The One That I Want

by Marilyn Brant

  “Of course you can,” Shar said.

  Kristopher leaned past me to address the other two women. “It’s always been her dream to meet him face to face. Make her go.” Then, to me, he added, “Look, Jules, even I want to meet the guy, and he was my high-school rival for your attention.” He winked.

  Elsie raised her eyebrows at this and Shar broke into a wide grin. “Really?” both women said together as they all but pushed me out of the row and toward where Rosemary was standing. She was far off to the right side of the stage with Dane next to her. The two of them were speaking privately.

  “We don’t want to interrupt them,” I murmured, trying to pull away.

  “Nonsense,” Elsie said. “Rosemary is expecting us.”

  “But—”

  Before I could finish protesting, the stage manager in question spotted us and waved us closer.

  “Dane, I’d like to take just a moment to introduce you to my good friend Elsie Whitcomb and her social group.” Rosemary smiled warmly at all of us, even though she didn’t yet know some of our names.

  Dane, looking visibly drained but not irritated, reached out to shake hands with Elsie, who grasped his limb with exuberance.

  “We’re a singles’ group!” she exclaimed. “Totally unattached.”

  He chuckled. “Excellent. Did you all want to get in on my Twitter survey? Have any thoughts to share on the subject of my moral depravity or, perhaps, some words of wisdom on relationships going forward?”

  Bill grimaced comically and shook the actor’s hand. “Pretty sure you don’t want relationship advice from us.”

  “Hey, you couldn’t have crashed and burned more often than me,” Dane said, his smile growing more genuine and his body language loosening a bit, too. He seemed to finally start to relax and realize he was among friends.

  Bill introduced both himself and Kristopher, while Elsie made the official introductions between Dane and Shar. Then it was my turn.

  “And this is our newest member, Julia Crane,” Elsie said.

  My hands, which were an embarrassingly clammy cold when I shook Dane’s, began to tremble slightly under the scrutiny of his gaze. His hands were, by contrast, so steady, so smooth, and so warm. Initially, I thought, “Okay, I can do this. He’s probably used to people being nervous around him all the time.”

  But once he took a good look at my face and my shaky hands, his expression changed. His eyes took on a wary cast and he gave me such an odd stare that I couldn’t interpret it.

  I managed to mumble something about what a pleasure it was to finally meet him but, unlike the way he’d been with the other members of our small group, he just nodded curtly at me and suddenly seemed to clam up. He didn’t make any further jokes and he no longer looked as relaxed as when he’d greeted the others. I took a step away from him and let Elsie and Bill continue the discussion, which turned out to be very short anyway.

  The director strode up to us and pulled Dane and Rosemary aside for a minute. While we were standing a couple of yards away from them, waiting to see if Dane would rejoin us for a few moments more, that obnoxious reporter lady, who’d been sitting directly behind me during the play, tapped me on my shoulder and pulled me away from my friends.

  “How’d you score a private introduction to the hotshot?” she half hissed, half snickered in my ear.

  I said simply that one of my friends knew the stage manager.

  “Think she can swing me a few words alone with him, too?” the woman asked conspiratorially, leaning closer as if we were good friends.

  I shrugged and leaned back. “I don’t know.”

  Dane glanced over at us standing together, and his eyes narrowed. The director walked away after a minute more, but Dane bent toward Rosemary and whispered something to her. Both of their eyes turned toward me and the rude reporter woman.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” I told the press lady, feeling self-conscious and judged for reasons I couldn’t justify. I broke apart from her and told Shar and Elsie that I needed to use the restroom. Then I bolted away.

  In the ladies’ room, I tried to collect myself and get a handle on this strange nervousness. It wasn’t so much the celebrity factor that had me feeling this awkward. Rather, it was that I’d felt appraised by him, and that I could tell the result of his observations had left me wanting in his eyes. Simply put, there was something about me that my movie-star idol just didn’t like.

  When I emerged from the restroom, the clusters of people in the auditorium area had shifted. Dane wasn’t out there anymore and my friends were nowhere in sight.

  One of the heavy dark-red curtains, which had been closed during the performance, was now pushed open, exposing a hallway with several doors on either side. I thought, perhaps, Shar and Elsie may have walked back there, especially if that was where Rosemary had her office.

  A few of the actors who’d played in the smaller roles came out of one of the doors, doubled over laughing about something and leaving the building quickly. Too fast for me to ask them if the stage manager and my friends might be back there.

  So, I meandered a little farther down the hall, discovering a different passageway that broke off from the main one. It had doors, too, and some of them were labeled. “Dressing Room,” said one. “Green Room,” said another. There were voices within both, but none of those voices sounded like they belonged to my friends.

  There was yet another door, this one without a label, and it was ajar by about three inches. I peered inside and was about to push it open a little more when I heard an angry voice behind me say, “What the hell are you doing back here?”

  I swiveled around.

  Dane Tyler.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I was just looking, um, for—”

  “Looking for what?” he demanded. “Hmm? Messages? Information? Incriminating photo opportunities?”

  I shook my head. Incriminating photo ops—what?

  “Don’t tell me you just happened to get lost backstage.”

  “Well, no. Not exactly. I was—”

  “Snooping?” He crossed his lean, muscular arms and looked royally pissed off. “You’re with the Tinseltown Buzz, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head again. “Um, no.”

  He shot me a disbelieving look. “I saw you talking with Caryn Dizinger, Julia—or whatever your name really is. Dizinger might not think I remember her, but I do. Painfully well. And Rosemary said she’d never seen you before. It wouldn’t have been the first time that a pushy reporter wormed her way into a social club just so she could get an inside scoop.”

  “I’m not with the press. I’ve never talked to that reporter before tonight. And I am here with the singles’ group. I’m new, though—”

  “Is that so?” He pointed at my left hand. “You joined a group for singles, but you’re wearing a wedding ring? Not too good at subterfuge yet, are you?” He took a few menacing steps forward. “I’m sure you’ll learn fast enough. Now, tell me, which fucking magazine or newspaper do you write for if, as you say, you’re not with the Tinseltown Buzz?”

  I just kept stupidly shaking my head, saying the same thing over and over again. “I’m not a reporter at all.” I rubbed the gold band on my finger. Until he mentioned it, it hadn’t occurred to me that I should have taken it off. In the months since Adam died, I’d thought about it a time or two, but I was never ready. I still wasn’t.

  Dane glowered at me, and all I could do was stare back, trying to reconcile the sexy fantasy hero I’d had in my mind all of these years with the man—the very angry man—who was standing right in front of me.

  I noticed a few things:

  His hairline was just starting to recede. It wasn’t so noticeable yet, but it would be in a few years. Twenty years ago, gobs of moussed dark-blond hair was one of his hallmark features. Now, not so much.

  His jaw was clenched tight in fury, an image I hadn’t seen outside of a few onscreen moments in his more dramatic work. Twenty years ago, he’d sp
arkled with the good humor of youth. Now, not so much.

  And then there were his eyes. In movies and in TV interviews they’d always mesmerized me. Twenty years ago, his penetrating light-blue eyes indicated a shrewd intelligence and a mind that was working overtime to figure out the world around him. Now…well, that was virtually unchanged.

  He leaned very close to me, his eyes continuing to search and judge with an intensity that was both hypnotizing and paralyzing.

  Finally, he blew out a long stream of air and asked, “What are you then?” with accusation coloring his tone. “An Actor’s Equity rep? A wannabe actress? A closet playwright?” He paused. “No, I know—you’re an Official Dane Tyler Fan Club member, right?”

  He’d been speaking sarcastically, but my jaw dropped open nonetheless. I couldn’t seem to speak or defend myself to save my life.

  Suddenly he laughed and with no small degree of derision. “Too bad you’re not. I can always tell who they are.” He looked me up and down deliberately. “I usually reserve a kiss for card-carrying members.”

  As I looked into that knowing, mocking face that I’d once considered as dear to me as a family member’s, I was consumed by a desire so powerful to slap him that I had to squeeze my palms closed to stop myself. And in that second, I got my voice back.

  “My name is Julia Meriwether Crane, and I’m a junior-high English teacher,” I informed him. “I threw out my Fan Club card at least a decade ago,” I lied, “but my number was 49202. Should’ve burned it, right along with my high-school love letters and those rude notes from asshole guys at summer camp.”

  I began to walk away, but I made the mistake of glancing back. Just once.

  It was only then—and only for an instant—but I suddenly saw Dane Tyler’s defiant pride. The man who hadn’t made much of a blip on Entertainment Monthly’s newsworthy-o-meter for the past couple of years (at least not for his acting, just for his personal life) was looking at me like a petulant, aging has-been, vying for a flicker of the fire he’d once ignited en masse from his fans. Perhaps he’d spotted it in me for a second, but then he doubted it, lost it, and refused to be pitied for its absence.

  Oh, God. Dane Tyler was a human being after all.

  He was also a callous, self-centered douche bag. Couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

  I stalked out into the open auditorium and, after a quick scan, found my friends at last. They had congregated by the entrance, and Shar waved as soon as she spotted me. Before I reached her, though, Kristopher jogged up alongside of me and said, “So, what’d’ya think? You finally met your teen fantasy.” He grinned.

  I did my best not to scowl. “It was…enlightening.”

  “Yeah? He was nicer than I thought. Still too much hair gel, but—”

  I didn’t want to talk any more about freakin’ Dane Tyler. “Hey, I’ve got to leave immediately. I kept Elsie and Shar waiting for too long, but I’ll look forward to seeing you this week for coffee. Maybe Wednesday?”

  Kristopher looked pleased as we approached the other three people who’d been in our row. “Sounds great. I’ll give you a call in a few days and we can set up a good time.”

  “Lovely. Thanks.”

  I waved him off and said goodbye to Bill as well, glad to at last be nearly out the door of the Knightsbridge Theater.

  Then, turning to Shar and Elsie, I summoned up every bit of acting ability in my possession, plastered a delighted grin on my face, and said, “What an incredible night, ladies! Shall we go home?”

  Never was I so happy to escape such a “magical” place.

  Chapter Five

  I had RSVP’ed via email to the Franklin College Educators Reunion the day after Vicky told me about it and had received an automated confirmation, so I hadn’t expected any further communication until the event itself. But fourteen days before the reunion, my email pinged with a new message, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw Ben Saintsbury’s name as the sender.

  Analise was singing along with some Taylor Swift song on the radio. She seemed happy on this Friday morning. Her sleepover last night with Lindsay and Brooke had agreed with her, and Yvette’s daughters had pumped her up—at least temporarily—with enthusiasm for summer camp. I prayed everyone was right about this thing being good for her.

  In any case, while she was happily occupied, I clicked on Ben’s message, subject line: Franklin’s Reunion, to see what he’d written. Though it was addressed to me specifically, it soon became clear that it was an impersonally constructed thing. He wrote:

  Dear Julia,

  Our Reunion of Franklin College’s Secondary Education graduates will be here in just a two weeks! What have you been doing in the years since you completed your coursework?

  Like José Rodrigo, are you teaching at one of Chicago’s finest magnet schools?

  Working with gifted teens like our own Helena Kazuya?

  Or maybe, like Natalia Ginsberg, you’re globetrotting to Europe and Latin America with your high-school Spanish students?

  I’m pleased to say that I’ve been busy with archeological digs in the Baja Peninsula and around Mexico with my honors students at Lincolnshire North Academy and couldn’t be having a better time. Next year, we’ve got Ixtapa and the Xihuacan site on our agenda!

  Hope you’ll be ready to share all of YOUR exciting teaching adventures with your former classmates when we get together on July 10th. We’ve got a cash bar with cocktails, plus some appetizers, starting at 6:30pm. Dinner at 8:00pm. Bring your significant other and your best stories!

  May the spirit of teaching touch your heart, as it has mine.

  Warmly,

  Benjamin J. Saintsbury

  Associate Dean and History/Archaeology Instructor, Lincolnshire North Academy, a Blue Ribbon School

  I tried to keep from scowling at the screen. Ben’s tone, even in email form, irritated me. He’d always been hungry for love, for approval, for admiration, and even for envy. He wanted people to be jealous of him and never failed to slip in a boastful phrase when he could. I always suspected that was why our breakup had been so hard on him. It wasn’t that he truly missed me. No. He was just afraid other students would find out that I’d left him. That they might feel sorry for him for something.

  I clicked out of email and surfed the Internet for a while, looking up recent news stories on Dane Tyler.

  What a disappointment meeting him had been! I still couldn’t get over his jerky behavior. As my daughter transitioned to a song by Katy Perry, I read one of the International Tattler articles (I know, hardly a reputable source) on Dane’s breakup with actress Emily Brennan.

  Details divulged from “individuals close to the couple” included an impressive collection of action-packed verbs and descriptive adjectives that spoke of Emily’s “agitation” and “despair” at the relationship’s “fiery demise,” and so on.

  “It’s been coming for months,” one anonymous “friend” told the magazine.

  “Emily was distraught because she was sure Dane was cheating on her with his longtime ex,” confided yet another “close pal” of the couple. That “ex” being Kendra Leigh, with whom he’d had some very steamy love scenes about fifteen years ago in their Western romantic comedy Love at Cedar Ranch.

  I didn’t doubt the asshat slept around. It would serve him right if someone like me were to contact one of the tabloids and tell those paparazzi sleazebags about his lousy backstage behavior. After last night, I was sorely tempted.

  But, of course, I refrained.

  Much as I didn’t appreciate Dane’s accusations and his bad attitude, the guy probably had a right to be paranoid about reporters. From the looks of this latest article, they seemed overjoyed to have the opportunity to skewer him in their papers.

  Having finally had my fill of sensationalism, I turned off the computer and asked Analise if she wanted me to take her to the pool.

  She threw her arms around me. “Yes, if you’ll come in the water with me! I’m going to miss
you so much when I’m away at camp, Mommy.”

  I was aware that she was trying to manipulate me. She knew I preferred to sit at the pool’s edge and read rather than swim. But I didn’t care. Her words hit me like a rock.

  “I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand it for four whole weeks away,” she added, a note of genuine melancholy finding its way into her voice.

  Truth was, I didn’t know how I’d be able to stand it either.

  Despite the ultra-peppy teenybopper music still blaring in the background, her body grew still in my arms, as if the meaning of her own words suddenly dawned on her. My eyes filled with tears that I tried to blink away before she saw them. This upcoming separation was going to be torture.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll be in contact the whole time,” I reassured her, even though I knew this was only a half truth. The campers were able to bring up cell phones or tablets, but they were only allowed to use them for one hour each day, in the evening between the after-dinner group activity and bedtime. The rest of the day, the devices were kept locked up, except if one was needed in the event of an emergency.

  At the pool, I played with my daughter in the shallow end—a task that used to always fall to Adam, since he was a lover of waterslides and pool games. She didn’t ask me to do any of the things he used to do with her—she knew from experience that my skill level at such activities wasn’t as high—but she seemed to delight in just being outside in the water and sunshine. In jumping, splashing, plunging, and even swimming a stroke or two. Anything to see my baby girl smile.

  Because we were in the pool for two hours, I didn’t get the text and voicemail messages on my phone until we were ready to leave. Both were from Kristopher.

  Hmm. He didn’t waste any time.

  The voicemail said, “Hey, Jules! Great seeing you at the play last night. So, Wednesday? My work schedule is very flexible right now. I can meet almost anytime. Just let me know when!”

  Then the text: “Me again. I love texting. So much easier than passing paper notes in social studies, LOL. Just wanted to let you know you can reach me this way, too, if you prefer.”