The One That I Want

by Marilyn Brant

  I was tempted not to answer when he knocked, but that would have been cowardly and, besides, my car was in the driveway. He would have guessed that I was most likely at home and avoiding him.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to infuse a little more enthusiasm than I felt into the greeting. “What a surprise.”

  “Hopefully not an unwelcome one,” he said, though he didn’t wait for my response. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” I opened the door wider and he marched into my foyer. “Would you like some coffee or something else to drink? Tea, lemonade, bottled water?” The list of beverages reminded me of being at Dane’s place on Monday, and I found myself smiling at the memory.

  Kristopher shot me an odd look. “Uh, the lemonade would be great, thanks.”

  I poured him a glass and set it on our kitchen table, inviting him to sit down. I’d thrown out most of the flowers from Dane’s beautiful arrangement, but there were still a handful of persistent ones that had held their bloom, even a few weeks later.

  Kristopher eyed the flowers suspiciously, disapprovingly, but he said nothing about them. In fact, for several moments, he said nothing at all.

  “So, what brought you by this morning?” I prompted. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

  He took a sip of lemonade and shook his head. “I think we have to talk, Jules.”

  “About?” A feeling of dread slid down to my stomach and lingered there.

  “Seeing you leave the radio station with Dane Tyler on Monday really upset me,” he said. “I mean, we’re dating now and I just—I just don’t think it’s appropriate for you to hang around lots of other guys, especially someone as ridiculously unsuitable for you as him. He’s a stupid movie star—a player, if you read anything written about him in the paper—and he doesn’t even know you.”

  I inhaled sharply, needing the oxygen to reach my head fast since all of my blood had drained from it and rushed to my hands, both of which were itching to throw something breakable at him.

  There were so many things wrong with what he’d just said, I needed to list them in order to keep them straight:

  “…we’re dating now…”

  “…don’t think it’s appropriate for you…”

  “…lots of other guys…”

  “…someone as ridiculously unsuitable…”

  “…he’s a stupid movie star—a player…”

  “…he doesn’t even know you…”

  I wasn’t sure where to start my rebuttal. I wanted to argue against all of these charges simultaneously.

  “Kristopher—I…we…the two of us, you and I, got together once for coffee and once for dinner. They were very nice, and it was fun to catch up on the nineteen years since we’d last spoken. But two get togethers does not mean we’re dating, certainly not exclusively.”

  He crossed his arms. “They were dates, Jules. I think you’re playing with semantics—”

  “I don’t,” I said, cutting him off. “Because I’m telling you, we are not dating. Also, I’m not hanging around ‘lots’ of guys. But, even if I were, it’s not up to you to tell me what’s ‘appropriate’ or not for me. Last I checked, you weren’t my father.”

  He scoffed. “I just meant that it looked—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think you meant or how you thought it looked. You have no right to try to tell me what to do. Ever. That is my definition of inappropriate, and you can be sure that I’m not going to listen to you.”

  “So what then? You plan to run around with some loser actor who probably has a bunch of bimbo groupies in every city he—”

  “Stop it, Kristopher,” I snapped. “You don’t know Dane. And the degree to which he and I know each other—or don’t—is none of your business.”

  My cell phone was resting on the table, face up. I caught myself glancing at it, wondering if Dane would text again, as he had a few times in the past couple of days. No major messages. Just a few funny follow-up comments about my response to his invitation for Saturday night. But it would only antagonize Kristopher further if he saw one of them.

  I reached for my phone, brought it closer to me, and turned it face side down on my side of the table.

  Kristopher narrowed his eyes. “What? Expecting a call from your buddy Dane? You think he considers you a close personal friend now?” He snickered. “You’re just as silly as you were in high school, Jules. Still daydreaming about your teen heartthrob. What a joke.”

  I replayed Dane’s parting words Monday night. He’d specifically asked if I’d be his “date” to the VIP party. The high school girl still living inside of me practically keeled over in shock.

  But the adult I’d become—the same adult who’d spent several very pleasurable hours with Dane Tyler talking openly—well, she merely blinked a few times before replying, “Sure. I’d love to.”

  And when my teen heartthrob smiled so charmingly at me and whispered, “Excellent. Now I have something to look forward to on Saturday,” even my adult self turned into melted brownie batter and caramel. I was riding high on that sweet sensation all night. And the next day, too.

  “I’m not claiming to be special to Dane,” I told Kristopher on a sigh. “But the one thing I can tell you is that he’s not ridiculous, unsuitable, or stupid. He’s a hardworking actor, and I consider him a friend. And since I don’t talk trash about my friends, particularly not behind their backs, this conversation needs to end. Now.”

  I stood up from the table and waited for Kristopher to do the same.

  There was frustration—no, more like fury—emanating from every pore of his body. To be honest, I felt a bolt of fear as he glared at me, his hands fisted at his sides, his jaw tense with barely restrained aggression.

  “You’re making a huge mistake,” he ground out. “That fucker is gonna screw you over, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

  I nodded at him and pointed toward the door. “I’ll take my chances.”

  He pushed his chair back so hard as he stormed away from the table that I flinched at the scraping sound it made.

  And then he was gone.

  When I saw Kristopher’s car zoom away from my home, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  I inhaled freshly, trying to slow my racing pulse. Then I reached out to touch one of the blossoms left from Dane’s big bouquet. A dark-red carnation with its edges tinged white. It had to be both delicate and hardy at the same time to have lasted so long and, yet, still look this beautiful.

  In a surprising way, the carnation reminded me of Dane himself. He’d always been talented and attractive but, with greater age and acquaintanceship, he’d only improved.

  He deserved to be recognized for his long career and his contributions to his art—more so than he had been, in my opinion. But maybe I was blinded by my own enchantment with him. My cumulative years of admiration toward him.

  Only…that wasn’t how I’d felt after our brownie excursion this week.

  If anything, Dane had done everything in his power to drop whatever remained of the veil of enchantment from my eyes and help me to see him clearly. Flaws and all.

  Paradoxically, my appreciation for the man and his gifts were only magnified as a result. Turned out, Dane Tyler was real, not merely a phantasm on the screen.

  And try as Kristopher might, I wouldn’t let him succeed in tarnishing my opinion of the guy.

  If I dug deeper and Dane ended up being just an illusion after all, so be it.

  The only thing I felt positive about was that spending time with him on Monday had flipped back on a switch inside of me. One I’d feared would forever stay off. There had been a moment—a few of them, really—when we were in Dane’s childhood kitchen. When I’d felt fully alive and filled with a sense of promise for the first time since Adam died.

  For that alone, I was grateful to Dane Tyler, and I was resolved to enjoy his company for however long it lasted.

  Chapter Thirteen

&
nbsp; Aside from a handful of additional texts, I didn’t have any other contact with Dane until early evening Saturday at the theater.

  Shar, however, was a different story. She was omnipresent, like a swarm of mosquitoes on a damp summer night.

  “When are you meeting him?”

  “Is he sending a special car to pick you up?”

  “What did he tell you about his family? Ooooh! Any secrets?”

  “He said this was a date, right? Do you think he’s gonna kiss you at the end of it?”

  There may have only been one of her, but she asked enough questions for ten friends at least.

  I’d finally had enough of the interrogation. “Dear God, Shar. If you don’t stop grilling me, I swear I’ll have to tape your mouth shut.”

  She paused for a second, raised her eyebrows in a sudden jerky motion, and then asked, “Do you think he’ll take selfies of you two at the party and post them on social media?”

  “Ahhhh!” I screeched at her. I marched toward the kitchen and left my best friend sitting in the living room. “I know I have some duct tape in one of these utility drawers,” I threatened, yanking a couple of those drawers open.

  She followed me, pointing at me in this insistent, menacing way. “You’re not seeing the big picture. I’m being serious here. Do you think Dane will go public with your relationship? I’m not saying it would be a bad thing—I actually think it would be freaking fantastic! But people will know about you then. Everyone will see you two together, and you need to be aware of that.” She stopped jabbering at me for one blissful moment before gasping, clapping wildly, and saying, “Oh, Julia—there might even be paparazzi!”

  “Stop sounding so gleeful.” But her comment made me pause.

  I sure hoped that the paparazzi wasn’t something I’d have to worry about. Dane’s star wasn’t quite as big and bright as it used to be, but he was still very popular in some circles. Perhaps not the current generation’s “It” man—one who inspired hordes of squealing fans to follow him around, chant his name, live and breathe based on his Twitter feed, or demand a constant stream of tabloid photos featuring him. But, like Kristopher had implied, there were still “silly” women like me, in my age group, who would be highly interested in news about him. But probably not enough for actually paparazzi, though…right?

  “I don’t think this event is that big of a deal,” I told Shar. “It’s not as though Dane and I are going out on the town or anything. I’ll just be watching the play again, like you and Elsie and the rest of the audience. Then, afterward, we’ll all be at a private reception a few blocks away. Everyone in attendance will have a reason to be there. It’s just for the Knightsbridge Theater VIPs, along with friends and family of the cast and crew.”

  Shar opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off before she could ask another question. “Dane said there wouldn’t be more than a couple of reporters admitted to the After Party. Only highly vetted ones that the theater knows and trusts. So, it won’t be the obnoxious free-for-all press experience like it was during the dress rehearsal.”

  This information was still not quite enough to pacify my best friend, who seemed convinced that my life was going to change drastically before the end of the weekend. She was positively determined to make sure I was ready for it.

  “Don’t you think you should get a little touch up on your manicure?” she asked, scrutinizing my fingernails. “If you did, you’d be right next to the hair salon. What do you say I make you an appointment for both places?” She looked me up and down, considering my attire. “And, um, what were you planning to wear to the party?”

  I sighed as Shar buzzed around me, making beauty arrangements, speculating on my future, and reminding me of why it was sometimes easier to share secrets with only a journal, for instance, rather than loving but nosy friends.

  ~*~

  For the record, Dane did not send a “special car” to pick me up because one wasn’t needed.

  I drove myself to the Knightsbridge and parked in the lot Dane had told me was reserved for the cast and crew. He also instructed me to text him when I got to the theater, so he could meet me, give me an official parking sticker—“Hey, you could stay here all night if you wanted to now,” he joked—and let me into the building from one of the side doors.

  “There’ll be lots of food at the party,” he told me as we walked to his private dressing room, “but it’s not a sit-down dinner, and it’s still hours away. So, I ordered in some sandwiches for us.” He pointed to a plastic-covered tray, piled with enough sandwiches for at least half a dozen people. There were also several bags of chips and cans of soda. “Anything we don’t eat, I can put in the green room for the other actors.” He paused and met my gaze directly. “And you look stunning, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, silently thanking Shar for insisting that I wear my most elegant dress—white with gold accents. It had a very silky and flowing fabric. Always made me feel just a bit princess-like, but I hadn’t worn it since before Adam’s accident. I put my hand behind my back and rubbed my wedding band. It spun around my finger, not quite ready to twist off but no longer as natural feeling as it had once been.

  “Oh.” He held up a white paper bag and handed it over to me. “I saw Samuel this morning and he sent these for you. I’ll be strung up by my thumbs if I horde them and he finds out, so you’d better take ’em now.”

  I opened the bag to find about three thousand calories worth of brownies and these little cake balls rolled in shredded coconut. They smelled very strongly of…what was it? “Rum?”

  He nodded. “Samuel’s famous rum balls. Potent enough to give someone a hangover, so be forewarned.”

  I laughed. “Well, you’ll have to help me eat them.” I set the bag down. “Maybe we should wait until after your performance, though. Don’t want you getting tipsy and slipping off the stage.”

  “The press would have a field day with that.”

  I glanced around the room. “I’m guessing not everyone has a private dressing area, huh?”

  He shook his head. “There are just a few private ones. A perk of being the headlining actor in this production and the special guest of the theater company. But I mostly hang out with the rest of the cast in the green room or in the wings. They’re a good bunch overall.”

  After having spent so much time with Dane on Monday, I had to admit that it wasn’t nearly as awkward between us as it might have been—a gift for which I was grateful. But, likewise, it wasn’t as easy between us either as it had been in his childhood apartment a few towns away. There was an unexpected fission in the air tonight that I couldn’t account for, except that it seemed in some way connected to being at the theater itself, on the verge of a show.

  “Have a seat, if you’d like,” he said, nodding in the direction of the only comfortable-looking armchair in the room. The rest of the seats were short wooden stools.

  “I will in a minute. I, um, just want to look around.” There were costumes laid out for the different scenes of the play, and a smattering of props. One of them—a pair of handcuffs, used in Act II—was sitting on top of his dressing table, inches from the mirror. I smiled remembering Dane’s part in that scene, which involved a lady in a cop outfit trying to “arrest” him, and how sexually suggestive that whole onstage interaction was.

  He caught me staring at them and picked them up. “Did you want a closer look?” he asked, grinning.

  “Oh, no, that’s not necessary.” I felt myself blush. “I’m just surprised to see the cuffs here with your props. I would have thought the actress who played the phony cop would’ve needed them instead.”

  “Nah. We tried it that way a few times but, because Lana has to do that somersault-ninja move first, we ran into the problem of the handcuffs falling out of her pocket and clanking onto the middle of the stage. Zach, our director, thought it would work better to have me carry them in my jacket and then secretly slip them to her after that gymnastic bit.”

&
nbsp; I hadn’t really put much thought into the details of the choreography, but it occurred to me just then that Dane must be an exceptionally good dancer. Anyone who could remember all of those steps from dozens of scenes and execute them so flawlessly in front of a live audience had to be amazing on the dance floor, too.

  “Was it difficult to learn to do that?” I asked. “To remember all of the actions that accompany the dialogue and where, exactly, you need to be at every moment during the play?”

  “The blocking?” He shook his head. “Not if you’re into the scene deeply enough. I mean, that’s why we practice so many times, to make sure it feels completely natural. Once it does, then our bodies seem to remember how to pair the words with the movements. Like the way our fingers know which notes to play on a musical instrument, even when we may not consciously recall the specific fingering that comes next. If we stopped to think about it, we might get confused and second guess ourselves. But if we just let our fingers go where they were taught to go…well…” He shrugged.

  “Then it’s kinesthetic memory,” I said.

  “Right.” He flicked a small latch on the cuffs and they sprung open. “I can show you. Here, take these.”

  And before I had a chance to protest or even step back, he thrust the handcuffs at me, twirled me in the same move he used on the actress (“Lana,” apparently), and turned himself in front of me so that his hands were crossed behind his back. To an outsider, it would look as though I’d neatly trapped him and was ready to slap cuffs on his wrists.

  “You can put them on me, Julia. Don’t worry.” He laughed. “They’re props. They don’t really lock.”

  “Would serve you right if they did.” I tried to make a joke of it and just play along but, as I snapped the handcuffs on Dane Tyler’s strong wrists and swiveled him around to face me, I couldn’t ignore a spark of something sizzling between us. Something that wasn’t either humorous or a mere game.

  His blue eyes regarded me seriously for a moment before his lips curved into another smile. “Just because they don’t lock doesn’t mean I can get them off easily.” He tugged at the silver restraints.