Bittersweet

by Domingo, Sareeta

  “Where did you get this car anyhow?” I ask, pulling on my seat belt and feeling an entirely inappropriate buzz as the engine roars to life, vibrating the leather seat underneath me. Greg turns to me and revs the engine again before we pull off, grinning as though he’s aware of the effect it’s having on me.

  “Well, there are perks to playing Ethan Scott, one of which is that he drives a pretty awesome but totally unlikely vehicle. Production let me swipe it for the day.”

  I nod appreciatively. “Nice.”

  He reaches over and pulls an old-school map out of the glove box, hands it to me, and taps it. I see a spot circled on it that looks to be about a three-hour drive from Dogwood. “You’re going to navigate,” he says. “You’re up to that, right?” He checks his mirror for traffic and then pulls out.

  I scoff. “What is that, some kind of cliché about women not being able to read a map?”

  He glances at me and then returns his eyes to the road. “No. I have every faith in you, Cathy.” He lifts his hand off the gear stick and rests it on my naked knee. “I meant, you’re sure you’ll be able to concentrate?” He edges his hand further up my thigh, and I’m both glad and sorry that I didn’t wear a skirt for further … access.

  “Hey, focus on the road, frisky,” I say, trying to keep the needy tremor out of my voice. “So where are you taking me anyway?” I try and get a clue from the circled destination on the map, but it’s a small town unfamiliar to me, just over the border in North Carolina.

  “Well now, if I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it,” Greg retorts.

  I shift in my seat and a few minutes later point out the exit onto the highway heading south. When we get onto it, the wind begins to whip through my hair, and Greg turns to me and grins as I brush my eggplant-colored locks out of my face and reach into my purse, attempting to find something to put it back in a ponytail. No luck.

  “Not sure I’m all that into surprises,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind. I tell myself to try and relax, but he’s not the only one who doesn’t like not to be in control.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks, turning briefly to me and looking over his sunglasses again like he really needs to know. I reach over and run a hand up his arm as it stretches out to the steering wheel, feeling the contours of his muscles contract.

  “Yes. I trust you.”

  He looks back at the road without saying anything else, and I wonder if I’m imagining a slight look of worry crossing his face as he does.

  “OK then,” he calls back, and we’re silent for a while, until I see the next exit and we head off the highway and onto a quieter, more winding open road. The noise is less deafening now, and Greg reaches over and clicks on the radio. Motown begins to blare tinnily from the old speaker system and he gives a self-satisfied grin.

  “You like this station, right? I seem to recall getting serenaded when you were ogling me in the parking lot that time.”

  I pull a face, but can’t help chuckling. “I wasn’t ogling you.”

  “Uh huh. I know how you’re just all about objectification.”

  As I study his handsome, smiling profile it’s kind of hard to disagree, though there’s more to what I like about Greg Moran. A lot more… He starts singing along to the radio, and I’m actually surprised at how good a voice he has. Guess you have to be OK at singing to be a theater kid. He glances over at me encouragingly, and I laugh again and join in, getting so into our little Marvin-and-Tammy duet that I almost miss our next turn. We’re both in such a good mood that it’s hard to believe our awkward period ever happened.

  We see a gas station up ahead, and Greg suggests we pull in and get some drinks and top off the gas. I get out as he fills up the tank, and stretch my legs, heading into the little store attached to it to browse the shelves. I pick up some gum and a cream soda, then hear the bell go over the door again as Greg comes in and takes off his sunglasses. When he spots me, the most beautiful smile breaks out on his face, making me blush. I’m starting to feel sort of giddy, and I think it’s because, for the first time in a long time, I’m not worried. I’m just happy.

  Greg comes over to me, looks in the fridge and picks out a bottle of Coke, then takes our stuff to the register to pay for it along with the gas. I follow, and can’t help nestling in beside him as he pays the bearded guy ringing us up. He smiles down at me and kisses the top of my head, chuckling at the no-doubt crazy state of my hair.

  “Don’t forget this,” I say, picking up his cell, which he’s left resting on the counter so he could pull his wallet out. I jump as it starts to buzz in my hand—and my eyes widen as Greg suddenly reaches over to snatch it out of my hand.

  The action is so swift, almost angry, that the snuggly, mellow feeling of a few seconds ago is instantly gone. He looks down at the screen and his shoulders visibly tense and then slump again. I had caught the caller ID—Quentin Carter. Greg’s eyes look apologetic, but he turns away from me and answers quickly.

  “Q, hi,” he says, sounding businesslike. The bearded guy behind the counter is holding out change in his hand, looking irritated, and I take it from him and walk past Greg, pushing back through the door with the bell jangling loudly. As I walk over to the car, I hear Greg telling Quentin Carter, “Listen, now’s not a good time— I don’t know why she’d assume that… It’s fine, Q, she knows we work well on screen. I’m fairly certain she’s not going to do anything to jeopardize that. Jesus, the woman is nothing if not career-oriented…”

  I open my cream soda but it suddenly tastes bitter on my tongue. I guess he must be talking about Bethany. Again, she has to get in the way. The jumpy way he snatched the phone makes me think he thought it was “B” calling now. Maybe I’m kidding myself to think he was being honest about how deeply the two of them were involved.

  As I hear the store’s door open again and Greg comes out, I get back into the Corvette and clump the door shut, trying and failing not to seem too sulky.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, getting in and turning to look at me. “It was my agent. God knows why he’s fielding work calls on the holiday weekend, but… I’m sorry.” He’s frowning, and I can see his jaw clench as he fumbles to put the key in the ignition, but I reach over and still his hand before he turns it.

  “Greg—was that about Bethany? I hate to sound like a paranoid girlf— Um, I mean… I just don’t want you to jump every time the phone rings, worrying it’s her. If you two were, like, together together, it’s cool. I meant what I said. I trust you. You’re with me, and we’re here just in the moment, right? So if—” I stop as he leans over and brushes his fingertips over my lips, but then he sighs, looking down in his lap.

  “It’s not Bethany I was worried about calling.” He swallows nervously. “I… I thought it might be—” He stops and lets out a weird, low—and yes, kind of sexy—growl. “This isn’t what today is about.” He looks at his watch and starts the engine, shaking his head. I don’t stop him, even though I know my expression is sort of confused. He doesn’t pull away yet, but turns back to me, his eyes searching mine. “You’re right. We need to focus on the moment. Today is about you, not any of my shit. I promise you, this is the only thing I want to think about. Being with you. Here, now.” His hands leave the steering wheel as the engine rumbles, waiting to be gunned, and he reaches over for mine, entwining his fingers between my own, leaning in and kissing me deeply. As he moves away, he has his little furrow between his brows. “I’m not going to let anything ruin it.” He says it almost to himself.

  As we drive out of the gas station and back out onto the road, he still seems preoccupied, and I reach over and rub the back of his neck, feeling a little hot as he groans softly while I massage the muscles there.

  “You all right?” I ask quietly. “Was everything else OK with your agent?” I can’t help feeling that again we’ve slipped from happy-go-lucky to dark and preoccupied, and it’s almost frightening how much I want to
comfort him, to tell him it will all be OK, even though I’m not sure myself that it really will be.

  “Yeah,” he says, but drawing out the word as though he’s not quite certain. He’s quiet for a moment. “You know, with Bethany… She requested me personally,” he says, and my hand stills. “She wanted me to play the part of Ethan because she saw me in a play and I guess she liked the look of me or whatever. We had dinner in New York, then I screwed up my courage to get the flight to LA for another audition with her.” He turns his head a little and I see a wry smile on his lips. “I didn’t think I’d get it but she basically wouldn’t let the producers choose anyone else. Lucky they liked me too, in the end. But since she thinks she’s responsible for getting me the role, she’s kind of a little … proprietary.” He presses his mouth into a line like he tastes something sour. “I just have to be careful, because she’s one of the ‘names’ on the show. If things get fucked up between us, it won’t be her ass they fire, you know what I mean? And the team behind the show like the idea of the two of us together, of course, because they think the viewers will be into it, once it airs. But a show-mance just isn’t my thing.” He shakes his head, and my fingers creep back onto his neck. He exhales a long breath, turns his head a little toward me, glancing away from the road. “You are.”

  I bite my lip to keep from grinning. I’m really glad he explained a bit more about Bethany, and I feel like an idiot for making a big deal of it—to him, and in my head. I lean over and kiss him, and he chuckles against my lips. “Hey, frisky, I’ve got to focus on the road, remember?” he says. “We must be almost there.”

  I pull back reluctantly and check the map, seeing us pass the town sign for a place called Colby, which is the one he’s circled on the map. He slows down as we drive along the main street, and I take in the cute little town—it’s even more quaint than Dogwood. Greg looks around and then finally pulls up in front of a small wooden building that has a sign that says Trattoria Trapani. He jumps out of the car, grinning at me, and comes over to open up my door just as I’m about to get out.

  As we walk up to the steps, a buxom older woman appears at the vine-arched door to greet us.

  “Hey, y’all. You must be Isabella’s boy?” she says with a vague hint of an Italian accent mingling somewhat confusingly with a North Carolina drawl.

  “That’s right. Ana?” Greg says, walking up to the woman and kissing her on both cheeks. “My mom told me a lot about you. This is Cathy.”

  The woman beams and reaches out her arms to me, planting an enthusiastic smacker on each of my cheeks as well. “So glad you could make it to our little restaurant,” she says, beaming. She bustles inside and leads us between the tables populated with a few senior citizens and out to a courtyard garden furnished with small, white metal tables and pockets of purple irises. It’s really pretty. The woman Greg called Ana takes us over to a shaded table in one secluded corner and seats us with a wink. “Your mama told me you’re going to be a big famous TV star, huh?” she says to Greg, who visibly blushes.

  “Something like that,” he murmurs.

  “Sit tight, I’ll go get you some water, and we just got this beautiful new rosé—just a splash for the driver though, uh?” She chuckles and heads away again, leaving me smiling in wonder as Greg grins back at me.

  “This place is… Wow,” I breathe, taking in the quiet garden surroundings.

  He looks down at the table a little bashfully. “Well, I know you like Sicilian,” he says, and then takes his sunglasses off and folds them on the table, looking back at me with a twinkle in his eye.

  I lean a little closer to him. “Yes … yes I do.” I spring away just as I’d begun to brush Greg’s lips with mine, as Ana arrives back with some cold rosé wine and iced water, and a plate of arancini.

  “Just to get your appetite going,” she says over her shoulder with a smile.

  I take a bite and my eyes widen with delight. Greg nods appreciatively as he tastes one too, but I can’t help chuckling. “If Maxi were here right now, she would definitely be making a joke about me having balls in my mouth,” I say.

  Greg laughs, and he shakes his head. “Not even going to touch that one.”

  I take a sip of the crisp, cold wine, and then tilt my head and rest my chin on my hand as we finish up the plate of food. “So how about you? Have you got a bunch of theater buddies talking about you in jealous tones back in Brooklyn?”

  His eyes dart away from mine, the mirth seeming to drain from them as he takes a large gulp of water. “Uh… I’m not much of a social whirlwind these days.” He takes a breath. “It’s cool that you and Maxi are so close though. When did you guys meet?”

  I try not to notice how he’s deflected the question about his friends back onto me, mainly because we’ve had enough ups and downs for an entire relationship in the space of a couple weeks, and I don’t want to do anything to dislodge this warm feeling that’s just returned, and ruin the delicious meal. I tell Greg about how Maxi and I met by fighting over a dump truck in first grade, the only weird girls to even want that toy, and that we’ve been joined at the hip ever since. “I can’t imagine my life without her. I know she can be kind of a hard-ass, but there’s nobody else I’d rather have in my corner. God, all through the stuff with my mom, with Joe getting sick, through, um, Jeff. All of that. She’s just a little overprotective sometimes. Like the big bro I never had,” I finish with a laugh.

  Greg chuckles too. “Little-big-bro,” he says, then leans back in his chair. “That’s great. You know, I’m sure the feeling is mutual for her. It’s nice, seeing you guys together, seeing how you … have each other’s back.” He glances down at the tabletop. “Friendship is important.” He looks back up at me. “And your family too. I can see how much they mean to you. You get a good sense of a person from seeing them around the folks that mean the most to them. And seeing how they are with that person.”

  I tilt my head to one side, wondering what he’s like with his family. I have a feeling it’s not all peachy keen, especially with his father. Maybe that’s why Greg can be so guarded sometimes. I reach for his hand again and smile. “Well, it sounds like your mom is super proud—her excitement seems to have reached all the way to the Tar Heel State, huh?”

  Greg raises his eyebrows. “The … Tar Heel State? Really?”

  “Saw it on a billboard when we drove across the state line,” I say, laughing.

  He shakes his head at me, grinning back. “Anyway… Yeah, my mother is really into her daytime soaps so she loves all this. I’m sure she’d rather I was on General Hospital or whatever, but she’ll take a prime-time teen drama at a push.” We both chuckle. “She just wants us all to be happy. She worries a lot, you know? Me and my brothers… She had those rosary beads out a lot, let’s just put it that way,” he says with a wry smile.

  I squint, and I can almost picture him again as that excitable, emotional kid that grew into a reserved young adult. I weave my fingers in between his and squeeze, and he raises my knuckles to his lips for a kiss, just as Ana brings out the next course.

  Greg and I fall silent as we savor the stupidly good, amazingly simple truffle pasta, and even though I’m almost full to the brim already, when Ana brings out a secondi of swordfish, I nearly manage to eat the whole thing.

  “Oh my god,” I say as she trundles away again. “Mercy! I think you’ll have to carry me back to the car.”

  “So it was worth the trip?” Greg asks, reaching over and running his fingertips up my arm, leaving trails of tingles.

  “Yes,” I say quietly, studying the contours of his face in the shade of the garden. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  Greg takes my hand again and I look down at our interlaced fingers, smiling. “You’re welcome. I thought maybe it could give you some more ideas for JJ’s.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, it’s given me plenty of ideas, but I wonder if Joe’s ever going to let me put any of them into place, you know?”

  Greg leans back in his cha
ir, pulling my hand onto his leg like he doesn’t want to let go of it. “Well, JJ’s is his baby. Maybe if you had your own place—”

  I scoff, and shake my head. “No, no. JJ’s is our family restaurant. I’m a Johnson. It’s … it’s where I should be.”

  “It could be that’s why Joe doesn’t let you really get your feet under the desk though. Like you said, he doesn’t want to hold you back.”

  I slowly unfurl my hand from his and reach over for my wine. “So, what, you think I should open up a place in New York, franchise JJ’s over there?” I’m smiling, but underneath it is a tiny seed of worry, beginning to grow with each new feeling I have for Greg. What if he has to leave Dogwood? I thought it right from the beginning—he’s not going to stay there forever. It’s not exactly the hub of the entertainment industry.

  Greg seems about to answer me when Ana strides back out and sets two bowls down with a final flourish.

  “Granita!” she announces. “My specialty.”

  Greg clutches his toned stomach. “I don’t know if I can—” he begins, but Ana shakes her head vigorously.

  “Come on, try just a little bit, for me—both of you!”

  She practically stands over us while we try it, and it’s worth it—icy and tangy, it’s the perfect end to the meal and something I’m definitely going to try and persuade Joe to let me sneak onto the menu at JJ’s.

  By the time Greg and I have chatted to Ana and thanked her for the delicious meal, the sun is lower in the sky, and further out to the east I notice a storm threatening to roll in. We head back over to the Corvette, and I raise my eyebrows and fold my arms, nodding toward the darkening clouds.

  “Hope you know how to put the top up on this thing,” I say. Greg bites his lip and shrugs, frowning at the latches and levers. “Huh. Well then, we better drive fast,” I say, chuckling.

  We get in and I lean over to Greg. “Oh, but just one second,” I murmur, and pull him in for a kiss. His eyes are still closed when I pull back, and he opens them and blinks those baby blues at me, then drags his gaze away to put the key in the ignition. The engine sputters, chokes, then stops. He tries again. Nothing. We both turn to each other again, and my eyes widen.