Fanfare (11 page)

I liked him—way too much, way too soon.

I sat back in my chair as the plane took off into the skies and decided that I had five uninterrupted hours to do an extended reality check. It had been a while since I had to do one of those.

In spite of the fact that Tom appeared to be one of the nicest guys I had ever met, I was still not entirely sure how much of the bravado was for real and how much of it was merely his “representative” on its best behavior. Sometimes he seemed a little too good to be true . . . and thinking this way made me invariably want to flog myself. Women complain when men are too bad, and then we proceed to do the same thing on the flip side. It’s like our gender conspires to force its collective entirety into being twisted versions of Goldilocks (I abhorred that fairy tale). We want one that’s juuuust right. Utterly ridiculous.

I hated the next thoughts that ran through my mind, but knew they needed to be dealt with instead of conveniently stored on the upper shelves in my brain’s closet, which now had more crud crammed into it than I cared to fathom. I really wasn’t sure I wanted to date someone famous. I felt like a girl with a lower than average IQ aspiring to make merry with the likes of Albert Einstein. The unflattering comparisons in my mind were endless . . . and humorously cruel. I heard once that you never see a really good-looking guy with a homely girl, but it didn’t seem terribly unusual to witness a beautiful woman with an aesthetically forgettable man.

I might get thrashed for saying this, but I think that many women are so focused on their sense of self-image that they can’t stomach being the question mark in a couple; they prefer to be the exclamation point. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know I’m not hideously unattractive, but a large part of the way we, as a culture, define what is visually desirable is centered on the packaging in its complete form. Thus, it is not good enough to have a beautiful face, one must also have an absurdly tight body poured into the right clothes, accented by the right haircut, the right car, the right makeup, the right shoes, ad nauseum. Exhausting.

And . . . drumroll please . . . on to the Extended Reality Check! Cue cheesy gameshow music.

Fact: Tom is a movie star.

Fact: You’re a social worker.

Fact: Tom is very wealthy.

Fact: You’re a social worker.

Fact: His career takes him to exotic places where he meets people of influence.

Fact: You’re a social worker.

Fact: He wears Prada sunglasses (I saw the label myself).

Fact: The Chinese man in SoHo knows your sunglasses are by Fooey Vuitton.

I stopped to chuckle at the rapid degeneration of my thoughts and vowed to begin again with renewed focus and direction. Deep breath.

Fact: He lives in Los Angeles, California and London, the United Kingdom.

Fact: You live in Raleigh, North Carolina.

Fact: His career is unpredictable and takes him all over the place.

Fact: You can’t be a social worker “all over the place.”

Fact: You have to get on a plane just to see each other.

Fact: He’s surrounded by beautiful, accomplished women everywhere he goes.

Fact: You were hit on twice yesterday by the security guard named Cletise.

Fact: Keeping your sanity and self-esteem intact will take gargantuan effort.

Fact: It’s impossible to have a normal relationship with this man.

I sighed painfully at the last fact. Given all of these rather cringe-worthy issues, it probably made no sense for me to be flying five hours on a plane to spend time with him. Really stupid move, Cristina. I definitely should have insisted on getting a hotel room instead of letting him guilt me into staying at his place since he stayed at Hana and Naz’s in Charlotte. It was definitely true that getting around unseen would be easier if we could stay within his comfort zone rather than try to coordinate field ops from unfamiliar territory. Divide and conquer doesn’t really work when one of you is a beacon of light in a sea of darkness . . . or maybe more like a marked man with an unwavering red laser pointed his head at all times. This was moot anyway. I had already agreed to be a guest in his “flat.”

And there we have it: as should be expected, I was now forced to deal with my biggest hang up. My biggest hang up? All sarcasm pushed temporarily aside . . . it had to be . . . sex.

Being a real estate broker caused Hana to look at a great deal of things from that rather unique vantage point. She always joked that having sex with someone was like painting bricks on a house. Once you go there, you can’t go back . . . the color of the paint forever marred the surface of the bricks in a way that was impossible to eradicate. The paint seeped indelibly into every nook and cranny. No amount of thinner or scrubbing would make a marked difference. The only way to remedy a bad choice in “paint” was to paint over it with another color.

I had one layer of paint on my bricks already. Only one. It had basically stained them irreparably. Even steadily chipping away at the surface with the wide assortment of tools available to my overly analytical mind hadn’t made a dent in the project. I wasn’t sure I was ready to slap on a different color in a sad attempt to hide the trauma of the first. Staying at a man’s “flat” for an entire weekend, and childishly assuming sex wouldn’t be an issue, was completely laughable.

About three months after Ryan tossed my love out the window and drove away like a bat out of hell, my colleague Jennifer had set me up on a date with her cousin Jake. She had assured me he was a wonderful guy with a good job and a great sense of humor. Pushing aside my reflexive desire to gnash my teeth at becoming one of those girls who appeared to need a matchmaker, I agreed half-heartedly to go to lunch with him. I was now a character in Fiddler on the Roof.

He was everything Jennifer promised. Cute and charming . . . and a lawyer, to boot! We shared a plate of nachos and chatted seamlessly for an hour. He asked me to dinner the following weekend and I didn’t hesitate to accept. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all! Even after four years out of commission, I still knew how to wade into the waters of dating.

Little did I know how shark-infested those waters had become.

After dinner, he asked me to come back to his place and watch a movie. I remembered being in college and going to see movies in the room of my freshman crush. It was so innocent! Popcorn, some harmless teasing, and perhaps some sexually repressed tickling and pinching here and there. Completely passive-aggressive . . . and controllable. Thoughtlessly, I acquiesced to Jake’s request. I still felt as though I had the upper hand.

We didn’t even get to the movie. Jake poured me a glass of wine as I walked over to his extensive DVD collection to select the closest thing to a romantic comedy that I could find. Before I knew it, he had wrapped his arms around my waist and begun groping me while nuzzling my neck! I whipped around awkwardly and pushed him away. The look of confusion on his face shocked me. He honestly thought he had done nothing wrong!

When I demanded an explanation, he furrowed his brow at me and said, “Look Cris, I know you haven’t dated in a while, but I like you . . . and I’m pretty sure you like me. What’s the problem?”

In my four short years in Coupleville, men had apparently decided that the only prerequisite for getting laid was the mutual understanding that you “liked one another.” I liked plenty of people; hopping into the sack with every one of them was not the logical next step. I had wordlessly collected my things and left.

The following day at work, Jennifer wouldn’t talk to me. When I finally couldn’t stand it anymore, I asked quietly why she was shooting daggers at me from her cubicle. She pressed her lips together and perused me with an expression that suggested my presence forced her to suck on figurative lemons before replying.

“Jake told me that he had a great time with you, and you agreed to go back to his place. He said you freaked out when he tried to kiss you. What’s the deal with you anyway? Why did you even say you would go back to his place if you were going to go all prude on him? It’s not nice to lead a guy on.”

I hadn’t even bothered to respond. Apparently, my behavior was distasteful to women as well. How shitty was my life at that moment? Pretty shitty.

So, if Jake the Rake thought the mere existence of likeability led to an inevitable dance of the horizontal mambo, I had no idea what Tom thought about me staying in his apartment for the entire weekend.

The scariest thought of all when it came to my “biggest hang up” was that he would write me off as soon as he discovered what an apparent prude I was. It had stung a bit that Jake lost interest in me after he learned that I wasn’t going to have sex with him anytime soon—if ever. It would be devastating to realize that this was the case with Tom as well. It briefly made me wonder how many lonely girls had smiled through their teeth at men like Jake and let them get what they wanted to ensure a phone call the next day from the hormonal predators. Men are essentially wanton degenerates.

Part of me desperately wished I lived in a different time and place where issues like having sex on the second date were not even a consideration. Like, for instance, Jane Austen’s era. Polite letters and stimulating dialogue laced with mildly suggestive innuendo would be all that were expected of me. Fans of Austen were always obsessed with Fitzwilliam Darcy and his angst-ridden love for Elizabeth Bennet. I honestly had a stronger passion for George Knightley, erstwhile critic of Emma Woodhouse. I loved how he constantly confronted her and forced her to see beyond the limitations of her own ego and circumstance. I’d take a Knightley over a Darcy any day. I didn’t want to be rescued . . . I wanted to be challenged.

Of course, I doubted a woman in the world of Jane Austen had ever been inundated by the scent of sandalwood and soap emanating from the skin of an incredibly sexy man . . . or felt the stubble on his chin brush against her forehead as he held her rather shockingly tight in his arms. Yeah, Austen might have reworked some of her tales, at least in her head, if she could have witnessed the glorious evolution of men in Britain as they moved ever closer to their zenith. Tom was getting pretty damn close, if you asked me.

I sighed as the simple truth washed over me. All I could be was myself, for better or worse. If he didn’t like me for my prudish self, then good riddance. I would deal with the pain later. Alone.

Not wanting to dwell inordinately on those bitter thoughts, I decided to switch on my nifty personal television and find something to watch. Since fate often manages to take hold of situations like these, I found my finger poised ironically over the movie that had recently launched Tom’s stardom. Tom as a brooding ghost in love. Wasn’t that movie already made back in the 80s? With a sly grin, I decided I should probably check it out.

Tom on the silver screen was utterly charming . . . and even more unattainable. He acted with the ease of a man completely devoid of pretense. The fact that he portrayed a spirit experiencing the pangs of unrequited love only served to mock me further. Ugh.

Right before I arrived at LAX, I drank a really strong cup of espresso. The plane was landing a little bit before 7:30 at night in Los Angeles, but it was 10:30 back home. I didn’t want to fall apart in a few hours and snore unflatteringly on the sofa. Popping a piece of gum in my mouth to hide the traveler’s breath and espresso remnants, I collected my things to deplane.

Before leaving, Hana had insisted that I arrive at LAX in the true fashion of a celebrity. She wanted me to wear her insanely large sunglasses and loop scarves around my neck to shield myself from the unbearably cold weather that California was famous for having. I chuckled as I remembered her tongue-in-cheek description of the ideal ensemble and took a final look at my dark leggings and thigh-grazing tunic to make sure everything was where it should be. Not glamorous, just comfortable. Tom already knew that my love of fashion was relegated to the racks of Target and T.J. Maxx. If I had the money to afford better clothes, I would probably buy them; I just didn’t have the money. So I made do with what I could afford and spruced it up with jewelry and a sunny smile. Hah.

The sun was just beginning to set as I walked through the glass doors leading into the warm night air. I took a deep breath and scanned the line of cars and taxis waiting with blinking lights and craning necks. White Merc with a bad tint job, and then I saw it. Hidden near a bend in the queue, an old, beat-up white Mercedes with windows so dark they appeared to be completely black sat noticeably silent and still in the mix of cars and people. It was trying painfully hard to remain unnoticed. I grinned to myself as I walked carefully towards the automobile. It had to be him or else I was about to scare the hell out of some random person taking a nap.

I tapped my knuckle against the windshield. The passenger door swung open with a grating sound that made me wish I had a spray can of WD-40 in my pocket. I tossed my suitcase and carry-on bag into the backseat, slid quickly into the car, and pulled the door closed behind me.

As I turned to smile broadly at Tom and say something sarcastic about his ride, the words died on my tongue when he leaned in swiftly towards me and pressed his warm lips right below the base of my left ear in a heart-stoppingly seductive move.

Speechless, I merely stared at him with wide eyes and my mouth slightly ajar.

He chuckled warmly as he sat back up and pushed the key into the ignition. “Welcome to L.A., beautiful.”

Chapter Nine

“I see now why you were so appalled by my driving. It’s incredibly frightening when you’re actually getting somewhere,” I teased.

“Sod off!” He grinned.

“Yeah, I’m not sure what that means. I’ll assume it means you agree with me. Seriously . . . how old is this piece?”

“I bought it for three thousand bucks two years ago. I think it’s from the early nineties. I hate cars. Well, I like looking at them. I hate driving them,” he replied with a bemused expression on his face.

“Three thousand bucks? Dude, you were had!”

“It’s diesel. I actually felt pretty damn smug when no one could find gas in L.A. for less than twenty bucks a gallon,” he said.