. After I explicitly told him not to do this!

  “I suppose it would be idiotic for me to ask you to change it back,” I mused sardonically.

  She nodded at me with a look that clearly said “Yes, you moron.”

  I stuck out my hand for the boarding pass with a huff. As soon as I cleared security, it was on like Donkey Kong. After I passed through the metal detectors and underwent minor infringement on my sexual dignity, I marched purposefully towards the gate and sat down in a flurry of papers and bags.

  I proceeded to dial the number stored under the solitary moniker of “Z.” It rang several times and cycled predictably to voicemail. That sneaky Brit was avoiding my call!

  “Yeah. You’re not getting away with this. I’m actually coming to visit so I can secretly steal your toothbrush and dirty laundry. I will then sell them on eBay for an obscene amount of money so that I can buy you a First Class ticket to Antarctica. I don’t think the penguins have heard of you yet.”

  I clicked the phone shut. Oh well. I’d never flown First Class before. Since cocktails were free on the other side of the curtain, maybe I should drink a lot and show up in L.A. completely wasted! I laughed to myself at the passing thought. With my kind of luck. . . .

  For the first time in my life, the glowing letters on my boarding pass permitted me to get on the plane with the “Elite-Medallion-Platinum-I’m-Better-Than-You-Are Club.” I proceeded to settle into my absurdly large, leather-clad lounge chair and take in my surroundings like a monkey given toys to play with for the purpose of scientific observation. Oh, miracle of miracles! I had my own TV with a touchscreen!

  My phone vibrated in my pocket with a new text message.

  Blocked ID (5:06 pm): fyi there is actually a penguin fanclub

  I grinned idiotically before typing out a response.

  Me (5:06 pm): In that case, hope your ass can swim.

  Blocked ID (5:06 pm): lol. i’ll be waiting out front at 7:30

  Me (5:07 pm): No! Srsly! I can take a cab!

  Blocked ID (5:07 pm): srry, that txt didn’t come thru right. looked like a load of bs

  Me (5:07 pm): Tom! Don’t risk it!

  Blocked ID (5:07 pm): get ur phone fixed, look for a white merc with a bad tint job

  Me (5:07 pm): Ur ridiculous! It’s completely unnecessary!

  Me (5:08 pm): Hello?

  Me (5:10 pm): THOMAS?

  I held the phone in my hand and waited for a response until the flight attendant glanced at me pointedly. Ugh. I don’t know why Tom insisted on making his life harder by personally coming to pick me up! Initially he had managed to hide this obsessively stubborn streak from me by utilizing the disarming wiles of his cute accent and charming wit. In all truth, Tom was incredibly obdurate once he made up his mind about something. This dogged determination to behave as normally as possible when I came to visit was both heartening and problematic.

  When he first asked me to come to L.A., I had struggled a great deal with the decision to sequester myself in his apartment for an entire weekend, even if he did have two bedrooms. The Blockbuster Debacle from the last visit in Charlotte had proven that this relationship was not simply on a course destined for mere friendship. It seemed ridiculous that nearly five months had elapsed since that fateful encounter in a Raleigh mall, and I still remained unsure of how to handle the burgeoning rush of emotions that continued to wash over me with increasing fre
quency each time I received an email, text message, or phone call from Tom.

  I liked him—way too much, way too soon.

  I sat back in my chair as the plane took off into the skies and decided that I had five uninterrupted hours to do an extended reality check. It had been a while since I had to do one of those.

  In spite of the fact that Tom appeared to be one of the nicest guys I had ever met, I was still not entirely sure how much of the bravado was for real and how much of it was merely his “representative” on its best behavior. Sometimes he seemed a little too good to be true . . . and thinking this way made me invariably want to flog myself. Women complain when men are too bad, and then we proceed to do the same thing on the flip side. It’s like our gender conspires to force its collective entirety into being twisted versions of Goldilocks (I abhorred that fairy tale). We want one that’s juuuust right. Utterly ridiculous.

  I hated the next thoughts that ran through my mind, but knew they needed to be dealt with instead of conveniently stored on the upper shelves in my brain’s closet, which now had more crud crammed into it than I cared to fathom. I really wasn’t sure I wanted to date someone famous. I felt like a girl with a lower than average IQ aspiring to make merry with the likes of Albert Einstein. The unflattering comparisons in my mind were endless . . . and humorously cruel. I heard once that you never see a really good-looking guy with a homely girl, but it didn’t seem terribly unusual to witness a beautiful woman with an aesthetically forgettable man.

  I might get thrashed for saying this, but I think that many women are so focused on their sense of self-image that they can’t stomach being the question mark in a couple; they prefer to be the exclamation point. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know I’m not hideously unattractive, but a large part of the way we, as a culture, define what is visually desirable is centered on the packaging in its complete form. Thus, it is not good enough to have a beautiful face, one must also have an absurdly tight body poured into the right clothes, accented by the right haircut, the right car, the right makeup, the right shoes, ad nauseum. Exhausting.

  And . . . drumroll please . . . on to the Extended Reality Check! Cue cheesy gameshow music.