Fanfare

by Renee Ahdieh

  I walked towards the end of the line and stood patiently in place with my ticket and passport in hand.

  “He’s just so freakin’ cute!” the girl in front of me murmured to her friend as she held open her People magazine for their joint perusal.

  Shit. They were looking at pictures of Tom at his movie premiere in Manhattan last month. Guess which idiot stood next to him and looked as though she ate one too many Metamucil crackers before going out? Worse, my posture resembled an individual trying to furtively remedy a monolithic wedgie.

  “I know! At first, I wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about. Now, I’m like ‘day-umn!’ That accent just takes it over the top. Too bad about the girlfriend,” her friend responded.

  “She’s kind of pretty, but I totally think he could do better. I mean, she’s nothing special.”

  Thanks. Really. You look like crap too.

  “I bet it doesn’t last. She’s probably a clinger or something. Once he realizes he doesn’t have to settle for a J. Lo wannabe, he’ll drop the baggage. Then he can have my number.” The friend giggled.

  “Please! He can have my number now. I’m much better than a J. Lo wannabe.”

  They continued to bicker amiably to one another as the line moved forward. Part of me wanted to tap their shoulders and sarcastically offer my thanks for their vote of confidence. I guess it was too much to hope that they might believe the “J. Lo Wannabe” had feelings . . . or ears. Oh well.

  The irony of the situation before me temporarily faded from my mind as I thought again of Ryan and his comments. Pretty boy? He missed me? He loved me? God, he made me so angry! Did he really think I was that desperate?

  Once on the plane, my eyes quickly scanned the back of the Business Class cabin. In the far corner, a rather lanky man in jeans and a T-shirt appeared to be asleep with a book covering his face. I didn’t even bother to check my ticket as I walked straight to the seat next to him and stowed my bags. Without missing a beat, I pulled out my book and pretended as though it were the most engrossing thing I had ever been granted the opportunity to read.

  “Oyi.”

  I ignored the muted sound from the person who sat beside me with a knowing half-smile.

  “You—with the book.” The whisper was further muffled under the pages still strategically hiding his face.

  “Not interested,” I grumbled without a glance, “engrossed” in my book.

  “Pity. You smell amazing. So, if I were to say that you had a great body, would you hold it against me?” he whispered suggestively.

  “That’s just awful. Epic FAIL!” I shot back under my breath as I stifled a giggle.

  The book moved a bit as he chuckled quietly and then resumed his posture of faked respite. Soon, the line of people who walked past us dancing the luggage samba dwindled to a mere trickle.

  His left hand darted across the seat divider, and strong fingers laced through mine as the plane prepared for takeoff.

  “Did you want the window seat?” he murmured after he removed his “disguise” so we could finally speak to one another properly.

  “No. I’m fine.” I grinned back at him in a nauseatingly saccharine fashion. Blech. As if I needed any more proof that love makes you stupid.

  “Brilliant, I didn’t want to give it to you anyway.”

  “In that case, get your ass out of my chair,” I joked.

  “God, I missed you,” he teased in a husky voice.

  I squeezed his hand. “I missed you too . . . Man, I hope I didn’t forget anything important. I’ve been wracking my brain for the last hour. Oh well. It’s too late now. Are you glad to be going home?” I whispered.

  “Yes and no. I love being in London and spending time with my family, but there are always difficult moments to deal with when I go.” He frowned in momentary introspection.

  “Your father?”

  He nodded carefully. “I think I’m most excited about introducing you to Anne. She’s been driving me insane the last few weeks about meeting you. It’ll be nice to get her off my case.”

  “I can’t wait to see her too. I brought her something.”

  He smiled crookedly at me. “What is it?”

  “I actually have something for your parents, as well. Don’t worry; it’s nothing too big or fancy. I just couldn’t come to visit without bringing gifts. I brought your father a collection of short stories by Kafka, since you said he likes philosophy. I found this great Puerto Rican cookbook translated into English, so I ordered one for your mother. You told me Anne liked the clutch I carried to the New York premiere, so I’m giving it to her. I know it’s ghetto to give her something I used, but I can’t actually afford to buy Prada, so I hope she’ll forgive me. Now that I think about it, I guess that means you gave her the bag . . . which kind of compounds my ghetto-ness. Sorry.”

  “Don’t tell Esteban,” I added quickly.

  He just sat there for a moment, looking at me in reflective silence.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You’re too good for me,” he murmured.

  “Whatever! Don’t give me any of that self-effacing crap. It’s the least I can do. They don’t even know me, and they’re letting me stay in their home for a week.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled my hand across the polished wood divider between our seats and pressed his lips to it.

  “You’re welcome.” I settled into my chair and felt a wave of calm wash over me, as though his mere presence were an opiate. Ugh. I should know better. Oh well. Could something that had been charred beyond recognition still catch fire and burn? I didn’t really want to find out, but it was too late for me.

  Almost seven hours later, we rolled our suitcases to the curb and hailed a “hack” to take us to Tom’s childhood home in London. The warm night sky was littered with the pulsing lights of the city, and the punctuated staccato of car horns improvised the music that accompanied the urban scenery flashing by my face.

  I had been to London once before and had already confessed to Tom that the occasion drove me to hate it with an irrational amount of passion. To be fair, I was a poor college student at the time, and London was not exactly kind to people who lived on a budget. I remembered paying the dollar equivalent of “hella expensive” once at a McDonald’s for some chicken nuggets—five pounds. At the time, I thought that amount equaled ten dollars. Seriously. I mean, WTF? For McNuggets? Additionally, the weather had been a major buzzkill for someone coming from a land frequented by sunrays. Finally, I had been robbed on the Tube somewhere near Covent Garden, and the combination of being poor, mugged, and constantly left to my own dreary devices formed a lingering bad taste in my mouth. I also travel to eat, and London left much to be desired in that department. I did drink an inordinate amount of beer while there, but that had less to do with my affinity for it and more to do with the fact I was desperate for some kind of an affordable distraction. All things considered, the week I spent in London made up the low point of my European “backpacking” adventure.

  When I first regaled Tom with tales of my London escapades, he had laughed uncontrollably and vowed to change my mind about his beloved, sooty city. I dared him to, and before I knew it, he told me we were going to visit his family.

  And now, here we were: standing at the door to his parents’ townhome. Tom was definitely not a man who made blanket suggestions without the decisive intention of following through.

  He had barely touched his hand to the doorbell when it was surreptitiously yanked open. I was snatched by the forearm and pulled over the threshold with unceremonious effort.

  “Tommy!” squealed the girl before me as she threw her arms around his neck and kicked the door shut behind us.

  He laughed as he hugged her back. She was tall, with reddish brown hair and a rosy complexion. I recognized her warm smile from Tom’s photos.

  “Anne, this is Cris,” he introduced with a teasing flourish.

  She turned and, without hesitation, stepped forward to embrace me a
s well.

  “I’m so glad to meet you finally. Tommy talks about you all the time, and I was going mad not having met you. Blimey, you’re even prettier in person, and that’s saying something! A bit shorter than I thought, but I’d kill to have your skin color. If I even try to tan, I turn into a lobster, and they’re not creatures known for their attractiveness, if you know what I mean. No one ever aspired to look like a lobster for good reason. Hideous. I think they’re in the same genus or whatever as spiders.”

  I could not help the wide smile that spread onto my face at her bubbly vivaciousness. Anne Abramson had the potential to talk just as much as I did, I realized. No wonder why Tom never seemed to mind whenever I rambled incessantly. He had apparently developed an immunity prior to coming in contact with me.

  “Christ, don’t talk her head off!” Tom joked before I could even put together a coherent response.

  “Honestly Anne, I don’t know how you’re nearing thirty and still have the manners of a hyperactive schoolgirl,” a slender, middle-aged woman murmured with a smile as she walked towards us. Her features were similar to Tom’s in their aristocratic bent, and her brown eyes sparkled with a distinctive mirth she had definitely passed along to her son.

  “Thirty? I’m only twenty seven, Mum!” Anne cried.

  Tom’s mother outstretched her hand in welcome. I grasped it in mine momentarily and returned her kind smile.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Cristina. I’m very glad you could come to visit, and I first want to thank you for putting up with my son for so long. Lord knows it’s not easy.”

  “Thank you,” Tom replied acerbically as he gazed down at her with a mixture of undisguised affection and clear amusement.

  She arched her eyebrow at him for a moment before he bent forward to lift her off the floor and into a sweeping bear hug.

  “Thomas Patrick Abramson, you put me down this instant!” She laughed as her feet dangled at least six inches off the ground.

  “I trust the flight went well and no one harassed you too much,” stated a gruff voice that I knew belonged to Tom’s father. With the disadvantage of my sensory-overloaded mind, he appeared to have materialized from nowhere and leaned against the staircase. He watched me with studious appraisal. He was stocky, and his features were etched with lines that indicated a propensity for deep thought or raucous laughter. I was inclined to think it was the former rather than the latter.

  “Yes sir,” Tom replied brusquely.

  “Well then, you must be hungry. Let’s have some dinner.” Tom’s father turned and walked purposefully to the back of the house without pausing for any pleasantries. Interesting. Tom narrowed his eyes at the empty space his father had just occupied. Anger tinged his expression, so I wordlessly put my hand on his arm in a soothing gesture.

  “Thank you so much for inviting me to stay in your home. It’s very kind of you, and I really appreciate it,” I said warmly to Anne and her mother. “I think eating dinner is a great idea. I’m starving! All I’ve eaten recently is plane food, and that’s nothing to brag about, so I apologize beforehand if I eat so much that it’s frightening.”

  Anne’s laughter rang in the room like a bell, and it successfully cut through some of the tension that had crept into the space with dismaying ease. She linked her arm through mine, and we marched towards the dining room with Tom and his mother in tow. Soon we were seated around a rectangular table with piles of pasta and salad on our plates.

  “So, Cristina, you’ve been to university?” Tom’s father asked. This was the first time he had deigned to address me, and as luck would have it, my mouth was full of food at that exact moment. I had no time to contemplate the utter impossibility of impressing someone important while scarfing down food. I hoped he wasn’t the jackass who intentionally waited to acknowledge you whenever you were sure to look like an imbecile.

  “Yes sir,” I managed to croak out before I grabbed my drink to help swallow my food.

  “And what did you study?” he asked.

  “I majored in French and minored in Music as an undergraduate, and I have a Master’s Degree in Social Work.”

  He nodded slowly in obvious consideration. “French and Music don’t seem related to Social Work. Why did you choose those things?”

  “Oh, come off it, Dad. Are you interviewing her for a job?” Anne said teasingly as she tried to deflect the strain.

  “I’m merely curious.”

  Tom snorted sarcastically as he lifted his glass to his lips. The sound was not lost on his father.

  “I chose French because it’s very similar to Spanish, and it was relatively easy to learn. Languages have always interested me, and I thought it was a good idea to study something I was good at as opposed to something I would struggle with,” I stated simply.

  “What do you struggle with?” he queried on mercilessly.

  “Patrick,” Tom’s mother admonished.

  I smiled to show I wasn’t fazed. “Math. I initially wanted to be a doctor but failed my first-year Math classes . . . twice. I figured it was the higher powers telling me I shouldn’t pursue it any further.”

  “So, you’re bad with numbers and good with languages.”

  “Didn’t she just say that?” Tom muttered spitefully. He was behaving like a petulant child, so I nudged his foot under the table in warning.

  Tom’s father focused his gaze onto his son’s face then made an ill-advised decision.

  “With all that education under your belt, does it bother you that Thomas barely finished high school?” he asked in a cutting tone.

  “Patrick, please. They only just arrived here,” Tom’s mother requested with more force behind her words.

  “No, it doesn’t bother me,” I answered firmly.

  “Would it bother you if he were poor?” God, this man was merciless!

  “Bloody hell! Have you gone completely mad? This is the first time I’ve ever brought home a girlfriend since I left London, and you can’t even control yourself for half an hour!” Tom exploded angrily.

  “Tom,” I pleaded. “Please.”

  “You said she was important to you. If she’s important to you, I’m entitled to ask questions that shed light on her character. If you have a problem with that, then perhaps you should consider whether or not you were actually ready to introduce her to your family. It’s just typical of you, Thomas. You just do whatever you want, and you never stop to think about anything else.” His father spoke slowly with ruthless dispassion. The muscles in Tom’s jawline rippled under the strain of trying to remain silent.

  “Patrick!” Tom’s mother said loudly.

  “Yes, it would bother me if he were poor,” I stated in a clear voice.

  That took everyone off guard. Anne dropped her fork into her plate, and Tom’s mother stared at me in dismay. I could feel Tom’s body go rigid next to me, and his father’s eyes settled onto mine as though he realized he had struck a chord that resonated.

  I knew how important it was that I choose my next words with extreme care.

  “But not in the way people would assume. Being able to buy as many fancy things as you want is nice, but it’s not important to me. If Tom were poor, it would mean he was struggling, and I would hate to see him struggle because I care a lot about him. He’s a very hard worker, and I know he spends a great deal of time studying to become better at his craft. Going to college is one way of learning, but I don’t think that a classroom is the only place where you can get an education. Unfortunately, I’m biased in favor of fancy university diplomas because I come from a poor country, and I know what hindrances poverty and a lack of an education can be. So, I guess my own cultural views pushed me in the direction of college. But I think Tom is very blessed to enjoy what he does and have the ability to make money doing it. He’s also very lucky to be surrounded by people who support him.”

  Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have said that last part. So sue me, you disgruntled meanie.

  Tom released a drawn out br
eath and turned to stare at me with a flurry of emotions crossing his face. Amusement, appreciation, and . . . shock?

  “Well, is that sufficient?” Anne demanded bitingly.

  “Could you pass the salad dressing, Cris?” Tom’s father asked as though nothing of import had transpired at all.

  Wordlessly, I picked up the bottle and handed it over to Tom’s father. His mother winked at me, and Tom’s hand squeezed my knee under the table. His sister’s hazel eyes sparkled wickedly.

  Half an hour later, Anne whispered, “Oh, my God!” as we stood alone in the kitchen after clearing away dishes. Tom had left to take our luggage upstairs.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That was bloody brilliant! You actually got him to shut up. Tommy would have just kept yelling at him, and Dad would never let it go. Priceless! You’ve got to teach Tommy how to do that!”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do they fight so much?” I asked as quietly as possible.

  “I dunno. They used to be so close. I think it’s because Dad wanted Tommy to make a difference in the world and do something meaningful with his life. Tommy is really smart, and he did well in school until he decided he wanted to be an actor. It was really random. Did he ever tell you that I was actually the one who wanted to be an actress? He came with me to an audition because I was watching over him, and the little twit got a job! He was nine years old. Dad was furious when Tommy announced he wasn’t going to university so he could move to the States and be an actor. I think he was disappointed in the waste. Dad wanted him to become a barrister. Can you imagine? Tommy would be miserable! My brother’s just really sensitive about Dad too. He thinks Dad will never be happy with him, no matter what he does . . . it just makes for a bad situation all around. Dad knows how to piss him off, and Tommy can’t control himself. It’s funny because he’s usually so patient and easy-going. It’s like Dad brings out the angry little boy in him.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “Really, I think they just need to talk.”

  “I think so too,” I agreed.

  “Think what?” Arms wrapped around my waist from behind, and warm lips pressed against my cheek.