The Seduction of Dylan Acosta

by Nia Forrester

  I’m trying to get out of some stuff so I can see you, Mark said, and she thought she detected a note of caution, wariness in his tone.

  He needn’t have been cautious. Even though she was giving him a little bit of attitude, Dylan was very clear that she had no right to ask him who the woman in the picture was. And honestly, he seemed not to be inclined to volunteer the information. Still, by the end of the call and purely because of Mark’s persistence in drawing her out, they had resumed their easy and comfortable manner with each other and Dylan was able to hang up feeling better about him than she had upon answering the call.

  But Ava was right; he was remarkably forthcoming about his schedule, texting her to let her know where he was at different times and giving her an idea of when he might call. She didn’t say much when she responded to his texts. Generally just something along the lines of: okay, talk to you later. Because she didn’t know what to make of it, honestly. Ava’s question was the one she’d been secretly asking herself lately: what were they?

  “Let’s go out,” she said to Ava now. “Go dancing, or to listen to some music. We’re way too young to spend our Saturday night watching TiVo’ed shows from OWN.”

  Ava perked up. “Okay, where d’you want to go?”

  They went to Liquid, a club on the West side where Ava knew the guys who manned the door. Dylan had allowed Ava to have her way with her hair, so it was wild and springing away from her head in a massive curly ‘fro that had the benefit of making her about five inches taller, along with the three-inch heels she was wearing. Ava had smoothed her hair back and was wearing a sequined tank that was so flimsy it was almost non-existent with black leather pants and skinny black heels. Not nearly as adventurous, Dylan was wearing snug jeans and a cute lacy white one-shouldered top.

  Inside, the music was deafening and Ava dragged Dylan onto the dance-floor right away where they danced with each other and random guys who happened by. Dylan began to relax right away. This felt right; she’d taken the LSATs and was young and carefree—this was what she was supposed to be doing, not obsessing about her ambiguous relationship with a guy who would probably forget all about her just as soon as it sunk into his head what a hot commodity he was.

  About a half hour in, she was beginning to sweat a little so she left Ava on the dance floor and headed for the bar, pushing her way to the front and leaning forward, hoping to catch the attention of the bartender. She reached back and lifted her hair off her neck and fanned it with a hand, smiling at how energized she felt. Maybe she should do this every weekend now that the LSATs were behind her.

  “What’re you drinking?” someone next to her asked.

  Dylan looked up and into the eyes of a guy in a blue shirt next to her. He was the color of dark coffee and had a head shaved bald, and the kind of smile that made you feel like you were greeting an old friend.

  “Nothing at the moment,” she said. “Since it seems I’m way too short to get the bartender’s attention.”

  “Let me work that out for you,” he offered. “Beer, or wine? Or something stronger?”

  “Chardonnay would be great. Thank you.”

  “Dude! Hey!” he put his fingers in his mouth and let out a screeching whistle that immediately got the attention of one of the bartenders. He placed an order for her wine and a beer for himself.

  Dylan smiled and reached into her pocket.

  “No,” he said, putting a hand on hers. “Happy to buy a glass of wine for a pretty lady. My name’s Giancarlo. You?”

  “Giancarlo?” she repeated smiling at him.

  “Why? A brother can’t have an Italian name?”

  Dylan laughed and took a sip of her wine. “No. You can have any name your parents want. But you want to explain how it happened?”

  “Not till you tell me your name first.”

  “Dylan.”

  “Oh. And yet you want to rag on me? Where I come from, that’s a boy’s name. Or the name of singer with shaggy hair who plays a guitar.”

  “A comedian,” Dylan said, cocking her head to one side and smiling at him.

  “Only when it’s necessary to impress the ladies.”

  “Well, I am impressed. But you still haven’t told me how you got a name like Giancarlo.”

  “My parents are Ethiopian. Italy occupied Ethiopia. So every once in awhile, you may run into little Black kids in my parents’ home country with names like Santino and . . .”

  “Giancarlo,” Dylan finished for him.

  “Yes.”

  “Well it’s a beautiful name,” Dylan said.

  “Thank you.”

  They stood there smiling at each other for a moment and Dylan took a sip of her wine, meeting a familiar gaze in the mirror over the bar. For a split second she thought it was Mark but on closer inspection, she realized it was his brother, Matt. She waved at him in the mirror and he waved back, beginning to make his way toward her.

  “Someone you know?” Giancarlo asked.

  “Yes,” she said as Matt approached.

  “Someone who would object if I wanted to dance with you?” he asked.

  “He shouldn’t, no,” she said.

  Matt leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, glancing at Giancarlo and acknowledging him with a curt nod.

  “What’re you doing here?” he asked, without greeting.

  Dylan, momentarily taken aback by his tone and by how much he sounded like Mark, hesitated before answering.

  “Hanging out with my friend Ava. Letting off a little steam. What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m single,” Matt said shrugging and looking again at Giancarlo.

  “So am I,” Dylan said looking him in the eye. Then she turned to Giancarlo. “Still interested in that dance?”

  She emptied her wineglass and Giancarlo took a swallow of his beer, holding her hand and leading her onto the dance floor. As they danced, she couldn’t help but glance back over to the bar where Matt had ordered his own drink and was watching her as he drank it. He’d been joined by another guy Dylan didn’t recognize who was also watching her like a hawk. After a couple of songs, Giancarlo grabbed her hand and pulled her closer.

  “Look,” he said. “Your situation seems a little complicated. That guy who came over? He’s been scoping us out this whole time. Are you sure he’s not your boyfriend or something?”

  Dylan shook her head emphatically. “No. Believe me, he’s not.”

  “Okay, I take your word for it, but I’m not so sure he doesn’t want to be. And I’m not trying to get into it with anyone tonight, so . . .”

  Dylan’s shoulders sagged. “Well it was nice meeting you,” she said, turning to walk away.

  “Wait a minute. Not so fast, Bob Dylan. Look, let me give you my information. And maybe if you sort whatever this is out, you can call me sometime.”

  Dylan smiled at him.

  “You have your phone? I’ll program my number in there in case you want to use it.”

  “I left it. No point taking it to a club. You can’t hear anything anyway.”

  “Well, but what if you want to program in the number of a nice Ethiopian guy with an Italian name?”

  “You’re a charming one, aren’t you?” she grinned at him.

  “Okay. Let’s do this old school then.” Giancarlo stopped a passing waitress and grabbed one of her napkins, borrowing her pen to scribble his name and number on it. He folded it and reached down to shove it into the front pocket of Dylan’s jeans.

  “You have fun tonight, pretty lady.”

  And then he danced away from her. Dylan watched him go then turned back to the bar where Matt and his friend were still watching. She went toward him, not even sure what she was going to say, but knowing that she was annoyed. Giancarlo approaching her had been a pleasant reminder of how much fun it was just to flirt. No expectations, just flirtation.

  Matt looked at her impassively and took another sip of his drink.

  “Dylan this is Roberto,” he said, introducing his f
riend.

  “Hi,” Dylan said, her voice terse.

  “When you’re done here, I can take you home,” Matt offered casually.

  “When I’m done here, I can take myself home,” she said. “And as a matter of fact, I’m not going home. I’m staying over at my friend Ava’s.”

  “Oh yeah?” Matt asked. “Where is she?” He looked around as though he would know how to identify her.

  “She’s around here somewhere.”

  It was only a few minutes later when Ava herself showed up, flushed and a little breathless.

  “Hey!” she said. “I saw you from across the dance floor and knew right away you must be Mark’s brother.”

  Matt looked at her and gave her a half-smile. “Yes. I’m Mateo. Matt.”

  “My god, you look so much like him! That must be kind of annoying these days, huh? People stop you on the street much?”

  Matt looked amused by her. “Not too much.”

  He introduced his friend Roberto to Ava and then offered her a drink and soon they were all chatting it up like old friends. Dylan sighed. She’d wanted a night out to forget for a moment about how confusing things were with her ambiguous and undefined relationship with Mark, and she had to run into his brother.

  Finally, after fifteen minutes of sulking, she decided to give in to it, and she and Ava spent the rest of the night hanging out and dancing with Matt and Roberto until around four a.m. when they walked them out to flag down a cab.

  “How strange was that?” Ava said as they pulled off. “There’s just no escaping Mark, is there?”

  And no escaping the fact that she didn’t want to, either.

  The sun was not yet up but Dylan was wide awake and dressed for a run. She stretched with one leg extended and elevated on her sofa and made a circle with her neck. She could have used another four hours of sleep but after three more aborted attempts at full-fledged dates in the past week, Mark had called on Friday evening with an ingenious idea.

  “You like working out?” he asked.

  “Ahm, yes?”

  “I was thinking you might want to come with me for a run in the Park. Tomorrow. Maybe then we

  can have a full conversation—not on the phone—before something else comes up.”

  “Sure. But I’m not convinced it’s going to turn out any better than the other times.” “It’ll be different,” he promised. “We’d run at five a.m. Only serious runners are out at that hour.

  They couldn’t care less who else is running.”

  “Five a.m., huh?”

  “Then we’ll go to my parents’ house for breakfast.”

  “I think I’d like that. Not the running at five a.m. part, the breakfast with your family part.” “Even the running won’t be so bad,” he said. “I’ll go easy on you.”

  When he buzzed from downstairs, Dylan grabbed her bag and headed down to meet him, getting

  all the yawns out of her system on the elevator. He was waiting at the front desk, dressed in Adidas sweats and a baseball cap, looking very much awake despite the hour.

  “Hey,” he hugged her, taking her bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s go, I’m doubleparked. Ready for the run?”

  “Depends on which trail we’re taking.”

  “Oh, so you know a little something about running in the park. You made me think you were a complete novice. Upper five-mile?”

  “I was thinking Reservoir,” Dylan said as they headed out to his car.

  “That’s only a mile. We can do better than that. And afterwards I want to show you something before we go to my parents’ place.”

  “Okay, we’ll do the upper-five,” Dylan groaned. “But extra helpings at your Mom’s house.”

  “Deal,” he said holding out a hand for them to shake on it.

  Since he’d picked her up last time, Mark still hadn’t replaced his car, a five-year old Jeep Cherokee, a completely unpretentious ride for a newly-minted millionaire. For a moment Dylan considered commenting on that fact but Mark didn’t talk about his money and if she did, it might create the impression she was more interested in it than she was. Not that she as a saint or anything; extreme wealth was alluring but unless you saw evidence of it, it wasn’t real, it was just a concept. Mark on the other hand was very real. His hands on the steering wheel, dusted in fine, smooth dark hair, the musculature of his thighs, obvious even under the baggy sweats and the dark, downy hair growing out just above his nape—all too real. She still couldn’t look at him without wanting to touch.

  They found parking near the 72nd Street entrance and warmed up before heading into the park. It was still a little dark out but the park was well-lit and there were already several other runners there, stretching in preparation for hitting the trail. Mark let Dylan run ahead of him for awhile until she heard the rhythm of his strides beginning to match hers. He ran alongside her and sometimes a little behind, but never ahead. They didn’t talk for the first fifteen minutes and Dylan began to feel a pleasant burn in her hamstrings and calves. This early, the air was clean and crisp and the beauty of Central Park was apparent in ways that it were easy to overlook during a hot and crowded afternoon. Dylan would never have come this early to run her by herself. The sound and feel of her feet hitting the ground had a calming effect and she felt as though she could run for a dozen miles without noticing the distance.

  “So before we got interrupted you were telling me why you want to go to law school,” Mark said. He was not breathless at all and Dylan realized that the pace was probably far slower than he was accustomed to.

  “Which time?” Dylan asked.

  “Yeah, we do get interrupted a lot. Thanks for hanging in there.”

  “I’m not ‘hanging in there’. I’m enjoying getting to know you.”

  “So, law school?”

  “Oh yeah . . .”

  As they ran, Dylan described how her job helped her make up her mind to get a law degree, in between taking deep breaths. Their pace slowed as they got to the hilly section of the trail and Dylan finally gave up and strolled instead. As she talked, he listened— really listened—stopping her only to ask questions and often turning to look at her. It was beginning to get light out and the birds chirping provided a calming soundtrack as Dylan spoke.

  “What kind of law do you want to practice?” he asked.

  “Well, Grant—you know, the partner I’ve been telling you about—says he sees me doing what he calls ‘real law’ like criminal defense or civil rights stuff. But I don’t know yet.”

  “You work with just him or a bunch of other lawyers?”

  “A bunch. It depends on the case. The legal assistants are assigned to cases, not to lawyers but I lucked out and got one of the best trial lawyers at the firm for most of my assignments.”

  “Grant.”

  “Yeah.”

  And then because he said nothing in reply, Dylan looked at him. By now they were both sweating, but while he looked like a commercial for a sports drink she almost certainly did not. She could feel her braid beginning to stick to the back of her neck and lifted it for a moment, reveling in the cool breeze. Still, Mark said nothing but there was tightness about his mouth.

  “Wait a second,” she said, incredulous. “Are you jealous?”

  “I’m not jealous,” he said too quickly. “But he’s the only person you’ve mentioned by name and you just said you work with a bunch of other lawyers so I wondered, y’know . . .”

  “No, I don’t know. You wondered what?”

  “I bet he’s cracking on you, right?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. He has a wife and three-year-old daughter.”

  They were just approaching the crest of the hill. Dylan stretched her arms above her head, forgetting to be self-conscious about the sweat stains that had undoubtedly begun to form at her armpits.

  “You work with all these hotshot lawyers and you’re telling me none of them tried something with you.”

  “First of all, I didn’t say n
one of them tried anything with me, I said Grant didn’t try anything with me. Second, I’m not as irresistible as you seem to think I am. And third, any one of those ‘hotshot lawyers’ would give his right arm to be you for even a single day.”

  “Well, if he’s going to be me, he’ll need his right arm. It’s kind of essential for the job,” Mark said.

  Despite his joke, her response didn’t seem to have a discernible impact on his mood—clearly he was bothered by her talking about Grant. It had to be because he hadn’t been famous for more than a minute. He was on the cusp of becoming something truly huge and still hadn’t grasped its enormity— he still believed he was a regular guy.

  In a year or two, she wondered, would he be the same? Maybe by then he would be dating models and movie stars and wondering why he’d ever tripped out on Dylan Sanger’s dating history. That’s if he even remembered her name.

  They got to the top of the hill and picked up the pace a little, resuming a slow run.

  “This is frustrating,” Mark said after a moment.

  “What is? The fact that I’m matching your pace on one of Central Park’s most challenging trails?”

  “No. This,” he said indicating them both. “Matt told me he saw you in the club.”

  Dylan said nothing. She didn’t owe him an explanation, just as he hadn’t owed her one when she saw him in the paper with that woman.

  “He said you were with some guy. And that you were dancing and that you looked . . . beautiful.”

  “I couldn’t get rid of him for the rest of the night,” Dylan said. Then she looked at Mark and smiled, but he wasn’t smiling. “I’m kidding! I mean, it’s true that I couldn’t get rid of him but he was great company. We had fun.”

  They ran in silence for awhile, the only sounds their panting and the soles of their running shoes on the trail.

  “Everything I ever wanted is happening to me right now,” Mark said suddenly. “I dreamed about playing in the majors since I was like six years old. And now it’s going to happen. You know what that’s going to mean for my family?”