by Lia London
Franks flying brows pulled his whole face into a happy smile. “How nice of him to say so.”
“How kind of you to help him.” Amaya glanced at him sideways. “So, you’ve got a little teacher in you, huh? That’s always a good thing in my book.”
The nature of his smile changed, tinged with a different shade of modesty. “I tried. They were very eager, and very smart. I confess that I’d doubted it because of the way they banter back and forth, but they know their subjects.”
“All of us excel at something and struggle with others, right?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Perhaps I do more than most.”
“You? That’s hard to imagine.” She spotted her car twenty yards ahead and slowed down, not ready for the conversation to end right when she’d found a crumbling piece of his inner wall.
His arm slid down her back, and he clasped her hand. Though it left her shoulders exposed to the chilly night air, the gentleness of his touch warmed her through.
“I have my struggles like anyone else,” he confided.
Amaya stopped walking and faced him, reaching for his other hand. “Tell me. Besides a clumsy waltz and a snobby personality in public, what faults do you hide?” Her own boldness surprised her, but the glowing reports she’d heard from her cousins told her to keep chipping away at his defenses.
Frank opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it. His gaze flickered to a wrought-iron bench standing beneath an old-fashioned, ornate lamppost. When they returned to her face, his eyes glistened with tears. “Right now my biggest fault is that I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re different, Amaya. And you make me feel different.” His hands swept up her arms in the softest caress.
Amaya let her body list forward slightly so that their foreheads touched. “And?”
“And I’m afraid.”
At his unexpected admission, Amaya met his eyes, searching for a reason. “Of what?”
“What if I lose who I was?”
Her hands rested on his chest. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Frank.”
A hint of desperation played across his face. “I don’t even like who I was—am—but it’s all I have—I mean, we’re not—I don’t want to lose—”
Amaya silenced him with a kiss and felt his arms wrap around her as if clinging to her for dear life. His lips responded, urgently pleading for tenderness, and she gave him what he needed, finding she needed it, too. In her jumble of emotions, she felt vulnerable yet safe, as if they were two lost children trusting each other until they could find their way home. Her hands smoothed through his hair, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss.
When they pulled back, she rested her cheek against his and felt her heart pounding. Tears streamed down, and she wasn’t sure if they were her own, his, or both. “What just happened, Frank?”
His hands lingered on her back for a moment before cupping her face tenderly. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt like this before.” His thumb wiped away a tear on her cheek, and Amaya reached up with a fingertip to return the favor.
Amaya let out a breathy laugh. “We’re a hot mess, aren’t we? Kissing and crying in the middle of the street.”
Frank nodded, once again taking both of her hands in his. “A hot mess, or something divine.” He shrugged. “Sorry for the weirdness.”
“Not weird,” said Amaya. “Real. We’re just being real.”
He sighed. “Yes, but by now you’ve figured out that I don’t know how to do that very well.”
“Why not, Frank?” She indicated the bench, and they sat down.
He tucked her under his arm, and she leaned against his chest, feeling emotional warmth as comfortable and sure as family.
“I strove so hard to rise to the top, to ascend above my working-class heritage. I’ve been playing this part, trying to prove I belong, but it’s not real. It’s …”
Amaya considered this with a thoughtful frown. “But Frank, you saw what I come from. Grammy MarLee and Pappy raised me most of my growing up years. They’re nothing fancy.”
“I know. And they did an incredible job.” Frank tilted his head to look at her better. “Everyone there at that dinner was happy being who they are. In my house, I … I guess I felt ashamed of our lifestyle. My friends were all more affluent, and I wanted to be like them. Education seemed to be the key.”
“Pappy would say, ‘You ain’t comfortable in your own skin.’ Which is crazy, considering how handsome you are.”
Frank stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. “Pappy is probably right.”
“Am I?” Amaya poked his thigh.
“About what?”
“You being handsome.”
Frank chuckled. “If your benevolent spirit grants me that title, I’ll take it.”
“Stop talking like that, Frank, or I swear I’ll kiss you again just to make you shut up.”
He lifted her chin with his finger. “I wouldn’t want you to kiss me for that reason.” He scrunched his brow down and grunted. “I talk caveman.”
Amaya giggled and slid her hand up to his cheek, pulling him in for a gentle kiss. “Say what you mean, and mean what you say, Frank. I don’t need big words, or big bank accounts, or big egos. I’m looking for a big heart.”
She tucked her arms around him in a cozy hug, resting her ear on his chest and listening for his heartbeat. “You’ve got one in there. I can hear it.”
His voice came deep, amplified through his chest. “For what it’s worth, you can have it. It only works when you’re around, anyway.”
They sat for a long time, folded into each other on a park bench in the middle of Portland. The nightlife passed by, showing no interest in their two hearts beating with hope.
Chapter 10 ~ “Where’s My Stupid Phone?”
“Hey, your boyfriend wrote a pretty sweet review!” Charlene called from the front door.
Amaya padded blearily into the living room, still yawning. “Huh?”
“Frank.” Charlene waved a disassembled copy of the Portland Tribune. “Section C, page 2.”
Flipping to the page, Amaya noted the ringed stain of coffee marring the bottom half of the article. She eyed Charlene’s triple-sized, designer latte, but said nothing. “Byline says Frank Judd. Look!” She frowned. “How’d he get the picture?”
“I know!” Charlene beamed. “He must have begged one of the production shots from dress rehearsals because that is you, not Sandra.”
Amaya’s eyes rested on the dramatic image of her “soul” drifting heavenward at the end of “Wanderer”. Frank must have pulled some strings to get that picture because it would have been taken from the light booth on the night he came to watch.
“Sandra’s not going to be happy about this,” muttered Amaya. “She should have been featured in the shot somehow.”
Charlene grinned and took a long sip from her morning fuel tank.
Amaya sank into her chair at the small dining room table and pored over the article. Her mouth fell open periodically at the beauty of the language. Frank managed to capture vivid images with words almost as clear as a photograph. “Wow, he’s really good. I wonder if Jenelle put him up to it.”
“Who knows?” Charlene settled opposite Amaya and rested her arms in a protective embrace around the steaming vat of coffee. “He made the show sound fantastic, though. That’s probably why they ran his article instead of one by Phyllis Whatever-her-name-is that usually reviews us.”
Tears welled in Amaya’s eyes. “This is the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said about my dancing.” Her mind flew back to the things he’d said about her as a person. No one had ever made her feel so uniquely appreciated.
Charlene chuckled. “He mentioned the whole company, you know. But yeah. He definitely loved your pieces. No bias, huh?”
Amaya massaged the dull space under her brows. Part of her swelled with pride, but the other cringed with guilt. “This is going to c
ause tension with the cast, don’t you think?”
“I don’t,” said Charlene with confidence.
“Why not?”
A wicked glimmer brightened her friend’s eyes. “Because I know something you don’t know.”
Amaya hunched closer, as if they needed to be secretive in the privacy of their own apartment. “What do you know?”
“On final dress rehearsal, Sandra made a little announcement you missed because you were with your hottie.”
“What announcement? She’s transferring to San Francisco Ballet?”
Charlene snickered. “Only if they have a maternity troupe.”
Amaya’s eyes popped wide. “What? She’s pregnant?”
“Uh-huh. She and Oliver will be starting their family in about seven months.”
Chills ran up and down Amaya’s back, and she clasped her face in her hands. “This is incredible news.” Her fingers flexed and curled with a surge of energy. “Do you know what this means?”
“Uh-huh.” Charlene raised her cup in a toast. “It means I’m rooming with the probable new star of Northwest Dance Project.”
Frank tried to be patient, but when Amaya hadn’t responded to his texts three hours later, a sullen resignation settled over him. She’d probably completely forgotten he wanted to pick her up early for their final date. He hated the cliché of it, but their time together had been so magical, and he feared what would happen when he needed to return to Eugene. Would they be over? Would they fade apart? Surely a piece of his heart would disappear, a casualty of the new emotion: love.
The phone buzzed, and he bolted upright from his slouched position. Muting the television, he snatched up the phone and answered. A second too late, he recognized the ringtone as Becki’s.
“You’re moonlighting on me now?” The sneer in her voice made him squirm.
“I presume you mean the freelance article I offered the Tribune for the dance concert?”
“How generous of you to write that up while working on The Register-Guard’s dime.”
“Am I on the clock 24/7, Becki?” Challenging her felt better when he couldn’t see her blazing eyes.
“No, and I know you got your lunch assignments in, so I’ll give you a pass this time.”
Frank’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
“By my count, you’ve got the one dance club left, and you’re done, right?”
“Yes.” He didn’t trust the way she said done. A long pause followed, which never meant good things with Becki. “Anything specific you need from me, Madame Editor?”
“By the tone of your last dinner review, I assume you found a different lady to dine with you.”
Frank hesitated. “The tone?”
“You’re back on track,” she said. “One more like that, and you may find yourself in Fat City.”
His eyebrows jumped up before diving with suspicion. “What do you mean?”
“The Tribune very much favors the idea of getting two different writers for the price of one. Your styles were so different in the dining versus dance recital that their editor is drooling a bit over you.”
A ripple of pride flowed through him. “Really?” That didn’t come out as nonchalantly as he’d hoped. “What did they say?”
“No more details now, Frank. Just get the last restaurant reviewed and make it the best you’ve ever done. Include every detail. Make it shine with brilliant wit while still making it sound appetizing. Pun intended.”
“Okay?” Frank frowned. Becki didn’t usually dictate whether he should be positive in his assessment of a restaurant.
“Then meet me back in my office on Monday,” she continued. “We have some matters to discuss with regards to your future.”
His eyes widened. “Good or bad?”
“Complicated. Syndication doesn’t work when you’re covering local events.”
Syndication? His byline spread across multiple newspapers all over the region—the country? “Don’t screw this up. This is the break you’ve been waiting for. I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning. I’m sure we can find a way to uncomplicate things if we try.”
She disconnected, and Frank’s brain went into full-speed speculation mode. The possibilities exhausted him, and he knew he needed to calm down in order to think more clearly.
Amaya. If he could spend some time with her, he’d feel better.
He checked his messages again. Nothing. No response to his texts. Had he offended her somehow? Had he opened up too much to her last night? Had his display of weakness repulsed her? What choice did he have? She had broken his heart wide open, and she would either fill it or tear it asunder. He no longer had control.
Why hadn’t she called back?
Dragging his palm down his face, he stifled a scream of frustration.
Amaya’s voice in his mind stilled him. “What do your feelings tell you?” she had asked.
“I’ve never been very successful with feelings,” he’d answered.
Even with his vast vocabulary, he couldn’t find words to describe his current feelings. Excitement and emptiness collided, trampling the remnants of a warmer emotion that was so foreign to him. It had to be love.
But she hadn’t responded to his texts. He must have offended her, scared her away. She’d seen too much of him and no longer wanted him.
A new feeling crept in, overriding the selfish worry of rejection: Had he hurt her somehow?
Perhaps his prior lack of success with feelings was because he’d always thought of his own needs, but now… She had given him a glimpse of what it meant to be a confident person without conceit, a genuinely happy soul who cared for others.
But what could he do for her in return, to show how much she meant to him?
“Seriously, Charlene. Where’s my stupid phone?” Amaya crammed the couch cushions back into place with a grunt.
“Did you leave it at work?” called Charlene from the bathroom.
“I don’t think so. I never took it out there.”
“When’s the last time you used it?”
Amaya knuckled her forehead in an attempt to knead the memory from her brain. “Oh! In the bathroom!”
“Nope. It’s not in here unless you flushed it.”
“The restaurant bathroom with the blue toilet paper.”
“I don’t think I want to know.” Charlene’s voice faded behind the sound of rushing water for a few seconds before resuming. “…tuck it in your bra like every other woman I know, you’d never lose it.”
“Got it!” Amaya rummaged under the newspaper for the silk clutch she’d worn the other night. Sure enough, her phone lay inside, smudged by the open tube of lipstick. She groaned and tried her best to remove the red grease with her thumb, and in the process, she saw the texts from Frank. “Oh crap. He’s been trying to get through to me all day, and I turned the dumb sound off.”
She swiped open the texts and scrolled up and down to read past the red smear on the screen.
Good morning, Amaya. I hope opening night went well. What time would you like me to come get you?
And another one. Were you still willing to give me a tour of Portland before dinner tonight?
I’m going to need your address, so I can pick you up.
The last one made her stomp her foot in frustration. Sorry to pester you again, but I guess we aren’t meeting before dinner. Our assignment tonight is the Escondido on 4th Street. See you out front at 6:30 sharp.
“Gaaah!” Amaya furiously tapped a response, but the lipstick on the screen affected the sensitivity, and she had to keep restarting because of typos. Just as she was about to hit Send, the screen went black. Battery dead. “Dang it!”
“What’s up?” Charlene entered with her dance bag.
“Phone died.”
“So? Plug it in.”
Amaya gave an exaggerated expression of desperation. “I needed to get a message to Frank ASAP about tonight. I don’t have his number memorized or anything.”
&nbs
p; Charlene pointed to the computer. “Use his website again, silly. I gotta go. Cast call. Have fun tonight.”
“You, too,” said Amaya, waving good-bye as she wiggled the mouse to awaken the screen. She found Frank’s website quickly enough and used the contact form to send an apology and her address. Hopefully he’d see it in time. They wouldn’t be able to do much of a tour before they had to be at the Escondido, but maybe he could still give her a ride.
She breathed out a sigh and stared at the screen in a daze. So much was happening in her life right now, and she wanted to rejoice, but a part of her ached. Why wasn’t the thrill of all her success with the dance company and the school enough to fill the void created when she thought of Frank returning to Eugene? It was just a job. Not even two weeks. She barely knew him, and it wasn’t like she had time for a relationship. Not with Sandra leaving the company. She’d have more work to do.
Her eyes focused on the dialogue box that had popped up when she sent her message. To return to the home page, click yes.
She did so without thinking and found his most recent restaurant review of their time at Danseur Noble. Again, she was struck by his command of the language, but this time it sickened her. True, she hadn’t enjoyed the meal, but part of her problem had been Frank’s cheerless attitude at the time.
“Wow, Frank. You really ripped them apart.” As far as she could tell, he’d infused every other word with squid ink.
Chapter 11 ~ The Escondido
Frank navigated at turtle speed through the narrow streets of Portland to reach Amaya. Her email had flooded him with relief that she had not abandoned him, but panic that picking her up would mean they’d arrive late for the reservation. The maze of one-way streets baffled him after the broader boulevards of Eugene, and he felt his tension rise.
This night had to be perfect. His career depended on it. If indeed it went well, and the Tribune hired him—or he went even bigger—then he might be closer to Amaya.