Game of Love

by Ara Grigorian

  She scanned the coast, then rose. 8:30 a.m. was too early for most. Only surfers graced the beaches. She considered holding his hand, but thought better of it. One snap of the camera and that picture would go viral.

  “Remember, we’re in public,” she said.

  “Right. Public. Got it.”

  Andre moved increasingly closer. She eyed him. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Good,” she said, then trained her eyes on the distance.

  He bumped her elbow with his.

  “What was that?”

  “I tripped.”

  They walked a few more steps. He shouldered her, knocking her off her path.

  She spun to him. “Seriously? You’ll regret this when we’re alone.”

  He took a step closer. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  Uncontrollably, she grinned.

  He glanced over his shoulder, watching the ocean. “I love watching surfers,” he said.

  She studied them, noting the few who tried to catch every wave, invariably failing more often than not.

  Andre planted himself on the sand. “Look at that one.” He pointed to one surfer who floated, waiting. “He gets it. He understands.”

  She sat next to him, watching the same surfer. “I think he’s lounging.”

  “He’s patient, waiting for the right one. Not like the others, who’ll try everything that comes their way. But not that guy. He’s not a wave slut.”

  “A what?”

  He grinned then scooted closer, his legs nearly touching hers. “A wave slut. Not any wave will do. But look at him now. He waited for the right one.”

  She watched as the surfer paddled effortlessly. In one swift move, he was up on his board.

  “He’s commanding the board, not the wave, following the wave’s lead. He’s in the moment. Some try to force the wave to be something it’s not. The real surfer knows the wave will do whatever the hell the wave wants to do.”

  “I like that,” she said.

  “When I was a kid, my grandfather took me to a bullfight in Spain. Before you get offended, it’s a cultural thing.”

  “I’m not offended.” How could she be? Spain was her paternal land.

  “My grandfather explained the graceful dance of the matador. The successful matador has tremendous presence on the field, but must exert the least amount of effort. He stands, gracefully awaiting the charging bull. He keeps himself planted like a statue until the last instance, where with the slightest movement on his part, nearly imperceptible, the bull runs past him. They are close enough to smell each other, but far enough that the bull never touches the matador. It requires the greatest amount of concentration, focus, and presence. You have to be comfortable with yourself, and know yourself so well that a charging bull, ten times your weight, won’t even get spit on your shoes. That’s the graceful dance of the matador.”

  “I suppose a good surfer knows how to dance with the wave. While the others are trying to wrestle the bull.”

  “Exactly. They’re fighting the wave, not riding it.”

  A few moments passed. She shifted toward him, eliminating the space between them. His warm legs leaned against hers.

  “By the way,” she said, “just wanted to take back an earlier apology.”

  Andre faced her. “You can’t take back apologies.”

  “I understand the outrage, but if you really aren’t sorry, you can’t just pretend like you are, can you?”

  He seemed to consider the explanation, then peered up at her. “Which apology are you taking back? Not the scorching business I hope.”

  “Oh no, I do feel sorry about that bit. It was when I kissed you at the top of the rock.”

  “Oh.” He grinned. “That one.”

  “The thing is, I’m actually quite proud of that one.”

  He leaned into her ear. “I think that’s some of your best work.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, feeling heat across her entire body.

  “I am hoping for an encore performance, though.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “The day is fairly young. So if you behave yourself–”

  “I don’t think you really want me to behave, do you?”

  She pulled back, studying his eyes. “No, I really don’t.”

  By mid-morning, crowds had filled the beach. Gemma huddled with the ladies under the canopy. Andre talked to Dina and the guys. Just like Linda had a while back, Chris and Dan nodded, then ran off to a truck parked in the lot. A minute later they ran back with some material in hand and started making modifications to the canopy.

  Dina dropped on the towel next to Gemma.

  “What are they doing?” Gemma asked.

  “Creating privacy, to keep the gawkers at bay.”

  In her other world, she had to pay people large sums of money to think ahead. With this group, they thought ahead for her. Andre was doing everything he could to protect her.

  Sandwiches, salads, and drinks occupied the center of their world. Gemma watched this group in wonder. They were completely free and always in action. There was no waiting for something to happen, they just made it happen. In this circle, she felt as unchained as the rest.

  “Who plays the guitar?” Gemma asked, pointing to the guitar case.

  “You’ll have to be loose with your definition of play,” Dina said.

  “Thank you, honey. That’s my wife,” Dan said, reaching for his shoulder blade. “Excuse me while I remove the knife from my back.”

  “Can you play for us?” Gemma asked.

  “I want to state for the record the lady asked me to play.”

  Dan grabbed his guitar then tuned it for a few seconds. She now understood why he was partial to southpaws–he was one himself. “Okay. What do you guys want to hear?”

  “Hotel California.”

  “Something by Chris Isaak.”

  “Anything by the Beatles.”

  “Something from this century, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “If he plays Justin Bieber again, I swear I’ll leave.”

  “Can you play Black Bird by my countrymen?” Gemma asked. “Do you know that one?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Dan strummed a chord for emphasis. “One of my all-time favorites. By the way, when someone requests a song, they have to sing backing vocals. Come over here.” He tapped the blanket next to him.

  “But there are no backing vocals to that song.”

  “Details. Details. Come over here m’lady. You can’t hide in this group.”

  Gemma scooted over, and when the team cheered, she nearly giggled.

  Dan’s fingers maneuvered the fret board with ease and precision while his voice mimicked Paul McCartney’s. Behind the shelter of her sunglasses, Gemma closed her eyes. Memories of the past, the pain, and the threat of tears returned. She sang along, her voice swimming in the canopy. On the last verse, she opened her eyes and eyed Andre. He was in an unblinking daze.

  When the song ended, there was a momentary silence. Then they all erupted, leaping toward her and high-fiving.

  “That was perfect,” Dan said to her.

  Gemma leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  He blushed. “That happens to me all the time,” he said.

  Immediately the gang jeered and threw carrots at him.

  Gemma was beside herself. She could not believe what she had just done. The adrenaline rush was fantastic, but… what had she been thinking? If anyone had recorded her, it would be all over the telly, day and night. People analyzing her voice, making fun of her.

  But when she studied each of them, it was clear they had moved on. What she had done was merely a contribution to the day. She wasn’t the main attraction. The group, the circle, the memories were the main story, not Gemma. She allowed herself to relax as more songs came from Dan’s guitar. A sense of melancholy had joined the tent, though. Maybe it was the selection of songs. She doubted it.

&
nbsp; She leaned over to Andre. “This isn’t just a regular day at the beach, is it?”

  He shook his head. “We’re here to remember a friend who passed away just over a year ago. He was Linda’s fiancé.”

  Gemma’s face froze, and a combination of grief and shame overwhelmed her. She did not belong here. She needed to say something to Linda, to apologize. Instead Andre spoke.

  “Dan, play Empty Space.”

  Silence draped the canopy. Andre held Gemma’s hand. They focused on Dan, who, after a moment’s hesitation, played an airy guitar intro, transporting her somewhere in the heavens. Then he sang:

  Can we walk away, pretending not to see the empty space?

  We don’t give reasons why, the gleaming tears flow gently from our eyes.

  Miss you so, dear friend–fly, to your cloud, dear friend.

  Lamenting what’s too late, we never talk about the tears we cried.

  It comes to us all, we’re bound by the time that keeps us here for a while.

  And I miss you so, dear friend–fly, to your cloud, dear friend.

  When the song ended, Gemma came out of her trance and saw everyone hugging Linda. Red, swollen eyes and wet cheeks reshaped the faces of the clan. She wiped her own tears. Maybe she didn’t belong, but she wanted to.

  Minutes later, after Dan retired the guitar, Gemma watched Dina playing with Haley. Dina was maybe a few years older than Gemma, yet she was married and had a child already. She wondered when she would be able to plan for a family.

  “Hey you, what’s on your mind?” Andre asked.

  She snapped out of it. “Nothing. A bit overwhelmed, I suppose. Also, I think I’ve fallen in love with Haley.”

  “She became more adorable after I became her godfather. This is documented fact.”

  “I’m sure it is. How long have you known Dina?”

  “Since second grade. My first love.”

  Gemma spun to him. “Dina? She’s the one?”

  “Yup, until I was fifteen,” he said, smiling in reflection.

  “What happened?”

  “She and my best friend Dan fell in love.”

  “No, I mean what happened with you two? Did you separate when you went to MIT?”

  Andre turned to Gemma. “Oh no, you misunderstand me. I was in love with her, but she had no clue.”

  Gemma stared at Andre. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  He shrugged. “Too young, too dumb. Then my world turned upside down.”

  Silence. “Sorry for diggin’ up old memories,” Gemma said.

  “Don’t be. All those memories make me who I am and give me what I have today. It may not be a perfect tapestry, but it’s mine. I continue to believe–I have to believe–things will turn out in the end.” He faced her. “It’ll all turn out in the end, right?”

  “Yes.” She put her hand on his. “It always does.”

  “Sports do not build character. They reveal it.”

  ~John Wooden

  y noon, the heavy crowds had confined Gemma beneath the canopy. She watched the gang clear their possessions, and as the items were hauled to the cars, Gemma’s heartbeat raced. She didn’t want to be harassed, but she also didn’t want the day to end. It was ending, though, and little could be done. Probably for the best. Time to go back home and find out why her team had been calling and texting her all day.

  She held Andre’s hand. “I better leave also. I had a great–”

  “Leave? We’re heading over to Dan and Dina’s for a BBQ. Come with us.”

  That sounded nice, so different. She had never been to a proper BBQ. Joining them was like petting a tiger.

  “It’s a brilliant idea,” Dan said in a pitiful British accent. “Admit you want to be with us. The sooner you admit it, the sooner the healing begins.”

  Gemma laughed. “Are all your friends like you?” she asked Andre.

  “How so?”

  “Smartasses.”

  “Sadly, yes. But they’re trying to behave–this being the first time and all.”

  She wondered if this would also be the last.

  “I tell you what, I challenge you to a tennis match,” Andre said.

  “Ooh,” Linda cooed.

  “That’s right. And I guarantee I’ll win. If I lose, I’ll take you back home. But if I win, you stay with us the rest of the day.”

  “And am I allowed to use my arms and legs?” Gemma asked.

  “All of them.”

  “The gauntlet has been dropped,” Dina said.

  “This is going to get ugly,” Chris added.

  “Five bucks Gemma creams him,” Sandy said.

  “Well?” Andre asked, and crossed his arms.

  She studied him, wondering what he was up to. She’d have to find out. “Challenge accepted.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Xavi asked Gemma.

  “Yes. It’s a brilliant idea,” she said, using Dan’s earlier line. “They’ll never see me.” She was in Xavi’s truck, lying flat in the rear king cab section, so when he drove through the crowd outside her home, no one would see her.

  “No, I mean going with these people you just met.”

  “Stop talking. People will see your mouth moving and know someone’s back here.” A few moments passed. “And yes, they are good people.”

  He mumbled something in Spanish. She could hear the crowd now. He must have been passing through them. She remained frozen solid. Then the truck picked up speed. She sat up.

  “There, that’s his car,” she said, pointing to Andre’s car some one-hundred yards away.

  Xavi pulled ahead of Andre’s, then stepped out. “I am not crazy about this,” he said as he opened the rear door. “That is a fast car.”

  “I’ll tell him to drive slowly. He’ll listen to me. He’s a good bloke.”

  “I have memorized his license plate, just in case.”

  She leapt out, gave him a kiss, then ran to Andre’s car. He was waiting, passenger door open. “I told you it would work,” she said.

  “Very cloak and dagger of you.”

  She hopped into the car. “We have to get creative sometimes.” He shut the door and jogged around to his side.

  “The guy who drove you is giving me the eye,” he said as they drove off.

  “Xavi? He’s a puppy. Then again, you could be a mass murderer.”

  “True.”

  “Bugger. I forgot my racquet.”

  “Fret not, m’dear. Racquets will be provided.”

  “Does my racquet include the strings?”

  “Your racquet will be as good as mine.”

  “How in God’s name do you plan to beat me at tennis?”

  “You forget, I’m a genius.”

  “An arrogant one at that.” Her phone rang. She studied it.

  “What do you say if for one day we leave that other world behind?”

  She turned off her phone then dropped it in her bag. “What other world?” She fiddled with the radio, hoping to find some decent music. They came to a red light.

  “I love this song,” he said. The station was playing a Muse song. The same one had been blaring in Johnny’s car when they had the accident in Australia. All those dark memories came at her.

  “Do you mind if I change it?” she asked. She could feel his eyes on her.

  “No, of course not. Something wrong?” he asked.

  She turned off the radio. “That song brought back bad memories from an incident in Australia. It’s sad how a song I used to love now reminds me of bad memories.”

  “It can go the other way too,” he said. “From now on, each time I hear Black Bird, I will remember how you spent the day with me at the beach.”

  He lifted her hand then kissed the inside of her wrist. Butterflies, millions of them, flapped through her fingers and arm. His lips lingered for a moment before placing another peck on her. He laid her hand on his leg, squeezing it. He glanced at her.

  She was trying to focus, trying to control the ur
ge. “That was lovely,” she whispered.

  He slid his hand through her hair to the back of her neck and brought her lips into his. She was addicted to his taste, his scent, his warmth. She could do this forever.

  A car horn blared.

  He pulled back. She wobbled.

  “Damn green light,” he said then accelerated away. He gazed at her. “Are you okay?”

  “Shh,” she said, “give me a moment to control my heart rate.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they reached Venice Beach, thick with crowds.

  “We’re going to play tennis here? I can’t play in a public–”

  “Patience,” he said as they got out of the car.

  “Did you say Dan and Dina live here? This must be expensive.” She slid on a beanie and raised her jacket’s collar.

  “They rent here, and you’re looking at the landlord.”

  “This is yours?”

  “Bought it a year ago and rented it to them. I am robbing them blind though. I make them pay for their own groceries.”

  “Helping the girl who broke your heart? How noble.”

  “Just giving my friends a helping hand. We all could use a little help.” He put his arm around her shoulder and brought her close.

  She breathed in his scent. She felt drunk on how good he smelled and how complete she felt in his arms.

  “Come on,” he said. “I need to whoop your British arse.”

  Gemma was immediately taken by Dina and Dan’s vibrant home. Through the large, vertical windows, sunlight drenched the living area. Mosaic-adorned Spanish tiles paved the floors. Black and white photographs accented the walls. The house was simple, pure, perfect.

  “I got you something,” Linda said to Andre. She handed him a plastic bag.

  He dug in quickly. Gemma could imagine that same look of excitement on a young Andre come Christmas Day.

  He pulled out a black t-shirt. “Ms. Pac-Man? I can’t believe you found it.” He gave Linda a bear hug.

  “I saw it at one of the street vendors here in Venice. I had to grab it.”

  He was thrilled over a five dollar t-shirt. He drove an Aston Martin, yet a t-shirt stole his heart.

  “Ms. Pac-Man? Weren’t you addicted to that game?” Dan asked.