Fanfare (34 page)

He was busy scribbling his name on every piece of paper shoved in his face. I tried again to move forward, but it was impossible to gain enough momentum to push through the crowd.

Nevertheless, I fought for every inch.

“Tom!” I screamed again.

He didn’t even look up as a woman shoved a camera in his face and grabbed hold of his neck for a self-portrait. His security guard disentangled the lady’s arms from around Tom and pulled him away from the line of people directly in front of me.

“Tommy!” I cried out again in desperation.

“Come back!” another voice begged. “Please! I want your autograph!”

He didn’t even turn around as he was directed towards the press contingency.

It was too late.

The tears welled, but I refused to give up. I tried to move towards the flashing cameras, but my efforts were futile.

Before I had even made it ten feet in that direction, he turned to give the crowd a quick wave, and then followed Melissa Nash through the double doors and into the theater.

He was gone.

I stood in place and absorbed that fact as the crowd shifted its attention to the arrival of the newest celebrity.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I squeezed my eyes shut and turned away. I began walking. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew that I needed to keep moving. I didn’t even look around me as I willed my feet forward, step by step. The lights of New York twinkled in my periphery, and I could hear raucous laughter and the intermittent cry of colorful expletives, but these sounds and sights were slightly dulled by the sensation of recent events.

An hour later, the fog cleared . . . slowly but surely.

I continued to walk with my head down and my hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket.

Inhale. Exhale.

I tried.

I fought.

Until I was certain of the impossibility, I didn’t give up.

I took a chance. I took a risk. I made a senseless decision.

And I didn’t regret it at all. Not one bit.

With the healing power of this realization, I glanced up at the night sky and took my hands out of my pockets. In the distance, large trees loomed before me. Trees? In Manhattan? Central Park. Without hesitation, I shifted towards the beautiful cherry blossoms.

I slowed down and peered around. There were people everywhere. Some were taking their dogs for a walk, and others exercised on rollerblades or skateboards. Cheerful banter filled the air. I moved towards a bench situated between cherry trees and sat down. With every breeze, soft white petals cascaded to the ground and encircled me in their midst. They danced with abandon and fought to weave through each zephyr with graceful tenacity.

Straight ahead was a curve in the road. Strangely, I didn’t feel the urge to see where it led. I smiled and looked up again. This was happiness, too. Maybe it wasn’t the best kind of happiness I could imagine, but I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I felt a lasting sense of contentment sitting on this bench in Central Park. I had forgotten this kind of peace existed over the last few weeks. I tried. I didn’t let fear motivate my decisions. I didn’t let the threat of unpredictability overcome me. Tom would be proud . . . I lived outside of my head.

Gone was the shameful coward who only hoped her failures would never come back to haunt her. This time, I gained control by relinquishing it. Chuckling to myself, I thought about the fact I should have felt overwhelmed by all that happened to me today.

Instead, I was at peace. I was alone, and this time I was the only person I could hold responsible for that fact. This knowledge was incredibly liberating.

I sat on the bench and watched everything around me for a long time. As the spring air grew chillier, I pulled my jacket tighter and thought more about Tom.

One day, I hoped I would see him again so I could apologize in person for what I did. I wanted to explain everything to him because I had never been granted that level of honesty from Ryan. Tom deserved to have every question answered. I swore I would give that to him if he wanted it.

One day, I hoped I could tell him how much he meant to me . . . how much of an impact he had on my life. Most importantly, how much I loved him.

I retrieved my purse and left the park, full of peaceful gratitude.

“Times Square Marriott,” I said to the cab driver after settling into my seat.

My phone buzzed.

Hana (12:13 am): i’m dying here! what happened?

Me (12:13 am): Nothing. I was too late.

Hana (12:13 am): !! r u ok?

Me (12:13 am): I’m perfectly fine.

Hana (12:13 am): where have u been?

Me (12:14 am): Central Park

Hana (12:14 am): r u sure ur ok?

Me (12:14 am): I’m positive. I’ll call u tomorrow. J

Hana (12:14 am): ok, i’m proud of u

Me (12:14 am): I’m proud of me too.

I smiled to myself.

I retrieved my room key at the front desk and made my way lethargically to the elevators. The reflection of the girl in the doors was an interesting one. Her hair was frazzled, her clothes were in complete disarray, and her makeup was smudged and useless. Her physical appearance contrasted sharply with the serene expression on her face. There were no more wrinkles on her forehead. I wiped away the ruined eyeliner and exhaled at the woman before me. She was strong and at peace.

Wearily, I shoved the card key into the door. I groaned whenever it didn’t work immediately. All I wanted was to fall onto a pillow and sleep. I wasn’t afraid of my dreams anymore. I mashed on the door handle and entered the hotel room. The lights were on already.

I exhaled slowly after pressing my back against the door. Gingerly, I slid my tired body to the ground and allowed myself a release of painless tears. They didn’t burn, and they didn’t ache. They were cathartic.

My phone buzzed again.

Gita (12:42 am): Hana called me. Just wanted to tell you I love you.

Me (12:42 am): I love you too.

Gita (12:42 am): Sleep well.

I grinned in thanks and wiped away the last remaining tears before hauling myself into a standing position. With stumbling footsteps, I walked down the short hallway intent on my single-minded purpose of leaping into bed, fully clothed.

The room came into view . . .

. . . and I screamed involuntarily.

Standing between the two queen sized beds . . . was a movie star.

He was still dressed in his wrinkled grey suit, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. There was a glimmer of a thin, silver chain around his neck. His sunglasses hid his eyes from me, and he looked every inch of what he was: glamorous and unattainable.

“What . . . how . . . what?” I stammered. The fatigue I had been battling only moments before disappeared in a flash of panicked confusion. My entire body felt alive.

“Melissa . . . saw you at the premiere. I didn’t know it at the time, but she spent the entire movie calling in favors. It turns out one of my security detail has a friend with the NYPD. He tracked you down.”

The sound of his voice distracted me from any attempt at coherence.

“Oh,” I breathed.

“What are you doing here?” he said quietly.

“I should think that would be rather obvious.”

The right corner of his lip twitched minutely in remembrance. “It’s not.”

“I . . . I wanted to tell you something. Today, I lived outside of my head, and it was wonderful.”

He waited patiently.

“I don’t want to make sense anymore. I want to be happy. When I really stopped to think about it, I realized I’m happiest when I’m with you,” I continued.

He looked down at the ground and took a deep breath.

“I know I have no right to do this to you, and I want you to know that no matter what, I promise to live life to its fullest. I’m an incredibly lucky woman, and I appreciate how rare it is to be given the gifts I’ve been given. I swear to you, regardless of what happens here tonight, I’ll live my life to its fullest . . . I’ll laugh loudly, curse emphatically, and cry with passion.”

He sighed and reached up to remove his sunglasses. He tossed them onto the bed and pressed his palms to his face. An onerous moment later, his hands fell to his sides. When he glanced up, I saw the eyes of the man I loved for the first time in too long.

They were . . . torn, but I didn’t see the colorless devastation I had feared for weeks.

“Why did you leave, Cristina?”

A fair question. I took a small step forward before I spoke. “I was ashamed of myself, and I didn’t have the courage to face you.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“You don’t walk out on those you love.” His expression hardened with this statement.

“Yes.”

“I thought you of all people would know that,” he said softly.

“Yes,” I choked.

He paused before proceeding. “Why were you ashamed of yourself?”

I hesitated. “Because, I was afraid . . . of everything. I’ve found that where there’s fear, there’s also shame.”

To my astonishment, I saw the trace of a smile on his face. “You’ve always been good with words.”

“Here’s hoping.”

He studied me unabashedly. “So, you swore to live life to the fullest, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I want you to swear something else . . . that you won’t ever walk out on someone you love without a damn good explanation,” he asked.

“I swear,” I replied with unmistakable conviction. “But, I also have a request. Well, it’s actually more like a confession.”

“You don’t need to confess to me. I’m not a priest, and I’m also at fault in this . . . as my father pointed out to me numerous times.”

“No. I need to be honest with you about everything. I make lots of mistakes, and I have a tendency to want control and order in my life. Sometimes, I make terrible decisions, and then I struggle to figure out what to do in the aftermath. Yes, I will swear to live life, but . . . I’m also selfish. I want more. I want to love life in every way, and . . . you are what makes that possible for me.”

I inhaled and closed my eyes to collect my courage. The moment of truth. “I love you, Thomas Abramson. You make my life whole. There are many things I could ask for of this world, but the only thing I will ask for . . . is to be with you.”

My words hung in the air and echoed off every surface like the peeling tolls of a bell. I held my breath and stared up at the man in front of me. His face was impossible to read, and he appeared to be struggling with his unspoken thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “Well then . . . be with me.”

Without thinking, I ran towards his outstretched arms and buried my face into his chest.

“Ow!” I cried as something sharp stabbed into my cheek. “What is that?”

He looked down at me without responding, and his eyes were pools of light and warmth. I curled my fingers in his hair and stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured into his lips. “So very sorry!”

“Stop it,” he chuckled. “I know you’re sorry. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore.” He embraced me tightly, pressed his face into my skin, his actions a perfect reflection of his assertion.

As we kissed, my fingers fell onto the silver chain at his neck. Curious by this new adornment, my hand traced down its length, and I lifted the trinket hidden under his shirt into view.

Hanging from the chain was my ring. My imperfect, perfect ring.

Words would have marred the significance of this gesture, so I let the ring fall back against his chest and rested my palm over his heart.

He pulled me to him and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“I love you,” he said clearly.

They were the three most beautiful words I had ever heard in my life.

They were my perfect happiness.

Epilogue

“And the Oscar goes to . . .”

Tom’s hand squeezed mine tightly. Hollywood held its breath, and the silence was so deafening that I swore I heard Catherine Zeta-Jones’s enormous diamond earrings tinkling in front of me. I still could not believe it was possible for me to reach out and touch Michael Douglas.

“Thomas Abramson, for Copland!”

The sound of the applause was overwhelming as I leapt to my feet. Tom’s hands were grabbed from all sides, and the muscles in my face strained from the wide breadth of my smile. He yanked me against him for one heart-stopping moment, and then turned to walk awkwardly towards the stage.

The applause died down to a smattering as he clutched hold of the golden statuette and bent to speak into the microphone.

“Bravo, Thomas!” I heard the booming voice of Patrick Abramson from somewhere behind me.

Tom laughed. “Thanks, Dad.” Anne whistled loudly in response.

“First, I . . . this is so surreal. I want to thank you all very much for believing in this film. It was an amazing experience for me, and I have to admit that I’m only as good as the material I’m given. This was such a collaborative effort, and I have to thank the director, the screenwriter, the producer, and everyone involved for putting together such a wonderful project. I’d also like to thank Aaron Copland’s family for their insight and encouragement.”

He ran his hand nervously through his hair, and my painful smile grew even more.

“Of course, I must thank my family. My parents, Anne . . . without you, I’d probably be a starving musician living on beans, coffee, and tobacco.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.

In the past, I used to think real love was anti-capitalistic.

I believed love, as the modern world understood it, was an endless siege fueled by the impossibility of healthy co-dependence.

One person always gave. One person always took.

Selflessness and selfishness.

I was wrong.

Real love is unto itself. For every person, it’s different, and no one can presume to explain its complexity using mere words.

For me, love comes down to the moments of pure, unadulterated happiness in your life.

“And finally . . . Cris.” Tom paused to grin crookedly and then shifted his eyes to mine.

“Tu eres la luz de mi vida.”

Somewhere above me, I knew my father was smiling.