Caribbean Crossroads (6 page)

Clint talked earnestly with Bryant at the front of the stage while Megan noticed Marvy trying to scoot some prop boxes to the side, her hand discreetly rubbing her back.

Megan walked towards her. “Here, let me get some of those big ones,” she said, to which Marvy smiled appreciatively. Within a few minutes the boxes were tucked away as Marvy wanted and with a genuine thank you, she left with the last few stragglers, one of them being Bryant.

Megan looked around. Good. The less people who saw her, the better. Just to be sure, she slipped out the side door and entered the restroom. After waiting a few minutes she exited, reentering the now empty theater, and scanned for signs of life.

No one. She breathed normally.

After dropping her bag at the top of the stage, she took her first mark for the salsa dance and began counting in her head. She twisted briskly across the stage, switching from a meringue to a salsa to a mambo step, pretending she had a partner. The tricky part came when switching from the 1-2 count of the salsa to the 4-1 count of the mambo. Twice she stumbled, and at the same place—usually where Tag stood.

Back to the starting point, Megan focused on her counting, crossing in a grapevine step while twisting her hips, arms raised in front as if led by a partner, until she slammed into a body.

“What in the—” She fell back while Bryant caught her.

“You’ve got too much twist on the wrong beat,” said Bryant, with his condescending surfer smile. “And you’re watching your feet.”

Megan stood facing him, humiliated and not knowing how to take his advice. Why was he really here? Was he worried about her messing up the show? “So, you sideline as a ‘Dancing with the Stars’ coach?”

“That’s right. I’m just here working on my tan.” He didn’t move. “Want some help?”

She noticed another knick she hadn’t seen on his neck. “Do you teach like you shave?”

“Do you dance like you talk? Come here.” He took her hand and pulled her over to the middle of the stage. Megan felt a familiar heat rising in her face.

He grasped her right hip with one hand, took her other hand in his, and pushed her forward in the right direction, then pulled her back. After a few moments he switched the count, directing her to cross sideways, both of them moving slowly in the grapevine, then to the salsa through the change-up of the mambo. Briefly but accurately he directed her with short commands—“Wait, cross. Not yet. Go with me”—his eyebrows were slightly bent in concentration.

At first she tried not to look up, out of embarrassment, and confusion. In her soul, she didn’t want his help. Or to be this close to him. Or to feel his hands on her hips. But his direct manner felt strong and reassuring. What was it about him that was so immediately disarming?

Thoughts dueled inside her head: I am here to dance, not to date. I don’t even want to date. And we can’t date anyway. He’s a performer, so he’s a player. He’s the wrong type. It’s the wrong time. It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Wow, he smells good.

After the fourth pass, they were up to speed and Megan had successfully and easily crossed without one stumble. They repeated the pattern a few more times. Relief, lovely relief stole through her—she could do this. For the first time she felt a small excitement about performing tomorrow.

“You’re actually quite good,” she said, forgetting to dislike him. “I mean, not like Fred Astaire good.”

“Okay. I appreciate that.” They stopped in the middle of the stage, letting go of one another.

“No, I mean, you’re more like a Gene Kelly. Very athletic when you dance, not so much the flair thing. More manly.”

Oops.

“Manly?”

“Um, yes.” Megan escaped toward the top of the stage for her water bottle. Bryant followed her.

     Why was he following her? Why were her hands shaking?

Stop it. I can handle this. Just a little friendly chitchat with a cast member—a very normal, social thing to do, right? And Jillian would be happy, and leave her be for five minutes.

“So, a little curious, how does a basketball star get into dancing?” she said, trying to sound casual.

He raised his eyebrows. “Basketball star—who’s been listening to gossip?”

“It’s not exactly a secret.” Bryant eyed her water bottle, and Megan paused, then wiped it on the bottom of her T-shirt before handing it to him.

“Girl’s germs?” he said in a mocking tone, taking a swig. “It started with Mom. She heard ballet was good for football—that was before basketball. Then the teacher said that I was good—not
Fred Astaire
good—”

Megan made a mocking face.

“—and she needed more guys for the recital. We just had to lift and turn in a circle, not so bad. One thing led to another, and I found out I could get a scholarship if I tried out for some Young Stage Stars group. Badaboom, I’m dancing and singing in the rain. Surprising what you’ll do for money.”

Megan used her towel to dab her face and neck. “And what else would that include?”

He thought for a moment. “A summer at a theme park as a Wiggle—”

“—ouch—”

“—and being demoted to Dorothy the Dinosaur when a co-worker got heat stroke—I think on purpose.”

“You danced around in a dino costume?”

“And sang. To children who pelted me with French fries and cried when I waved at them.” He handed back the bottle. “In 103 degree heat, in a costume with one ventilation flap, for minimum wage.”

“Mmm. And how was that?”

“My definition of hell.” 

“And so now,” she said, “do you
like
dancing?”

“What does that mean? You think I wear tights on the off-hours or something? Of course I’d rather be playing ball. I just can’t make the same money—no offers.”

They were basic questions, really, but underneath his relaxed countenance there was an undercurrent of frustration, a tightening of his face. Had she said something wrong? 

“No, I’m just saying, you just don’t seem like a dancer,” said Megan, speaking more candidly than she desired. “The cruise ship—for some reason, it doesn’t seem like your kind of gig.”

“Oh, this,” said Bryant, shaking his head. “It’s for my family who thinks this is my last chance to . . . well, connect with ‘good Christian up and coming young people.’” There it was again—a lightness but edged with anger. “So what’s your story?”

Her story. Where did she start? Did she even want to? “Favor to a friend,” she finally said. It was a safe answer. He cocked his head, with an expression that made her feel like he’d x-rayed her soul, like he knew more than he opted to say.

“And that friend with the favor—is that Jillian, of the Jillian and Derek duo?” he asked.

“The same.”

“Looks like you’ll be solo mio, doing a lot of buffet lines, watching a lot of basketball. At least I would be.”

“Only if it’s the Knicks.”

“The Knicks?” He shook his head. “Maybe thirty years ago. The only game in town—in any town—is the Lakers, baby.”

Megan looked incredulous. “The Lakers? Half their players run the court in a walker.” 

He folded his arms over his chest. “Seventeen-time NBA champs versus what, two-time wannabes?”

“Their team is deep this year, and with the new drafts, they’re poised to win and you know it.” She stepped closer to him, hands on her hips.

“Too early to tell. It’s all predictions until preseason.”

“But high expectations—and they’ll deliver,” said Megan. He looked down at her, eyes almost laughing again.

Brittany walked into the theater, toting a costume piece, and Megan instinctively stepped back. That same nervousness washed over her. Quickly, she bent down to grab her things.

“Well, I better go.” Megan moved, leaving him standing alone. “Promised I’d be somewhere. Thanks for everything.” She crossed the stage with a quick “Hi,” to Brittany who wore a pleasant but familiar piercing expression. After opening the theater door Megan glanced back at Bryant, still standing on the stage watching her, arms folded with that half-smiling arrogant expression on his face. She’d seen that expression before—that knowing look, that sureness. Someone else had smiled at her that way—like he knew her, and how to reach her, and would eventually reach her in the end.

And that someone had hurt her. A lot.

Megan slammed the theater door shut and strode down the hallway. 

She would not fall. Not again. Not ever.

CHAPTER FOUR

Megan pursed her lips in frustration—railroaded by Jillian again. She had planned to arrive right at two o’clock to a dark cinema room but Jillian had found her intentionally hiding out at the small cafeteria rather than the crowded buffet line, and had shepherded her to the movie a half hour early.

That was meddling Jillian, who didn’t understand that this was a new Megan. It was too soon for her to fraternize with the enemy—way too soon. She would not—repeat not—get anywhere close to caring, especially for one of these Premier Performer types. She’d learned her lesson and things were different now. Much better to spend her time on safe pursuits, like not falling on stage, rather than falling for some guy. 

Entering the small gray room, Megan saw about 30 theater-style seats with over half of them full. Most of the cast and crew—and some others she didn’t recognize—were seated in three and four rows, laughing and talking. Megan looked for a seat farthest from the fray. Jillian tugged her towards Chalise, who was sitting by Brittany and several others on one side, with open seats on the other.

Thinking of an excuse, Megan allowed herself to be momentarily led. As they closed in on the row, she said, “Um, I’ll just see about popcorn.” A perfect time to bolt.

“Oh, Bryant went to get some, don’t worry,” said Chalise, pointing to the empty seat next to her, and the rest of the row. It was then Megan saw a man’s jacket.

Bryant? Megan remembered her feelings slamming the theater door.

It’s all right. Be cool, be distant. Hostile if necessary.

Jillian nudged her towards Chalise. “I’m sitting with my handsome man, I just wanted to drop her by.” She pulled a face—“Megan’s being
social
today.”

Megan sat down hard. Awkward conversation for the next 30 minutes between Bryant, Brittany
Shay
, and Chalise—lovely.

Just as Megan finished small talk hellos with the girls and settled back, Bryant walked in balancing complimentary bags of popcorn and large soda cups. Chad came to his rescue and took some for the row behind them—he was sitting with someone she recognized from the sound crew.

When Bryant approached their row, he paused, then continued, stepping around Megan as she stood to make room.

“Sorry, let me lean back here,” she said, scooting back as far as she could. He faced her, side stepping, looking down only inches from her face, squeezing popcorn and soda between them. As he divided the spoils, Megan could have sworn she saw Brittany looking over every few minutes, though it could have been to talk to Chalise, which she did frequently.

Settling in, Bryant passed Megan popcorn.

Feeling his body close to her, warm and solid, she decided to jump straight to hostile.

“I don’t like popcorn,” she said.

He gave her a look. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

She returned the look.

“Fine, take this,” he said, handing her a soda cup.

She took the soda cup, wiped the straw tip with her finger and took a quick sip, trying to ignore his sun on skin smell.

Why did he affect her so much, make her feel so ready to let down? Megan tried to sort through her own confusion. She kept trying to compare him to Jackson, but he didn’t seem so much like that. Instead, he was so familiar to her in another way …

Sam. That’s right, he reminded her of Sam. Megan’s eyebrows lifted. That’s all it was. A yearning for home. But she’d never yearned for home, not even at college. She frowned. This didn’t make sense. Well, it didn’t have to, because it wasn’t going to be anything. Like a mantra she repeated to herself: Be cool. Be distant. Nothing personal.

Bryant leaned over to Chalise and Brittany, then turned back to her. She tensed.

“So, heard anything about the movie?”

“Yes, it has subtitles, so you should be okay,” she said. The sarcasm hung in the air. Megan swallowed. She was not handling this well. Couldn’t the movie start already? Couldn’t he smell like something other than ocean surf? Couldn’t he be ugly?

Bryant stared steadily at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. He moved the soda straw toward himself, briefly touching her fingers in the exchange, then obviously wiped the top and sipped. It was a mimicking gesture. She got it and couldn’t help a small grin. His laughing eyes knew she got it, which only irritated her more. They’d barely talked and now they were sharing private silent jokes?

Not going to happen, she reminded herself. Refusing to give him any other satisfaction, she stared defiantly at the blank movie screen.

Chad leaned forward in his seat. “I think it’s a movie about these two people who like each other but can’t get along, so they move farther and farther away, only to end up at the same place.”

“It’s a knock-off,” said Megan. “Sounds like
The Great Divorce
.”

“The what?” said Chad. “I haven’t seen that one.”

“It’s not a movie,” said Bryant, “it’s a book. C.S. Lewis. The bus scene, right?” He turned to Megan.

She tried not to look impressed. “Did you read that on SparkNotes?”

“Actually, I read it all the way through, sounding out the big words.”

A laugh escaped her, she couldn’t help it. He just smiled as she took a few kernels of popcorn to cover her momentary lapse.

Leaning in closely, he half-whispered, “So, what’s with the hostilities?”

His breath tickled her neck. She fought to ignore it. “Hostilities? I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is basic conversation.”

He shook his head. “No, this is enemy territory. It’s like talking with the Berlin Wall.”

“The Berlin Wall? You
do
know it came down a few years ago?”

“Yeah, somehow you didn’t get the memo.” He offered the popcorn bag.