Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  “It’s not exactly a secret.” Bryant eyed her water bottle, and Megan paused, then wiped it on the bottom of her T-shirt before handing it to him.

  “Girl’s germs?” he said in a mocking tone, taking a swig. “It started with Mom. She heard ballet was good for football—that was before basketball. Then the teacher said that I was good—not Fred Astaire good—”

  Megan made a mocking face.

  “—and she needed more guys for the recital. We just had to lift and turn in a circle, not so bad. One thing led to another, and I found out I could get a scholarship if I tried out for some Young Stage Stars group. Badaboom, I’m dancing and singing in the rain. Surprising what you’ll do for money.”

  Megan used her towel to dab her face and neck. “And what else would that include?”

  He thought for a moment. “A summer at a theme park as a Wiggle—”

  “—ouch—”

  “—and being demoted to Dorothy the Dinosaur when a co-worker got heat stroke—I think on purpose.”

  “You danced around in a dino costume?”

  “And sang. To children who pelted me with French fries and cried when I waved at them.” He handed back the bottle. “In 103 degree heat, in a costume with one ventilation flap, for minimum wage.”

  “Mmm. And how was that?”

  “My definition of hell.”

  “And so now,” she said, “do you like dancing?”

  “What does that mean? You think I wear tights on the off-hours or something? Of course I’d rather be playing ball. I just can’t make the same money—no offers.”

  They were basic questions, really, but underneath his relaxed countenance there was an undercurrent of frustration, a tightening of his face. Had she said something wrong?

  “No, I’m just saying, you just don’t seem like a dancer,” said Megan, speaking more candidly than she desired. “The cruise ship—for some reason, it doesn’t seem like your kind of gig.”

  “Oh, this,” said Bryant, shaking his head. “It’s for my family who thinks this is my last chance to . . . well, connect with ‘good Christian up and coming young people.’” There it was again—a lightness but edged with anger. “So what’s your story?”

  Her story. Where did she start? Did she even want to? “Favor to a friend,” she finally said. It was a safe answer. He cocked his head, with an expression that made her feel like he’d x-rayed her soul, like he knew more than he opted to say.

  “And that friend with the favor—is that Jillian, of the Jillian and Derek duo?” he asked.

  “The same.”

  “Looks like you’ll be solo mio, doing a lot of buffet lines, watching a lot of basketball. At least I would be.”

  “Only if it’s the Knicks.”

  “The Knicks?” He shook his head. “Maybe thirty years ago. The only game in town—in any town—is the Lakers, baby.”

  Megan looked incredulous. “The Lakers? Half their players run the court in a walker.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “Seventeen-time NBA champs versus what, two-time wannabes?”

  “Their team is deep this year, and with the new drafts, they’re poised to win and you know it.” She stepped closer to him, hands on her hips.

  “Too early to tell. It’s all predictions until preseason.”

  “But high expectations—and they’ll deliver,” said Megan. He looked down at her, eyes almost laughing again.

  Brittany walked into the theater, toting a costume piece, and Megan instinctively stepped back. That same nervousness washed over her. Quickly, she bent down to grab her things.

  “Well, I better go.” Megan moved, leaving him standing alone. “Promised I’d be somewhere. Thanks for everything.” She crossed the stage with a quick “Hi,” to Brittany who wore a pleasant but familiar piercing expression. After opening the theater door Megan glanced back at Bryant, still standing on the stage watching her, arms folded with that half-smiling arrogant expression on his face. She’d seen that expression before—that knowing look, that sureness. Someone else had smiled at her that way—like he knew her, and how to reach her, and would eventually reach her in the end.

  And that someone had hurt her. A lot.

  Megan slammed the theater door shut and strode down the hallway.

  She would not fall. Not again. Not ever.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Megan pursed her lips in frustration—railroaded by Jillian again. She had planned to arrive right at two o’clock to a dark cinema room but Jillian had found her intentionally hiding out at the small cafeteria rather than the crowded buffet line, and had shepherded her to the movie a half hour early.

  That was meddling Jillian, who didn’t understand that this was a new Megan. It was too soon for her to fraternize with the enemy—way too soon. She would not—repeat not—get anywhere close to caring, especially for one of these Premier Performer types. She’d learned her lesson and things were different now. Much better to spend her time on safe pursuits, like not falling on stage, rather than falling for some guy.

  Entering the small gray room, Megan saw about 30 theater-style seats with over half of them full. Most of the cast and crew—and some others she didn’t recognize—were seated in three and four rows, laughing and talking. Megan looked for a seat farthest from the fray. Jillian tugged her towards Chalise, who was sitting by Brittany and several others on one side, with open seats on the other.

  Thinking of an excuse, Megan allowed herself to be momentarily led. As they closed in on the row, she said, “Um, I’ll just see about popcorn.” A perfect time to bolt.

  “Oh, Bryant went to get some, don’t worry,” said Chalise, pointing to the empty seat next to her, and the rest of the row. It was then Megan saw a man’s jacket.

  Bryant? Megan remembered her feelings slamming the theater door.

  It’s all right. Be cool, be distant. Hostile if necessary.

  Jillian nudged her towards Chalise. “I’m sitting with my handsome man, I just wanted to drop her by.” She pulled a face—“Megan’s being social today.”

  Megan sat down hard. Awkward conversation for the next 30 minutes between Bryant, Brittany Shay, and Chalise—lovely.

  Just as Megan finished small talk hellos with the girls and settled back, Bryant walked in balancing complimentary bags of popcorn and large soda cups. Chad came to his rescue and took some for the row behind them—he was sitting with someone she recognized from the sound crew.

  When Bryant approached their row, he paused, then continued, stepping around Megan as she stood to make room.

  “Sorry, let me lean back here,” she said, scooting back as far as she could. He faced her, side stepping, looking down only inches from her face, squeezing popcorn and soda between them. As he divided the spoils, Megan could have sworn she saw Brittany looking over every few minutes, though it could have been to talk to Chalise, which she did frequently.

  Settling in, Bryant passed Megan popcorn.

  Feeling his body close to her, warm and solid, she decided to jump straight to hostile.

  “I don’t like popcorn,” she said.

  He gave her a look. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  She returned the look.

  “Fine, take this,” he said, handing her a soda cup.

  She took the soda cup, wiped the straw tip with her finger and took a quick sip, trying to ignore his sun on skin smell.

  Why did he affect her so much, make her feel so ready to let down? Megan tried to sort through her own confusion. She kept trying to compare him to Jackson, but he didn’t seem so much like that. Instead, he was so familiar to her in another way …

  Sam. That’s right, he reminded her of Sam. Megan’s eyebrows lifted. That’s all it was. A yearning for home. But she’d never yearned for home, not even at college. She frowned. This didn’t make sense. Well, it didn’t have to, because it wasn’t going to be anything. Like a mantra she repeated to herself: Be cool. Be distant. Nothing personal.

  Bryant
leaned over to Chalise and Brittany, then turned back to her. She tensed.

  “So, heard anything about the movie?”

  “Yes, it has subtitles, so you should be okay,” she said. The sarcasm hung in the air. Megan swallowed. She was not handling this well. Couldn’t the movie start already? Couldn’t he smell like something other than ocean surf? Couldn’t he be ugly?

  Bryant stared steadily at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. He moved the soda straw toward himself, briefly touching her fingers in the exchange, then obviously wiped the top and sipped. It was a mimicking gesture. She got it and couldn’t help a small grin. His laughing eyes knew she got it, which only irritated her more. They’d barely talked and now they were sharing private silent jokes?

  Not going to happen, she reminded herself. Refusing to give him any other satisfaction, she stared defiantly at the blank movie screen.

  Chad leaned forward in his seat. “I think it’s a movie about these two people who like each other but can’t get along, so they move farther and farther away, only to end up at the same place.”

  “It’s a knock-off,” said Megan. “Sounds like The Great Divorce.”

  “The what?” said Chad. “I haven’t seen that one.”

  “It’s not a movie,” said Bryant, “it’s a book. C.S. Lewis. The bus scene, right?” He turned to Megan.

  She tried not to look impressed. “Did you read that on SparkNotes?”

  “Actually, I read it all the way through, sounding out the big words.”

  A laugh escaped her, she couldn’t help it. He just smiled as she took a few kernels of popcorn to cover her momentary lapse.

  Leaning in closely, he half-whispered, “So, what’s with the hostilities?”

  His breath tickled her neck. She fought to ignore it. “Hostilities? I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is basic conversation.”

  He shook his head. “No, this is enemy territory. It’s like talking with the Berlin Wall.”

  “The Berlin Wall? You do know it came down a few years ago?”

  “Yeah, somehow you didn’t get the memo.” He offered the popcorn bag.

  Yes, definitely like Sam. Pressing her lips to stifle another laugh, she reached over and scooped more kernels as a distraction. Their fingers touched momentarily again and she instinctively moved them away.

  Be cool. He’s just a cast member, Megan told herself. Talk normally. “Okay, I have a non-hostile question for you,” she said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Why the letter ‘t’ at the end?”

  “Of what?”

  “Your name. Why not stick with Bryan?” She seriously wanted to know.

  He paused, chewing and thinking. “Actually, in all my 27 years, no one has ever asked me that.”

  Twenty-seven? He was 27 years old? What was he still doing singing on a cruise ship? Loud warning sounds blared in the back of her mind. Not your type. Be distant. Run.

  “And exactly who do you hang out with?” she said.

  “College jocks. Community Ed rejects. Power tripping construction workers.”

  “Well, that explains it. What did you major in, He-Man Welding?”

  “No, Berlin—Mechanical Engineering. With a minor in Rec Management.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that’s not a real minor. That’s for people who can’t do fractions, who live to river run until they die—I mean literally raft until they keel over into the river.”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard it described that way.” He settled farther down into the seat, his round muscular shoulder pressing against her smaller one. “So, Madame Curie, what’s your major—Nuclear Physics?”

  “Psychology,” she said. What was she doing? Way too personal. Keep it distant. Rude. Sarcastic. Fight!

  “And that is a real major?” he said. “It’s the quickest degree you can get.”

  “It wasn’t my first choice, but some of us have to put ourselves through school.”

  “I know how that goes,” he said.

  Surprised, Megan took that in. Beautiful surfer boy had to work to go to school? Softened momentarily by what it implied, she added, “I’d actually thought to go into law. But I don’t like the industry. Then I considered counseling, but I work at a temp agency, which is a lot like counseling. You get tired of hearing people whine. You just want to tell them to suck it up and go to work.”

  “You’re right. Counseling is not for you.” He shook the bag for her. “And now, what are your plans?”

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly.

  Warning! Warning! Too close!

  “Hypocrite. Here you seem all put together and you’re not.”

  “So sue me.” She looked at him. Putting a popcorn piece to her mouth, she stopped. Crackling. His blue eyes conducted an actual energy she could feel, sparking like a bright blue fire.

  From her peripheral view, Megan saw Brittany lean forward—ostensibly to get something from her purse—and glance their way. Reflexively, Megan stuffed the entire handful of popcorn in her mouth then shoved both hands in her lap. She did not want anyone getting the wrong idea.

  Someone asked Bryant a question from the row in front and he leaned forward. She tried not to notice the details; the ripple of his Polo shirt when he moved; the broadness of his shoulders, the profile of his forehead down to his jaw.

  The room went dark and the opening trailer began. “Man, these bags are small. More popcorn, anyone?” said Bryant as he stood up.

  Turning, his foot caught in Megan’s purse loop and he almost went down, saving himself by putting both hands on either side of Megan’s seat, but with the rest of his popcorn landing squarely in her lap.

  “Oh, sorry about that—” but he was trying not to laugh as he said it, his face only inches from hers in the movie light. Trying to move, he stepped on her open toes.

  “Ouch!” said Megan, trying to move and only getting closer to his face.

  The row behind him called out—“Yo, get down,” and, “Get a room, this is the good part.”

  “It’s the credits, give me a break,” said Bryant. In the dark he whispered, “Sorry, Megan.”

  Hearing him speak her name—unreasonably, a string of goose bumps flashed up her spine. She shook her head to clear her mind, which he took differently and apologized again, finally extricating himself from the situation.

  Foregoing the extra popcorn, he sat down and let it be, although she heard him chuckle a few minutes later, which seemed to have nothing to do with the movie.

  Round One Bryant. Megan set her lips in a tight line. This was not how things were to go. She was here to work, to focus, to heal. Not to think about blond men with laughing, sparking blue eyes. That was it. Rein it in. Refocus.

  Round Two would be hers.

  ***

  In the early morning sunlight, Megan glanced from side to side, double checked she was alone, and opened the metal pool house door. A smile stole across her face. She had outwitted him.

  Since the Cinema Fiasco yesterday, she had purposely made herself scarce. Or tried to, except that Bryant seemed to be everywhere.

  After rehearsal she had hurried off to nowhere in particular, ending up at a gift shop and admiring a beautiful swimsuit. Funny that she’d even noticed it, she hadn’t bought something new in a while. The colors had drawn her—a mix of soft peach, hot pink, and fresh white—and the cut was modest but pretty, like something she used to wear. A long time ago.

  As Megan had held it, debating the ridiculous price but duty-free benefit, Bryant materialized on the other side of the rack. For some reason she had turned a bright pink and quickly headed to the cash register without looking back. Was it just a coincidence he was there? But if it wasn’t, why would he be seeking her out? It wasn’t like she was encouraging him. Because she didn’t want to encourage him.

  Right?

  Megan had spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to look for him, when she realized she was doing it again. Falling into
the same trap, leaping before she looked, just because someone seemed so nice. No, the safe thing to do was to stay distant, disconnected, not opening any emotional door in the slightest.

  Then yesterday evening while the rest of the cast enjoyed a pool party, she’d opted to jog on the indoor treadmills. Engrossed in her book, she hadn’t even noticed who was running on the machine next to her until she smelled an ocean and sand scent and looked up. There he was, smiling that smile—confident, almost arrogant. Like he knew her, knew her feelings, her struggle to act one way but that she felt another. For just a moment looking at him and his sharp blue eyes, she had felt raw, exposed. How did he do that? Afraid he had seen too much, she punched the stop button, grabbed her book and towel, and walked away.

  Megan had run Emergency Exit stairs to work off the frustration. How did he know her like that when she tried so hard to stay detached? Why wouldn’t he let her be—let her curl up and be alone? Yet at the same time something inside her yearned for him, his solidness, his openness. Then just as real came the fear, the out of control feeling that she would lose herself again. Her heart had already begun the Yo-Yo cycle of interested/not interested.

  Without warning, Jackson’s smiling face flashed through her mind. She’d felt the same way at the start, that compulsive pull toward him. And it had begun innocently enough, too. He’d pursued her but not in a pushy way. All along he’d made it easy and before she knew what was happening they were a couple, and her mom was hinting wedding bells at the Tuesday ladies’ lunch.

  Megan frowned. Jackson had made her believe it was love. But it had been like getting the measles when you were older, and it had hit her hard. The game had been so natural to him, one that he played well, and enjoyed. She, on the other hand, had to fight for every bit of understanding her emotions, avoiding them since her parents’ divorce. And now she was paying the price.

  But this time, she was smarter, right? She did have more control. And she would not be pulled in to another possible Jackson.

  This morning, she had decided to change it up altogether, to be her bold self and swim. But early. Opening night was tonight and she was anxious to be well-rested for it. And she would avoid Bryant, especially in swimwear.