by Jo Watson
I reflected on some of the answers I’d lavished on her over the years. You see, I’d had the foresight to kidnap one of my mother’s theater books, Acting for Theater: The Joy of the Fourth Wall and used it as a reference. This had furnished me with the following answers:
“Mmmmm, wow, you really took that character off the paper and reassembled her with a profound* three-dimensional depth.”
or
“Mmmmm, wow, I thought the use of kitchen sink staging techniques really highlighted the fullness of your character and her profound* complexities.”
*Note: I use the word profound a lot, because it is the word du jour with the theater ilk.
As usual, Stormy’s play confounded me. She rolled on the stage, cried out for her mother, and bathed in a tub of green water. But what was different about that night was that I happened to be sitting next to the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen.
Michael was good-looking, no doubt about it. He was tall, muscular, and blond with blue eyes and an incredible smile, which was something I’d been looking forward to seeing while walking down the aisle. He ticked all my requisite aesthetic requirements and then some. Although right now, I wished Michael looked more like a short, fat, hairy hobbit with leprosy and a limp so he’d never be able to find another girlfriend again and would die a sad, lonely, and pathetic death in a damp sewer somewhere.
The attraction between us had been instant and mutual, and we’d found ourselves stealing glances at each other throughout the play. During the second half, when he turned to me and whispered, “What the hell is going on?” I knew I wanted to get to know him better.
We went for coffee after the play and worked out that his brother was the graphic designer who’d made the poster for A Mother’s Jealous Tears—obviously the reason for the green water—and that he’d been given a free ticket and felt obliged to go. During our initial conversation, we established that he was a computer systems analyst (very professional), his family belonged to a country club (very respectable), he owned his own house (very upwardly mobile), and we enjoyed several of the same hobbies, TV shows, music, and movies. We also seemed to have the same ideals: He also wanted marriage and kids and dogs and a big house.
He was perfect. He crossed all my t’s and dotted the i’s. It was even better when everyone said they liked him. So when he’d started playing golf with my dad and my brothers, I knew I was in love.
And Michael said he felt the same way, too.
The funny thing, though, the thing I can’t wrap my head around, is that our relationship had been perfect. We never fought, conversation was always easy, and we fell into a predictable, comfortable daily routine. So what had happened?
I’d played our entire relationship over in my mind, looking for the telltale signs of dissatisfaction. But I couldn’t find any. Unless I was missing something? Stormy-Rain had said something to me once that was suddenly reverberating in my ears. “You know, if a guy’s not getting it regularly, he’s going to go looking for it somewhere else!”
My blood ran cold. He was a red-blooded male after all, and one who could probably get sex a million times a day with a million different women. Hot, thin women. God, my mind was spinning. My thoughts were going haywire, and once again I was overcome with an urge to phone him. I needed to speak to him.
I reached for my phone and realized it was off. I suspected that my friends and family were panicking by now and had probably sent out search and rescue helicopters and sniffer dogs, so I dropped them all a reassuring message.
And then I logged on to Facebook, went straight to his page, and scanned. Nothing.
Twitter. Nothing.
Instagram. Nothing.
I dialed his number and it immediately went to voice mail, and hearing his voice made me feel sick.
My heart started pounding and I broke into a cold sweat. Panic washed over me in waves.
I dialed again. Voice mail.
I dialed again. Voice mail.
Again. Voice mail.
Should I leave a message? But what would I say?
“Hey Michael, it’s me, Lilly. I was just calling to ask why the fuck you left me at the altar you bastard asshole jerk-face. Anyway, chat soon, bye.”
I was relieved when I heard a knock at the door, and I decided to take it as a sign that I should leave well enough alone. I was still wet from my bath and opened the door in my towel, just as Damian was coming up the stairs.
“Good evening.” A man in a black suit greeted us both. “Your dinner is ready.”
“What dinner?”
“The romantic dinner on the beach that Mr. Edwards”—he turned and looked at Damian now—“that Mr. Edwards organized for your wedding night.”
“That sounds great, I’m starving,” Damian said.
“No, I don’t think so!” My tone was fierce, and the man in the suit looked surprised.
“But it’s all arranged, and it’s very beautiful.”
“No thanks,” I quickly said.
Damian jumped in; he was making a habit of that. “Would you mind giving us five minutes?”
The man in the suit left and Damian stepped forward.
“But aren’t you hungry?” he asked.
“I am but…” The very mention of the word food made my stomach growl and my mouth water.
“It’s not like I’m going to play footsie with you under the table or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
God, I was torn! I was starving, but the idea of a romantic dinner with Damian on the beach, well, that was just weird. I started mentally making a list of pros and cons, but my stomach wasn’t having it. It needed food. Oh, what the hell, I guess. Besides, maybe I could get someone to take a picture of us and post it on Instagram with a soft-focus romantic filter and make Michael jealous.
“Okay, give me a minute to get ready.”
* * *
There’ve been a few moments in my life when I’ve been overwhelmed by something so beautiful that it literally took my breath away. Like when I tried on my wedding dress for the first time or met my baby niece for the first time. And right now was one of those moments. Looking around, I could see that this location had been carefully planned, manipulated, and manufactured for optimal romance.
“One hundred percent romance guaranteed or your money back.”
The actual setting was magnificent: The dinner was laid out on a table for two on a sandy embankment. You had to walk through warm, ankle-deep water to get there. In the middle of the embankment, in the middle of a heart made of candles placed on the sand, was a tentlike structure. It was open on all sides and draped with thin white curtains that were waving rhythmically in the warm breeze. The small table was scattered with pink flowers and more candles and was flanked by two chairs also draped in white fabric. All in all, it was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen.
It was stunning, and the feelings that it evoked in me were very overpowering; it simultaneously stole my breath away and reached deep inside and tickled every one of my senses. It really was…it was…well, it’s really hard to describe, I don’t even think I have the adjectives to do it justice. In fact, feel free to insert them yourself.
It looked like a (insert adjective).
It made me feel like (insert adverb).
Etc.
I hope I’ve painted this picture accurately enough, because it’s important for you to visualize it correctly in order to understand why my next reaction was so surprising. Because despite its manifold beauty described by the endless bounty of adjectives, all I could do was look at it all and laugh.
And, oh, how I laughed. I laughed like a cackle of hyenas.
My shoulders shuddered as I struggled to get enough air into my lungs, gasping in between the shrieks. This was not a normal laughter, either—this was hysteria. And I wasn’t able to stop it. In fact, the more I tried to control it, the worse it got. The laughter escalated until I had tears rolling down my face and was whimpering—at some stage
, I think I heard myself snort. My ribs hurt, my stomach and my mouth hurt. I looked up at Damian—expecting him to be backing away from me with a look of terror on his face, clutching a fork in case he needed to stab and subdue me—but he wasn’t. He was smiling at me.
“It’s so, so, so romantic,” I spluttered in between the crazed laughter. “It’s the most romantic thing I’ve even seen and this has officially been the most unromantic day of my entire life. The irony.” I grabbed my stomach—it was hurting so badly.
Someone behind us cleared his throat and Damian and I turned to find the waiter staring at us. He looked frightened. This set Damian off, and soon we were both laughing.
There’s that corny saying about laughter being the best medicine. But it really is, because when our laughter had finally tapered off, I felt better than I’d felt in days! A momentary lightness settled in, providing me with some much-needed relief.
We sat down at our little table for two, and I pulled the menu toward me, excited by the prospect of real food and the decision I’d made to no longer watch what I ate. Getting fat was the least of my worries. But after reading the menu several times, it soon became clear to me that I had absolutely no idea what they were trying to serve us.
The menu claimed the dishes were “an adventure in molecular gastronomy,” and the kinds of foods listed included seared scallop ravioli on a bed of deconstructed salad with balsamic pearls sprinkled with truffle ashes. Ashes? I kept reading and the word deconstructed appeared three more times, along with other confusing phrases such as sweet and sour pineapple veal, ginger bubbles, and edible sea stones.
“Um…” I looked up at Damian, hoping he was feeling the same way and that I wasn’t just some uncultured slob with no appreciation for the art of modern cuisine.
“Is it me or is this a little…” I was searching for the words.
“Disdainfully avant-garde, a pretentious wank!”
“Wow, you don’t pull any punches.”
“Well, I have very strong feelings about this type of food.” His face was totally serious when he said this.
“Pray tell.” I was intrigued again.
“Well, my parents love this kind of cooking. It’s expensive and denotes good taste and culture, you see.” He said this last part in a very posh-sounding accent, which made me laugh. “We once went to this restaurant in France where they actually served crab ice cream.”
“No they didn’t.”
“It’s true, you can Google it,” he challenged.
I pulled my phone out and typed the words into the search bar. The signal was slow, but I finally found what I was looking for. I read a few lines and recoiled. “Not just that, but I see it also serves bacon-and-egg ice cream.” What did we do before we had the ability to access information instantly?
“It was disgusting,” he added. “But it was very, very expensive.”
I looked up and we smiled at each other and our eyes locked for a few seconds. The strangest feeling rushed through me; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, and as I was trying to, Damian broke eye contact.
“Hi.” He waved his arm in the direction of the waiter. “Hi, please can we have your other menu?”
“I beg your pardon.” The confused waiter looked at him blankly.
“You know, the one with the normal food on it.”
I tried to hide my snicker. I certainly didn’t want to offend anyone.
But still the waiter gave him a blank look.
So he tried again. “Let me put it this way. Can I get a hamburger with fries and, Lilly, what do you want?”
“The same, thanks.”
The waiter, although thrown, smiled cordially and walked off, splashing through the water as he went and finally disappearing over the beach and into the hotel.
And then I realized we were totally, I mean totally, alone.
In the most romantic place in the world.
Oh, did I mention we were totally alone and that it was ridiculously romantic?
I shuffled in my seat a bit. We exchanged a few awkward smiles, drank a bit of champagne, and moved our napkins around on the table a lot. At one stage I picked up a flower and smelled it…
And then…
Something terrible happened…
Chapter Six
I’ve only ever regretted wearing two outfits in my entire life, but I have legitimate excuses for both.
Like most, my teenage years were a confusing time. Made even more confusing by the fashion choices of the day. The mid-2000s boasted two very conflicting looks, making confused teenagers, with confused self-identities, confused hormones and low self-esteems, even more confused.
It was all very traumatic for us. We just didn’t know where we fit in.
So one night, we experimented with our darker, emo-esque sides; we put so much makeup on that we transformed our eyes into black pits of hell. We donned our Converse sneakers, worn in of course to look old, and some baggy camo shorts held up with studded belts. We hadn’t washed or brushed our hair for at least five days to give us that I just don’t care tussled look, and for the most important touch, I borrowed some of my dad’s ties to hang around our necks for absolutely no reason whatsoever. We put on our most angry rebellion faces and all went to Jessica’s party.
There’d been a lot of head banging that night, as well as bumping into one another on the dance floor (i.e., Jessica’s parents’ living room). We all acted very angry and pretended we knew how to skateboard and smoked cigarettes so the boys would think we were cool. But the next day we woke up with bruises from the bashing, sore necks from the banging, and dry throats from the smoking. We concluded that this was not a good look for us.
A couple of weeks later it was Phillip’s party, and Annie made us some bright, color-coded outfits. We wore the biggest fake diamanté hoop earrings we could find, oversized shades—even though it was dark—and lip gloss that shined so much it could be seen from space.
But after a night of too many energy drinks and a doof, doof, doof, doof, doof hip-hop base that reverberated so hard it made Phillip’s mother’s ornaments vibrate on the shelves, we decided that we would leave that look for Destiny’s Child and J. Lo.
But that regret was nothing compared to this one…
There was nothing aesthetically wrong with the outfit I was wearing tonight; rather, it was more of a practical issue. It was a stunning white vintage, knee-length dress with delicate lace detailing. The neckline tied together with beautiful cream ribbons that hung just below my bust.
And who could have predicted what happened next?
A warm gust of wind suddenly came out of nowhere, knocking several candles over. One went flying into my lap, instantly burning a little hole in the fabric. But that wasn’t the problem. The real problem was that the beautiful cream ribbons around the neckline caught fire. Who knew ribbons were so damn flammable?
I was on fire!
I jumped up and started swatting myself frantically. The look on Damian’s face was pure horror, and I’ve never seen anyone get out of his seat so quickly.
“Oh my God, Lilly, you’ve burst into flames!” Damian rushed at me with a napkin and started slapping.
“Ow!” I shrieked. “That hurts!”
“Would you rather I left you to burn?” Damian shouted back at me. The whole scene was very dramatic.
The little flames were getting higher and higher and heading directly for my face.
“Take it off! Take it off!” Damian shouted.
“What? My dress? Are you kidding?”
“Jesus, Lilly, this is no time to be prudish, just take it off. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
I flushed hotter than the creeping flames.
“I knew it. You watched me get undressed at the airport, didn’t you?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”
I was mortified and put my face in my hands, temporarily forgetting about the impending incineration. “I’m so embarrassed.”
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“It’s getting worse.” He pointed at the dress as the other ribbon went up in flames. I could feel the heat now. It wasn’t burning me yet, because the ribbons weren’t attached directly to the dress, but it was only a matter of time.
And then I felt two strong hands on my back and…
Splash.
Everything went wet.
Wet and sandy.
Damian had pushed me face-first into the water.
I emerged spluttering, my face and mouth full of sand.
“What the hell?” The initial shock at being thrown into the water quickly turned to anger. “I can’t believe you did that!” I was seething at the nerve of it!
“Hey, I might have just saved your life, Lilly, and this is the thanks I get?”
I paused and thought about it. What would I have done if I’d been in his shoes?
Yup, I would have done the same thing.
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll do it, too.”
And then there was another huge splash as Damian threw himself into the water right next to me.
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
“I’ve heard that one before,” he said, flashing me yet another one of those wicked smiles that gave him his dangerous-looking edge. I looked straight back at him this time and got that same strange feeling I’d had before.
What the hell was it?
It’s not like I liked this guy or was even attracted to him.
So why on earth did I suddenly have butterflies?
It was my turn to break eye contact.
The warm, shallow water felt amazing, and neither of us got up; instead, we just sat there together in the moonlight, looking up at the night sky, our shoulders almost touching.
“You see that bright light over there?” Damian pointed and my eyes followed his finger.
“Yes.”
“It’s a galaxy called Andromeda, and there are one trillion stars in it. Can you imagine that? The sheer scale of it? Kind of makes you feel insignificant, really.”
I turned and looked at Damian; he was engrossed in the night sky, with a look on his face that could only be described as awe, and for the first time ever, he seemed vulnerable.