by Renee Ahdieh
When we stepped into the elevator, she turned to look at me again with her frosty grey eyes. “Thomas wouldn’t want me to say this to you, but I feel that it’s incumbent upon me to state that discretion is key when socializing with him. If you attempt to abuse this situation in any way, it will not work out to your advantage in the end.”
“Damn, and I thought I was blunt,” I responded caustically. If she was going to a bitch, she had better be able to take what she could dish.
The eyebrows arched again. “It’s my job to sift through the bullshit and get to the point.”
“And I’m sure you do your job very well. I have no intention of abusing anything. I know you don’t have to trust me, but I also don’t have to like you.” Awesome, Cris . . . off to a rip-roaring good start in the world of Hollywood.
“Fair enough. Don’t do anything stupid and we’ll get along passably.” She looked away from me again with dismissive arrogance.
I pursed my lips in irritation. This evil preying mantis thought I was a gold-digging skank out to capture as many moments as I could sell to the highest bidding paparazzo. I wasn’t even going to go through the trouble of trying to prove her wrong. I was certain that she believed unfailingly in her ability to accurately judge others. She was not going to let a tiny Puerto Rican girl prove her wrong. After years of fighting to make everyone like me, I’d realized that sometimes it was just impossible. You can’t fight a war with a psycho and expect to win anything but battle scars. Win the battle, lose the war kind of stuff.
As the elevator doors opened onto the highest floor, I gazed about, and the nervousness returned with a vengeance. Two burly-looking security guards dressed in black stood on either side of large double-doors directly in front of me. I felt like a kid in my Che shirt and jeans. They nodded to Melissa and opened one of the doors. I shot the security guard on my right a look that must have made him feel bad for me because he winked and smiled kindly. I returned the gesture. At least now he might hesitate before dragging me out of the suite at the first mistake I made and tossing me unceremoniously onto Peachtree Street.
Thomas was deep in amused conversation with another man whose appearance almost made me laugh out loud. He looked like an absurd cartoon character who wore tight, black pants and a grey turtleneck sweater that hugged his small body. He had dark brown facial hair on his pointed chin that was cut in zigzag patterns up his jaw line. He wore many rings on his fingers and a large watch that sparkled even from halfway across the room. Zorro meets Liberace. Excellent.
Tom turned when he heard the tapping of Melissa’s heels on the marble in front of me.
“Cris!” There was no way to ignore the broad smile on his face when he saw me. I grinned back at him in an effort to hide my awkwardness and discomfort.
“Che?” Zorro asked with puzzlement as he stared at my shirt. “¿De donde sos?”
“Puerto Rico. My father’s originally from Cuba.” It was a lame explanation for why I wore a shirt with an Argentinean Marxist’s face emblazoned on it, but he asked.
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you were from my homeland, not with that ass . . . it’s good to know I can still tell the difference,” Zorro said with the flamboyant air I had come to expect from an incredibly secure gay man. I’d bet money on it. His accent was cultivated in a manner that was especially meant to impress exoticism on anyone foolish enough to believe in its full authenticity. He most likely spoke English better than many people born and raised in the States. In spite of all his affectations, I was going to like this guy who smiled at me while scrutinizing every last detail of my appearance.
“Cris, this is Esteban Alvarez. He’s in charge of making me look decent,” Thomas said with a comfortable grin in Zorro’s direction.
“And it’s incredibly fucking hard. He’s impossible to work with. Such a man. Jeans and T-shirt type . . . no taste at all. Well, at least you’re not a disaster. He wasn’t lying about that. We are going to need to work on your wardrobe, though.” Esteban drawled and gesticulated the entire time he spoke. I could not help the smile that grew on my face.
“Thanks?” I said pseudo-sarcastically as I arched my eyebrows with amusement.
“Oh, you are cute. You’re welcome.” He smirked back at me with a look of begrudging acceptance. Esteban and I would get along well. Thank God. After dealing with the Preying Mantis, it was nice to know I had one kindred spirit amongst Tom’s entourage.
“So,” Tom said as he put his hands together in a staid gesture while looking at me expectantly. “What should we do?”
“Well, that depends on what you’d like to do. I’ve only been to Atlanta a few times, and I’m most familiar with a rather unconventional part of it.” I smiled in memory as I said the words.
“And what part would that be?” he queried.
“Koreatown.”
“Ah, K-pop took you there,” he said with a grin.
“Yup. There are some killer Korean barbeque joints out there.”
“Well, I’ve never actually tried Korean barbeque, so maybe we should check it out!”
His enthusiasm made him even more charming. I had been so focused on his face when I first walked in that I hadn’t really taken much time to observe what he wore. His leisurely dark jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt in a chocolate brown color made him look completely normal and unobtrusive. It was almost as though we had been precisely in sync with regards to keeping things simple. I found it immensely reassuring.
“Well, we’re going to need to drive. It’s about half an hour away from here in Duluth.”
“Thomas,” Melissa interrupted. She stood beside me and listened to our planning with the look of a hawk circling above, waiting for her prey’s misstep. “I don’t think it’s advisable to just go off on your own to God-knows-where with someone you hardly know.”
Honestly, I agreed with her . . . though my eyes still narrowed in irritation at her insinuation. Preying Mantis was going to be a major pain in the ass.
“Melissa, you’ve made your objections clear . . . several times. I’ll be fine. I’m also not interested in taking Jim or Marcus with me. I don’t think it will be necessary.”
She pursed her lips and shot me an excellent go-to-hell look. Not to be outdone, I responded in kind. Man, she had at least eight inches on me. Zorro covered his mouth to stifle a small burst of laughter, and Tom smiled crookedly at me with barely-concealed amusement.
“So, where’s your car?” Tom asked as he moved around the sofa between us to stand closer to me. I felt a small adrenaline rush pulse through my body to see his face so clearly for the first time since the day I met him. As I attempted to quell my quaking nerves, my mind digested his words.
“You want me to drive?” The surprise in my voice was unmistakable.
“Well, you won’t want me to drive. The whole left-side of the road thing has really mucked up my eye-hand coordination. Plus, I was never a very good driver to begin with.”
“Okay. No complaining about my driving, though,” I said firmly.
Preying Mantis let out an overtly audible huff of frustration as we passed her to walk towards the door. She probably was not used to having her concerns left so unaddressed. One of the bodyguards rode down the elevator with us to the parking area and walked to my car to make sure we were both safely situated before he silently turned around to return to his post.
As I put my key in the ignition, I realized with a sudden jolt that this was the first time we had ever been alone. He must have come to the same conclusion as I had because we just sat there for a moment and stared at one another. The smile on his face spread slowly and made its way over to me with infectious effect until we both grinned widely. My cheeks flushed with pleasure at the warm look in his eyes.
“So, in case I forget to tell you later, I’m really glad you came.” His soft voice held a note of shyness that further emphasized the surprising normality of the man sitting next to me.
“Well, in case I forget
to tell you later, it’s still shitty that I had to come and get my own iPod.”
“I’ll try to make it up to you. Shall we?” He gazed pointedly at the wheel with a smile.
I backed out of the spot and peeled onto Peachtree Street. We drove in silence for a few minutes until we reached the freeway.
“Holy shit!” he sputtered as I merged into traffic. “You drive like an absolute lunatic!” He grasped the handle above the window so tightly his knuckles turned white.
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.