by Gigi Blume
I began with some flaps, just to get accustomed to the resistance my Converse All Stars gave on the floor and made a mental note to bring my tap shoes (along with pointe shoes) the next day.
I transitioned into the time step and before I knew it, my feet were flying, doing paddles and syncopated digs. I was in tap heaven. Tappity tap, tap.
And for my big finish, the Bombershay Broadway!
I supposed I liked this step because of the name. Also, I had a thing for traveling steps. I could make an entrance or even a memorable exit doing the Buffalo or Bombershay Broadway. Like at the convenience store after getting my change. Just shuffle on out of there. Or at the bank. A spank step and twist ball change and a see ya later!
The whole human race needed to learn to tap. It would achieve world peace.
So I was doing my Bombershays, imagining myself in A Chorus Line or Thoroughly Modern Millie, when the rubber soles of my Converse caught on the floor, or my feet, or the laces. It happened in a millisecond, but I was flying through the air, trying to flap my arms as if that would help, and crashed onto the hard plane of man flesh. My first reaction as I fell was to grab onto something to get my bearings. My hands instinctively reached out and clutched onto the closest thing they could reach, and oh man, they were rewarded with miles and miles of muscle attached to long, sinewy arms.
At the same moment, as I slid down to my utter humiliation, my face found a place to burrow and stifle a scream. I found myself in the peculiar position of staring straight into the midst of a dark, olive-skinned set of abs. Also more muscles. A pair of strong, sure hands reached behind me and before I could be completely devastated by a crash to the floor, they scooped me up and held me close to their owner’s chest. It was indeed a fine chest, but what was more fascinating was the set of perfectly white teeth smiling down at me, attached to what could only be described as the most perfect face imaginable. It was almost unfair how perfect it was, so beautiful it might not have been real. His skin was a golden brown, a natural tan made even more bronze by the effects of the sun as was evident by the whips of blond invading his chestnut hair. A long, straight nose dipped down, pointing to lips full and plump and rounded with a single dimple on his left cheek. But what most arrested me in that moment were his eyes. Lord in heaven, those eyes! I cannot guarantee a little drool wasn’t dripping on my chin, but while the rest of this Latin demigod was carved from Quetzalcoatl’s hot chocolate, those gorgeous eyes were blue-green, like the ocean in Cozumel, and they looked at me like I was the last piece of flan. I felt gooey and soft. I probably wouldn’t have protested if he were to request a taste test.
“Do you often lose your balance, or just enjoy attacking the floor?”
The demigod speaks!
He set my feet gently on the floor and held me at arm’s length, his hands still searing into the small of my back.
“Oh, uh.” My mouth might as well have been stuffed with cotton balls because he rendered me speechless with his shirtless, golden torso and the swagger of a caliente surfer dude.
At length, I managed to say, “I was doing a gravity check.” I tapped a foot on the floor. “Yep. It works.” Dork status: check!
He smiled and generously chuckled at my dorkiness. His lips curled as he said with a shrug, “Here I was hoping a beautiful woman was finally falling for me.”
“Um…” I croaked. Was he flirting with me?
“I’m Jorge.”
Wow. He pronounced his name with a soft roll of the tongue. Also, he was so gorgeous, my IQ dropped several points.
“Hor-hay,” I repeated. “Is that spelled with a… W-H, or just an H?”
“With a J.” He laughed. “That crazy Spanish language, always mixing up consonants.”
“Right. I knew that,” I said with a nervous laugh. “How annoying.”
“That’s what I’ve always thought.”
“Is it short for something?”
“Spanish consonants?”
“Your name.”
“No… just Jorge.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. Duh.”
His eyes smoldered, surveying me from my toes, lingering on my hips and teetering from my face to my chest in unveiled interest.
“I’m Beth,” I blurted. “That’s short for Elizabeth. Some people call me Lizzie. Actually, only my parents call me Lizzie. So just Beth.”
He was silent, just looking at me with his head tilted to the side like he was trying to figure me out. It made me a little uncomfortable, and when I’m uncomfortable, I talk way too much.
“I thought I was alone. If I had known you were here, I would have never… I mean, I didn’t mean to disturb your work. Do you work here? What do you do? I’m an actress. I’m in the cast of Pirates, but we’re still using the rehearsal studio. Are you building the set? It must be hard to erect something like that. It’s really big!”
One brow shot up on his remarkable face, and he let go of me, stepping back an inch. I immediately felt the cool air on my back where his hand had been, oddly missing the contact. But then he enclosed his hand on mine and nudged me softly toward the wings.
“It is really big,” he said with a wink. “Would you like to see it?”
I nodded furiously and followed him backstage, passing a forest of trellis and scrim. I looked up to the fly system. It was so high, it made me feel small. He took me past counterweights and pulleys, through the crossover behind the scrim and into a large, cool room smelling of sawdust and fresh paint. I loved that smell. It reminded me of building sets in high school and college to fulfill my tech requirement.
Jorge led the way with his arms stretched out.
“And this is where the magic happens.”
He spun around to see how impressed I truly was, and it hit me. This guy was smooth. Real smooth.
“Oh, I get it,” I said, shaking one finger. “You’re good, I gotta hand it to you.”
“What?”
“I almost fell for it.”
“Fell for what?” he whimpered. “I don’t understand.”
“Come on. Look at you. No shirt. Low-fitting jeans. You appear out of nowhere with your ripped abs and foxy simper and bring me to ‘where the magic happens.’ Oh, pah-leez. That line must work on lots of girls.”
He looked at me, marveling my words for a long, still moment, and he appeared so out of sorts, I suddenly regretted my verbal diarrhea. But then he laughed, and I regretted opening my mouth at all because it sounded so ridiculous once the words were out there, hanging between us.
“I’ve known you for like, two minutes.” He laughed.
“I know. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I watch too many movies, I guess.”
“I mean, if I were to have my way with you, I’d wait at least a half hour.”
“Ha ha.”
“It’s one of my rules. No swimming after meals and wait a half hour before seducing girls.
“Okay. Now you’re making fun of me. That’s fine. I deserve it.”
His laugh simmered into an amused sigh and his lips curved into a smile that reached his sparkling eyes, provoking that dimple to make an unguarded appearance. His eyes searched mine, and an electric charge sparked and turned my innards into molten lava. I felt like one of those chocolate cakes with the drippy center. Why did this guy make me feel like food?
I didn’t notice how he closed the distance between us, but he was suddenly close. I had known the man for less time than it takes to brush my teeth, but I felt in that moment, as his presence shared the energy surrounding my body, I wouldn’t protest if he didn’t wait a half hour before swimming. I was a rule breaker like that.
His eyes traveled over my figure, and he sucked in a sharp breath as he said, “Do you like my vessel?”
“You… your what?”
His eyes flashed with mirth, and he grinned ruefully as he repeated, “My vessel.” He inched closer to me. “Do you think it’s large enough?”
“Whaa—”
For the seco
nd time in our short acquaintance, he closed his hand around mine and guided me to follow him. This time, it was to the other side of the scene shop where there were various projects in different degrees of completion. He stopped in front of the unfinished structure of what looked like the beginnings of a boat and gestured to it with an air of accomplishment.
Oh! His vessel.
“Is this the pirate ship?”
He moved around it, stroking the wood with reverence.
“Not just any pirate ship,” he said, wagging his brows. “This boat is automatic, it’s systematic, it’s hyyydromatic…”
“It’s greased lightning?”
“I’m trying to convince Stella it needs a fuel-injection cutoff and chrome-plated rods.”
“You should totally do it,” I said with enthusiasm.
“You think?”
“Paint it cherry red and put some thirty-inch fins on the back. The pirates could wear leather jackets.”
He laughed. It was a contagious one. “The girls could dress like the Pink Ladies.”
I had a eureka moment. “We are brilliant,” I said. “We should do a Pirates of Penzance/Grease crossover.”
“I’d actually pay to see that.”
I felt such a connection with this person I barely knew, but it was like I’d known him all my life, like our meeting was destined.
“You see, it was serendipity, me bumping into you,” I said, making light of the chaos going on inside my mind. “We could make a million dollars with our brilliant ideas.”
“Just a million?”
“Or maybe we’d go bankrupt,” I teased.
He retrieved two wooden stools from an alcove overstuffed with props, and giving me one, perched himself on the edge of the seat and leaned forward, offering me his full attention.
“So, Beth, short for Elizabeth but hardly ever Lizzie, tell me something about yourself.”
“Me? There’s nothing to tell. I’m boring.”
“You’re anything but boring. Why did you get into theatre?”
I could feel the flush of blood rush to my cheeks.
“For the money,” I said, dismissing his smoldering stare. I could never receive a compliment well, usually deflecting the resulting bashfulness with humor. “I entered into one of those Ponzi schemes,” I continued. “Turns out I was duped.” I shrugged and made a meh face. “Too late to back out now.”
He sighed an easy and unaffected laugh, never releasing me with his eyes. “So you’re a comedienne.”
“I get my share of comedy roles, yes.”
“Okay.”
He shifted in his seat, tallying his knowledge of me on his fingers. “I now know you have a knack for comedy, you’re a snappy dresser…” He gestured to my Doctor Who t-shirt. “and you’ve got the moves like Jagger.”
Holy Moley!
“You’ll never let me live that down.”
“But I still don’t know what makes you tick, Beth, short for Elizabeth, sometimes Lizzie.”
His stare was penetrating, searching my soul. “Why theatre?”
His tone shifted to earnest sincerity. Was this guy for real?
“Okay,” I conceded. “If you really want to know… there’s no other art, not even cinema, that can combine music, storytelling, dance, painting, costumes, lighting…” I gestured to the pirate ship. “Set design… and all of those things come together for three hours every night, and it’s a shared experience as it happens on stage. It’s the most magical thing in the world.” I crinkled my brow in thought, and his face softened, leveling into my orbit.
“The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts,” he said, holding my eyes, “but is also the return of art to life.”
“Jorge, that’s… wow! That’s beautiful.”
“That’s Oscar Wilde.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I memorize prose just to woo the ladies.”
“Good one.”
We had come full circle, it seemed. He enjoyed teasing me far too much.
“So…” He grinned. “Ripped abs and foxy simper?”
“Well, it’s a little distracting to tell you the truth,” I said, gesturing to his bare chest.
“It gets hot in here,” he said apologetically. “Let me get my shirt. I’ll be right back.”
He was gone before I had a chance to stop him. I would have to get back to rehearsal soon. Checking my phone for the time, I had the notion to arm myself with some ammunition of my own in the form of poignant theatre quotes. I was determined not to blurt out the first idiotic thing that came to mind. I’d be ready with brilliant verse and resplendent sonnets upon his return.
“The internet does not a smart person make,” I whispered to myself as I scrolled the memes.
The sound of footfall announced his entry through the passageway. I hoped to high heaven that his shirt wasn’t a clingy, white t-shirt, because that wouldn’t have been much better for my concentration than his bare chest. Please be flannel, please be flannel.
“Here’s one for you, Shakespeare,” I bellowed, not daring to look behind me. “Movies will make you famous, television will make you rich, but theatre will make you good.”
The footsteps halted, and then there was a long pause. My estimation was that he was too overcome with my smarts to answer. But then a response did come, and it wasn’t the Latin demigod I expected.
“Terrence Mann,” the voice said.
I shot up from the stool, almost knocking it to the floor, and flipped around to see Will Darcy assessing my presence with intense scrutiny.
“What are you doing here?” I cried.
“I might ask you the same thing,” he said coolly, lifting a solitary eyebrow.
It was a Mexican standoff. I felt like I was in a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western, where he was Clint Eastwood, and I was that other guy about to get his head blown off.
For what seemed an hour, neither one of us spoke. The last time we had exchanged words, they weren’t pretty.
At length, he declared, “I met him once.”
“Clint Eastwood?” Had I spoken that aloud?
“What? No. Terrence Mann.”
“Oh.”
“My father took me to see him perform in Beauty and the Beast. We were invited backstage.”
“I like Beauty and the Beast,” I blurted stupidly.
He had the most terrified expression; his body was stiffer than it usually was, and his eyes were so wide, they were fixed on me as if he were dealing with a hostage situation, and I was the terrorist about to blow us all to kingdom come.
“Yes,” he replied robotically. “That’s a good play.”
Don’t blow us up, his eyes spoke. Back away from the ledge.
I was suddenly very aware of a prickling in my toes. What was it about this man that ate away at my nerves so much? He was a haughty hottie. So what? There were plenty of those guys in Hollywood. They made me laugh. But Will had a special sort of arrogance—the kind that cast a shadow over everyone in his vicinity but was pointedly directed at me. The prickling in my toes spread up my legs, and I no longer had confidence they would support my weight. Traitors. I sat on the wooden stool before I could make a fool of myself.
“It’s a tale as old as time,” I agreed.
“Right.” He exhaled and shook his head vigorously.
“I just came for these.”
He frowned, and grabbing two prop swords, made a beeline towards the exit. But upon the appearance of Jorge, still shirtless I might add, he stopped abruptly and glowered at him.
I’d seen enough nature shows to recognize when a tiger confronts a lion. I could have sworn I saw Will bare a sharp set of fangs. Jorge, lingering in the shop entrance, took one glance at Will and turned an ashen pale. I marveled at the sight—he was like a stone carving from Tenochtitlan—majestic, protective, fiercely angry. Darcy stood his own, though. Strong and proud.
The coincidence of the prop swords in Will’s hands wasn�
��t lost on my overactive imagination. Jorge’s eyes flickered to them for just a moment and returned to hold Will’s stare lest he be tempted to use them. (They were dull anyway.) But with the release of a long-held breath, he turned his focus to me and slowly inched out of Will’s vicinity. There was a heady tension that even words couldn’t cut through, and I found myself enthralled by the curiosity it ignited. There was history there, and I could only imagine it was a juicy one. Rival suitors for the same woman perhaps? Beer pong adversaries? Or gasp… maybe Will was a Yankees fan. I had to know.
Will narrowed his eyes as Jorge crossed the room to me, watching him balance an arm over my shoulders with a claiming simper. The dissonance was deafening. With a scowl that went on for days, he heaved in contempt and swiftly quit the room.
“What was that all about?” I asked as Jorge took a step away from me.
For a long moment, he watched the space Will left vacant, waiting for a ghost to reappear. He was quiet, preoccupied by the erstwhile encounter. His beautiful brow wrinkled in review of it, and I noted his fists clenched at his sides. It was inspiring—the sensation of solidarity I acknowledged with a person I barely knew. But a heavy awareness aroused me. (Or maybe it was just because he was still without a shirt.) In any case, something had gotten him all worked up, which oddly made him appear even more attractive.
“Why so silent, good monsieur?” I asked, attempting to bring him back to Earth.
When he turned around to face me, all trace of malice was gone from his features. He wore a cheery smile (and that irresistible dimple) and posed, “Do you like pubs?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
He exhaled an easy laugh, drawing near enough to touch me. “There’s a gastro pub that serves the best onion ring tower in the universe. Come out with me tonight.”
I blinked at this intriguing man standing before me, a man I had known for less time than it took to order lunch at Jerry’s Deli, and he was inviting me out for onion rings.
Onion rings!
My eyes ran over his body, clad in well-used Levi’s, tattered Vans, and nothing more. Then I gazed upon his perfect face and blurted like a dope, “Where’s your shirt?”