Chapter Sixteen
I ignore the comments on my Web site asking where’s the footage of my Friday night date with Chris. My viewers all know the date was last night. They were expecting to see how it went. I want to jump for joy in my next video and tell them it went fabulously.
But there will be time for that. For now, I am working on my concession speech. I’m lounging on a deck chair, sunglasses on and Ms. Pac-Man at my feet panting from our tennis ball in the waves session a few minutes ago. I’m trying to find the right mix of humor and contrition. Do I tell my viewers “Sorry, Contest over?” Or do I give a lengthy explanation about my change of heart?
I stare at a blank page on my laptop. I’m not usually at a loss for words. I’m pretty damn fast at whipping out my blogs and assessing outfits with the 1-2-3 snappiness of a sassy cable show host. But when it comes to penning my own truths about the heart? Well, the keyboard might as well be written in a foreign language.
When my phone rings, I am thrilled for the distraction.
Then I see Todd’s name flash across the screen. I would like to ignore him. I really would. But I don’t trust him, and that’s the problem. Untrustworthy people, by their nature, demand attention because they are loose cannons.
“What’s up?” I say in a resigned voice.
Ms. Pac-Man tilts her ears as if she’s listening. I like to think she’s protecting me from him. But then, I don’t think anyone, even if my dog, could have protected me from the damage Todd inflicted with one shot.
“How are you, McKenna?”
“Fine. But you’re not calling to chat, so what is it?”
“I was just thinking,” he begins, and then inserts that pregnant pause that marks all his conversations.
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about how I helped you start The Fashion Hound. Remember?”
When I first came up with the idea for my show, I shared it with Todd and he encouraged me to go for it. He also set up my Web site, bought the domain, and installed my first blog template. He worked in tech PR and he knew his way around the tools of the Internet. I could have done that all myself, but he wanted to help, so I could focus on the writing, and the fashions and finding a talented videographer.
My chest tightens with worry. “Yes. What are you getting at?”
Then I hear a baby cry.
“The baby just woke up from her nap. I’ll call you later.”
He doesn’t call back, and I hate the way I carry my phone around the rest of the afternoon, even as I get ready for another date with Chris. But there was something in Todd’s voice that made me uneasy, and now I have a knot of worry pooling low in my gut. I wish he could leave me alone, so I do a few yoga moves, stretch my neck from side to side, and tell myself everything will be all right.
Then I head to the karaoke bar.
Because tonight, I am with Chris, and I want to only be with Chris. I don’t even want the ghost of my ex infecting this night.
I listen to him adorably bungling his way through Foreigner’s Jukebox Hero in a fetchingly off-key singing voice. He’s wearing jeans and a brown tee-shirt. The design on his shirt is of two ultra-stylized dinosaurs in orange silhouette sparring with each other. I love his taste in clothes.
He sings from the low stage at Gomez Hawks Karaoke Bar, deep in the heart of Japan Town, tucked in a dark corner of the second floor of a mall that’s stuffed with Japanese bookstores, crepe dealers, sushi bars and other assorted Tokyo-flavored shops. Chris finishes his number, does a quick little bow, and bounds off stage to join me at the bar.
“Very nice, Mr. McCormick,” I say, nodding approvingly.
He shrugs. “I have a horrible singing voice.”
“I thought it was cute.”
“Cute blushing, cute singing, pretty lips.”
“Hey! I told you this is all new to me. I’m working on my lines for you.”
“Don’t use lines on me,” he teases.
“So isn’t your sister a Broadway singer or something?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us have her talent. Besides, she has no mechanical aptitude and there’s where I have all my skills.” He cracks his knuckles in a playful way as if to demonstrate his skill with his hands. He does have skill with his hands.
“So when does her show open? Crash the Moon, right?”
“Two more months, I think. I’m going to see it opening night.”
“Well, of course. You have to.”
“I am going to be the one cheering the loudest and longest. Well, all of us will be.” Then he leans his shoulder against mine. “You should come with me.”
“To New York?”
“No. To Istanbul. Yes, New York. That’s where the show is.”
My heart skips a few beats. He’s making plans with me two months from now. “I would love to.”
“Now why don’t you do some cute singing yourself then.” He gestures to the stage.
“I will,” I say, as I toss the list of karaoke songs aside.
Gomez Hawks is a tiny bar, the whole place no bigger than my living room. But it’s low-lit and serves terrific mixed drinks and boasts the biggest and best selection of songs in the city, a list about the size of two New York City phone books put together. That’s why Gomez Hawks is popular and that’s why Chris made a reservation tonight. All the tables are full, all the stools are taken. I begin with a few astronomically off-key “whoa, whoa, whoas” of my own before I launch into the opening lines about Tommy’s work on the docks in Bon Jovi’s anthemic song and karaoke standard.
Immediately, everyone in the bar is singing along, some by memory, others by following the TV screen with the flashing lyrics from the song. Three minutes later, we’re as loud as loud can be finishing the final words of Livin’ on a Prayer in unison. The crowd cheers their approval, despite my lack of harmony, melody and anything in between. But it’s karaoke. You’re not supposed to sing well.
I rejoin Chris at the bar. “How do you think this place got its name?”
“I have a hunch the proprietor was racking his brains for a catchy name, drove past a street named Gomez and then a high school with a football team called the Hawks and mashed them together.”
I laugh. “Is that for real? Do you know that?”
“No, but it sounded plausible, didn’t it?”
“Totally. You know what would be even more fun? If karaoke was a game and you could earn points for songs and hitting the notes or something. Even though I’d suck, I’d still play.”
“Of course you would. You’re even more of a gamer than I am.”
“Not anymore. I’m all ready to call the whole thing off on Monday.”
“Good. Because I can’t stand the thought of anyone else thinking they have a shot for you. I want you all to myself.” He loops his hand around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s a protective kiss, and it feels a bit like ownership. Like he’s claiming me. I don’t mind being his. I don’t mind at all.
“Did you kiss any of the other guys when you were dating the candidates?”
“No. Only you. I told you. I wanted to jump you the second I saw you. Oh wait. That’s what you told me,” I say and I grin.
“I did. I still do.”
“I want that too,” I say in a low voice.
“Yeah?”
“I do. Soon.”
“Like I told you, I’ll wait for whenever you’re ready.”
“But we can do other things…”
He raises an eyebrow. “There are plenty of other things I want to do to you.”
“Like what?”
He’s about to answer when I hear a strain of familiar notes playing from the karaoke machine. I turn to the stage. There’s an older man on stage, graying, and with a paunch. He wears glasses and high-waisted pants, but he has a huge smile on his face. He’s looking at a woman, seated at a table near the front. She has curly gray hair and lines around her eyes. I glance at their hands. Rings on their fingers.
Then he brings the microphone to his mouth and begins doing his best imitation of The King as he sings about fools rushing in. The lyrics swoop into me, and even though he doesn’t sing like Elvis, not even close, the look on his face as he sings to his wife, only to his wife, about how he can’t help falling in love, slays me like it does every time.
I remember one of the last times I heard this song. Driving to The Best Doughnut Shop in the City. The day I fell apart and hid in a bathroom stall. I think back to this afternoon, to the phone call, to the way Todd needles me. I can let him get under my skin, or I can let go of my anger.
Is there really a choice?
Prologue
Present Day
The stars twinkle and the night air is warm as we leave the Tiki Bar and walk slowly up Fillmore. At the top of the hill, I see my friend’s maroon Prius that I’m tasked with driving home tonight. I point to it.
“These are my wheels.” I click on the key to unlock the car. Then I reach for the door handle. But it doesn’t open. I try again. Same thing happens. “Damn. What is up with these hybrids?”
“They have to calibrate to your heart rate.”
“Then how the heck am I supposed to drive it home?”
“I know a trick,” Chris says.
“You do?”
“Want to give me the keys and I’ll show you?” he asks, holding open his palm for me.
But before I can pull away, he closes his fingers over mine, gripping my hand in his. That’s all it takes. Within seconds I am in his arms, and we are wrapped up in each other. His lips are sweeping mine, and I press my hands against his chest, and oh my. He does have the most fantastic outlines in his body. He is toned everywhere, strong everywhere, and I am dying to get my hands up his shirt, and feel his bare chest and his belly. But if I did, I might just jump him right here because I am one year and running without this. Without kissing, without touching, without feeling this kind of heat.
He twines his fingers through my hair, and the way he holds me, both tender and full of want at the same time, makes me start to believe in possibilities. Start to believe that you can try again, and it’ll be worth it. His lips are so soft, so unbearably soft, and I can’t stop kissing him. He has the faintest taste of Diet Coke on his lips, and it’s crazy to say this, but it almost makes me feel closer to him. Or maybe I feel closer because he’s leaning into me, his body is aligned with mine, and there’s no space between us, and I don’t want any space between us. I want to feel him against me, his long, strong body tangled up in mine, even though we’re fully clothed, making out on the street.
He breaks the kiss. “I wanted to kiss you all night.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, that key thing was just an excuse. Sometimes you just have to hit the button a few times to get the car to open.”
I laugh. “So you said that to kiss me?”
He nods. “Totally.”
“I’m glad you tricked me,” I whisper, as he bends his head and kisses my neck, blazing a trail of sweet and sexy kisses down to my throat, and it’s almost sensory overload the way he ignites me. Forget tingles, forget goosebumps. That’s kid stuff compared to this. My body is a comet with Chris. I am a shooting star with the way he kisses me. I don’t even know if I have bones in my body anymore. I don’t know how I’m standing. I could melt under the sweet heat of his lips that are now tracing a line down my chest to the very top of my breasts as he tugs gently at my shirt, giving himself room to leave one more brush of his lips. Before he stops.
He looks at me and the expression on his face is one of pride and lust. He knows he’s turned me inside out and all the way on.
“That was so unfair of me,” he says with a wicked grin. “Getting a headstart like that on all the other candidates.”
How can there be any other guys after a kiss like that? It’s a kiss to end all kisses, it’s a sip of lemonade in a hammock on a warm summer day. It’s a slow dance on hardwood floors while a fan goes round overhead, curtains blowing gently in the open window.
If he feels half as much for me as I do for him, then I want to sail away with him in the moonlight, and that scares the hell out of me. I have to extract myself before I let this go any further. I don’t mean the contact. I mean the way my aching, broken heart is reaching for Chris.