He takes a step back and I notice his gleaming eyes studying the length of my body. Remembering I am supposed to be Dahlia London, the interviewer, I try to push the wanton girl aside and replace her with the professional one. However, trying to manage multiple personalities has never been easy for me. I drop my eyes to escape his power and begin to speak a mash of garbled words that make very little sense even to me. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry, thank you, and oh shit.”
Shifting my gaze into the room, embarrassed by my lack of professionalism, I somehow manage to look at him again. I take in his faded jeans, black Doc Marten boots, and gray t-shirt with the word Fender scripted across in black. He’s still so overwhelmingly attractive. He looks just how I remember him; no, he looks even better. The guy I had talked to one night at a bar five years ago is now a man.
Still grinning, he chuckles and crosses his arms. “No apology necessary, that’s the kind of crash I wouldn't mind having every day.”
Giving him a polite nod, I continue to stand there, and I’m wondering if he really doesn’t remember me.
“Let me get your bags for you,” he says as he takes hold of the items in my hand. Crossing into the room, he sets my black messenger bag on the table in front of us and then, picking up my suitcase, he casually walks to the corner of the room and sets it next to his guitar case, which is leaning against the wall. I can’t help but notice his walk is still a sway and still full of confidence.
Turning around, he strides back to the conference table, showing no sign of recognition and I begin to feel a little deflated. He stops at the table where I first saw him and we stand across from each other, the table as our divide.
Glancing at my suitcase and pointing to the glass wall he asks, “Are you sleeping here? Because there isn’t much privacy.”
I let out a soft laugh and he chuckles to himself.
Trying to decide if I should mention we have met before, I decide against it. I’m not sure he remembers me; actually I’m pretty sure he doesn’t, so why further embarrass myself?
Garnering all of my composure and remembering I’m here to do a job, I remove my jacket and stand up straight, extending my hand. “Hello, I am Dahlia London from Sound Music. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
River extends his hand to meet mine, and I think I see a little glimmer in his eyes but I’m not sure. “Dahlia, hmmm . . . a flower. Well it’s nice to finally meet you,” he remarks as his lopsided grin returns.
“Aerie has been texting me your location for the past hour,” he says glancing at his phone.
“You already know who I am, so we can skip that part of the introductions. Agreed?” he asks smirking, as he sits down and motions for me to do the same.
“Sounds great,” I say, sitting down and taking in this man in his entirety. Reflecting back to that night so long ago, which now seems like yesterday, I try to see through his words. His words make me start to question my first impression that he doesn’t remember me. So does he or doesn’t he? Is he playing with me? Well this time around, I’m not playing a game. This is a business meeting, so let’s get down to business. With that thought, I unzip my bag, take out my tablet, pen, and paper, and avoid looking into his eyes at all costs.
Glancing around the room, I notice the stark surroundings. The room houses simply a conference table, chairs, and a credenza. There is no white board, no easel, nothing to make notes on. Pulling a larger tablet and colored pencils from my bag, I place them in the center of the table. River looks inquisitively at the items. “For our final layout,” I say with a grin.
Leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his neck, River responds mischievously, “Whatever you say. As long as I’m not the one drawing, anything goes.”
“I won’t grade you on your inability to draw a simple diagram,” I retort, giving him a half-grin of my own.