Channel 20 Something

by Amy Patrick

  I asked a question to get her started. “What was Jeffrey like as a kid?”

  “Oh, he was a rascal. He liked to climb everything…” She reminisced for several minutes, relaxing as she talked and even smiling over some funny memories of her son. By the time she told us how she’d learned of his death a few days earlier, all three of us were crying.

  The interview ended, and Mrs. Dixson and I both stood. I grabbed her hand and squeezed as I thanked her again for talking to us and told her what time the story would be on, offering her a copy if she wanted one.

  Aric was apparently not content with a handshake. He hit the camera’s stop button and stepped forward to hug Mrs. Dixson, enveloping her rounded shoulders in his arms and drawing her close.

  I startled in shock at his gesture, but she obviously welcomed it. She sagged into him, allowing herself to cry harder on the strong shoulder he’d offered. Her lost son was not just my age, he was Aric’s age as well.

  My heart clenched at the sight of them there—Aric, so large and strong, comforting her in her brokenness. They stayed like that for a few minutes as I awkwardly gathered our gear.

  Mrs. Dixson finally pulled away from Aric. “Hold on, honey. Before you go, I want to give you something. Wait right here.” She disappeared down the hall and came back a minute later with a pair of beautiful, and very large, Western boots. “You wear about a thirteen, right?” she asked him.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Oh, I’m an expert on big feet. I have three sons, all grown men now. Jeff’s my baby. These were his—he got them a week before he was deployed. I’d like for you to have them.”

  “They’re beautiful, but I don’t know if I should—”

  “Nonsense. He has no use for them now. He’s with the Lord and wearin’ boots of gold. I want you to have these.”

  Aric hung his head, overwhelmed, then reached out to take them and looked Mrs. Dixson directly in the eye, emotion reddening his face. “Thank you.”

  She gave him a watery smile and patted Aric on the arm as he collected the boots and turned toward the door. He let out a long breath as we walked to the car.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He nodded. “That was tough.” He cleared his throat and avoided looking at me.

  As we drove mostly in silence, each of us recovering, I asked myself the same question. Was I okay? No. I wasn’t. My heart ached for the grieving woman we’d left inside the house. But more than that, I was terrified for myself. My entire body trembled with a new certainty. This was a guy I could easily fall in love with, who could break my heart without even trying.

  Thankfully, our next story shoot was exactly what I needed to get my head on straight again.

  We drove north to Oxford, winding through its picturesque streets to the beautiful Ole Miss campus. The giant oak trees and classical structures took me back to my not-so-long-ago college days. The close, historic feel of the campus reminded me of Brown in a lot of ways. I’d had so little time there to make good memories before they were evicted by humiliation. I shook my head to dislodge the unwanted thoughts. If I couldn’t go back and fix anything, I didn’t want to go back to that time at all.

  I looked down at our printed agenda as we pulled up to the football stadium. “So you’re doing a feature on some competition squad? What kind of squad?”

  Aric answered in a no-nonsense tone. “I believe they’re called the Rebelettes.”

  I let out a shocked gasp. “Dancing girls? You needed me to come with you to shoot dancing girls? How is this even a sports story?”

  “You make it sound like they’re adult entertainers or something. This is a very competitive squad. They practice twelve hours a week. They’re preparing for a national competition, and they’re favored to win.” Aric laid out his case like an attorney defending a guilty client. He’d known I wouldn’t like this story.

  “Well, excuse me, Mr. Dance Team Expert. They also happen to be beautiful girls in teensy outfits.”

  “And? I like beautiful girls—I’m a healthy adult male—and so are most of the viewers of our sportscast.”

  “You see? This is exactly why I object to the story.” And exactly why I will never fall for a guy like you again.

  “Well, take it up with Dennis,” he said. “He’s the sports director, and he told me to do the story. We’re supposed to be all ‘hyper-local,’ you know. He doesn’t want the same old stuff over and over again, so he thought this feature was a good idea.”

  “I’ll bet he did.” According to Dennis’ reputation, he liked beautiful girls, too.

  “You don’t have to shoot it. Stay in the car and start writing your story if you want,” Aric offered.

  “No, I’ll come,” I grumbled. I got out of the car and followed him into the stadium. He’d come along on my story, which hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs. I’d look like a bad sport, or worse, jealous, if I didn’t shoot this one for him.

  The squad was waiting for us, lined up at the fifty yard line, a dazzling display of long, tanned limbs and gleaming straight hair.

  “Just following orders, huh?” I said to Aric.

  He turned to me with a rascally grin. “Somebody’s gotta do it. Guess I’ll have to suck it up, take one for the team.”

  “Poor you—I can tell you’re really suffering.”

  The squad performed a flawless routine for us, their sequined uniforms flashing in the sun. I had to admit they were fantastic. So athletic and disciplined, it was hard to hate them for also being impossibly cute.

  We interviewed the head coach about preparation for the upcoming competition. On top of practicing twelve hours a week, the dancers also met every morning for team workouts and gave several performances every week, and that was just during football season. During the six-week winter break leading up to Nationals in January, they would practice six hours a day while other students were lounging at home or going off on vacations.

  Next, Aric interviewed a couple of the senior team members, both Barbie-blonde and sweet as Southern Pecan Pie. Both highly trained and dedicated dancers. Both obviously fascinated by Aric.

  By the end of the shoot, I’d come over to the dark side and agreed with Dennis about the merits of the story. But I wasn’t going to tell Aric that. He was enjoying himself quite enough already. In fact he was literally surrounded by sparkling rah-rah joy.

  He’d planned his stand-up so the camera started in tight, showing only shimmering red and blue pom-poms as he spoke, then I zoomed the shot out wider and wider to include the entire squad, all leaning in and holding their poms toward the middle. On cue, they pulled the poms away to reveal Aric in the midst of them. He smiled widely and tagged-out, looking right at home surrounded by giggling, adoring girls who responded on cue. Bionic pheromones.

  After we got the shot, I broke down the equipment, stuffing the battery pack and camera inside the duffel bag and folding up the tripod. Aric was still talking to a few girls, scribbling some notes down on his pad, probably getting the correct spellings of their names for the on-screen graphics. Or maybe their phone numbers. I was appalled at the acrid feeling churning in my gut. I hadn’t felt this way in a long time. In fact, I’d carefully arranged my life so I’d never experience this particular emotion ever again.

  I left Aric to do his thing and headed for the car. Hearing him call my name, I glanced back to see him make his charming goodbyes to all of his new groupies and start jogging after me. Whatever. Take your time, Loverboy.

  A few hours ago at Mrs. Dixson’s house, seeing him act so tender with her, I’d been willing to throw away all my preconceived notions about Aric. But right now… he’d never looked more like Josh to me.

  Chapter Eleven

  You’re Starting To Relax

  “So… you ready to learn some vocal exercises, My Fair Lady?” Aric broke the sullen silence in the car on the way back to Pineland.

  I glanced up at him, completely caught off guard. I’d been lost in dark though
ts of my disastrous first love. “You’ve seen that movie?’

  He raised a hand. “Guilty. My mom’s a huge Audrey Hepburn fan.”

  “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains,” I quoted from the film with a precise accent.

  He laughed, and the mood in the car lightened several degrees. “Right. Well, I have a better one for you, if you still want it.”

  “I guess so. Sure.”

  “Okay, repeat after me—tie twine to three tree twigs.”

  “Are you serious? Is this for real?”

  “Of course. Try it and think about your vowel sounds, keep them short. And remember, these are all one-syllable words—outside of the South, of course.”

  I slapped lightly at his arm. “Smart ass,” I said, purposely dragging out the last word so it sounded like ay-ess. “Okay… tie twine to three tree twigs? Is that right?”

  “Yep. Good. Now try this one—it’s great for fixthing listhps,” he said, feigning the world’s worst lisp. Then he enunciated very clearly, “Santa’s short suit shrank. Now you.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, my funk lifting completely. “This is so stupid. Okay, Santa’s short suit shrank.”

  “Good, but watch the ‘Santa’—again, focus on keeping the vowels short—you said it like Say-an-ta.”

  “I think it’s going to take a lot of practice.”

  “I know. That’s the idea. You’ll get it. Try saying them into the voice recorder on your cell phone and listen to it back.”

  I wrote down those and a few more phrases he gave me to practice, giggling at the ridiculousness of them. At the station, we parked in a reserved news car spot and got out.

  Aric spoke to me over the hood of the car, surprising me with a compliment. “Hey—you were great today.”

  And now I felt guilty for my earlier pouty attitude. He’d never claimed to be anything other than a player’s player. And what business was it of mine if he was? I had no right to be mad at him. It was probably almost impossible to avoid when you looked like he did and had unlimited opportunity waved in front of your face all the time.

  I shrugged. “Well, I just tried to shoot it the way you would have.”

  “I’m not talking about your photography skills, though they are spectacular of course. I meant with Mrs. Dixson. You’re a great interviewer. I was very impressed.”

  “Oh. I don’t think I really did that much. It was all her.”

  “No—don’t try to downplay it. You have a very special way about you. You make people feel comfortable. I saw it yesterday, too, with the hunter. People trust you. That’s a gift. You’ve got it, you know, that thing it takes to go big time in TV news.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t keep the shock out of my voice. Mara and Kenley were always my faithful cheerleaders, but no one else had ever expressed such belief in my abilities. While my parents and Hale said they were proud of me, they didn’t know anything about the business. And they always seemed to be trying to get me to question the validity of my career choice, as if it were something I’d grow out of. “Thank you. Really, thank you. I think that’s… it’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Aric gave a nod and went to hold open the door to the station.

  # # #

  Later, as I made myself camera-ready in front of the copier room mirror, Aric once again leaned against his desk and watched me apply my makeup.

  “Need to get in here? I’ll try to hurry,” I said.

  “Nah.” He waved away the suggestion. “All I have to do is slap on some foundation.”

  “Lucky,” I growled.

  He continued to sit there, observing me closely. What was this about? I tried to ignore him, but seeing him in my peripheral vision, my body temperature rose until I feared the equipment in the room might malfunction. The hand holding my lipstick shook. No telling what I was going to end up looking like on the news tonight.

  Finally I turned to him. “What are you doing?”

  “Watching. It’s interesting, a lot more complicated than what I do.”

  “Well, you’re already pretty just like you are.” Did I say that out loud? I watched my eyes widen in the mirror and my skin take on a plum-ish hue under my thick base makeup.

  He laughed. “Thanks. So are you. You don’t need any of that stuff off-camera. But I do like seeing you put it on. It’s very… girly.”

  I slanted a look at him. “Don’t you have some last minute writing or editing to do?” My tone was irritated. How was I ever going to put on mascara? I’d end up looking like a raccoon.

  “Nope.” Aric crossed his arms and settled back against the desk. “All done.”

  “Well, I hate to evict you from your front row seat to the cosmetics show, but I can’t do this with you watching me,” I finally admitted. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Aric stood. “Oh. Sorry. Speaking of nerves, I know we didn’t get to it yesterday, but whenever you’re ready, I could show you a relaxation exercise.”

  “Do you really think it’ll help?” I asked.

  “I do. I told you, I’ve used it myself.”

  “You’re not going to try to hypnotize me or something, are you?”

  He laughed. “No. Nothing like that. Come on over to the sports ‘office’ when you’re ready.”

  I finished my makeup, printed my scripts, and a half hour before the newscast, I did wander back over to the sports corner. He sat at his monitor, unaware of my presence. Pausing, I stared at Aric’s back, wondering if I’d lost my mind. I’d almost decided to sneak away and resign myself to another night of wretched retching, but Aric turned around and caught me.

  “Hey. You ready to try it?”

  I nodded and walked over to the chair Aric was positioning opposite his. “So… how did you learn to do this?” I asked.

  “My mom. She’s a cognitive therapist.”

  “So you must have stellar mental health, then.”

  “Or I’m really messed up. It can go either way,” he joked. “Anyway, she taught me a few things to use before swim meets, and it’s helped for work, too. Okay, close your eyes.”

  I closed my eyes but quickly opened them again. “Promise you’re not going to make me cluck like a chicken or stand on my head or take off all my clothes?”

  He grinned and raised an eyebrow in a way that made me wonder. “I’m starting to wish I was a hypnotist.” He laughed wickedly. “No, you can trust me. Close your eyes. Good. Okay… you’re going to think about relaxing your body, one muscle group at a time. Start by tensing your toes for five seconds, then relax them for thirty seconds. Don’t worry about counting, I’ll talk you through it. And the whole time, you’ll be saying to your mind, ‘I’m relaxing now,’ or ‘I’m starting to relax.’ Okay, now your calf muscles. Keep telling yourself, ‘I’m beginning to relax now.’” His voice paused then continued, “All right, now tense your thigh muscles… and relax them.”

  I wasn’t sure I would be able to achieve the level of relaxation we were aiming for as Aric verbally worked his way up my body. Certain areas he hadn’t mentioned were tensing as well. Was he watching me, focusing his eyes on my different body parts to make sure I was doing it right? My entire body tensed, all at once. My eyes flew open.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes you can. You were doing great.”

  “I feel silly. I’m too self-conscious.”

  Aric folded his lips in and looked up at the ceiling for a second. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll close my eyes, too, okay? I won’t watch you. Although, I have to say, you did look pretty peaceful there for a few minutes.”

  When I gave him a wide-eyed look, Aric laughed softly and closed his eyes, resting his hands on his spread thighs, palms up. A pause. “You’re not looking at me now, are you?” His voice held a seductive, teasing note.

  I slammed my eyelids closed. “No.”

  We sat facing each other, but not touching, eyes closed (I peeked once to
make sure), and Aric began again at the toes. By the time he told me to tense and relax my neck, I had to admit I felt pretty serene.

  “Now, picture yourself inside a large clear bubble, like the ones you blow when you’re a kid.” Aric’s voice was low and soothing. “Your bubble lifts off the ground and floats, rising high in the sky. You’re traveling inside your bubble to a beautiful, peaceful place, a place where you feel good. Your bubble lands there and you get out. Notice what you see, the sounds, the smells of this place.”

  I was in the newsroom with Aric, but I was also at the beach. For a few minutes, I could smell the ocean air and feel the grains of sand under my knees and hands, hear the rushing and fading of the surf. It was actually working. I was doing it.

  And then it was gone. I’d gotten too excited and yanked myself out of the moment. My eyes opened, the heavy relaxation slowly lifting from my limbs. I didn’t speak, and Aric stayed relaxed in his chair, loose-limbed, his eyes closed. I couldn’t stop myself from staring at him.

  He looked almost asleep, his brow smooth, his lips slightly parted, so full and soft-looking. What do you know? I’d discovered an anti-relaxation exercise—staring at Aric. My heartbeat, which had been slow and steady minutes ago, launched into a tumbling routine. I probably should’ve said something, should’ve let him know I was out of the exercise. But my mouth wouldn’t open.

  Instead I took advantage of the opportunity, letting my eyes roam the length of his body, from his slightly mussed golden hair (too bad he’d have to fix it before air-time) across his broad shoulders, down his tight torso and miles-long legs to those size thirteens then back up to his tranquil expression. His eyelids were open. Oops. Bad. Very bad. The tumbling routine in my chest turned into a frenzied triple-spinning dismount.

  My face flamed. “Hi,” I whispered. So busted.

  He gave me a slow grin. “Hi.” The grin widened. “All relaxed now?”

  “Um, sort of. It was working, but I ruined it.”

  “It’s okay. It takes practice.” His voice was rough and sleepy-sounding. “Where were you?”