Caribbean Crossroads (7 page)

Yes, definitely like Sam. Pressing her lips to stifle another laugh, she reached over and scooped more kernels as a distraction. Their fingers touched momentarily again and she instinctively moved them away.

Be cool. He’s just a cast member, Megan told herself. Talk normally. “Okay, I have a non-hostile question for you,” she said.

“Shoot.”

“Why the letter ‘t’ at the end?”

“Of what?”

“Your name. Why not stick with Bryan?” She seriously wanted to know.

He paused, chewing and thinking. “Actually, in all my 27 years, no one has ever asked me that.”

Twenty-seven? He was
27 years old
? What was he still doing singing on a cruise ship? Loud warning sounds blared in the back of her mind. Not your type. Be distant.
Run
.

“And exactly who do you hang out with?” she said.

“College jocks. Community Ed rejects. Power tripping construction workers.”

“Well, that explains it. What did you major in, He-Man Welding?”

“No, Berlin—Mechanical Engineering. With a minor in Rec Management.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that’s not a real minor. That’s for people who can’t do fractions, who live to river run until they die—I mean literally raft until they keel over into the river.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard it described that way.” He settled farther down into the seat, his round muscular shoulder pressing against her smaller one. “So, Madame Curie, what’s your major—Nuclear Physics?”

“Psychology,” she said. What was she
doing
? Way too personal. Keep it distant. Rude. Sarcastic. Fight!

“And that is a
real
major?” he said. “It’s the quickest degree you can get.”

“It wasn’t my first choice, but some of us have to put ourselves through school.”

“I know how that goes,” he said.

Surprised, Megan took that in. Beautiful surfer boy had to work to go to school? Softened momentarily by what it implied, she added, “I’d actually thought to go into law. But I don’t like the industry. Then I considered counseling, but I work at a temp agency, which is a lot like counseling. You get tired of hearing people whine. You just want to tell them to suck it up and go to work.”

“You’re right. Counseling is not for you.” He shook the bag for her. “And now, what are your plans?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly.

Warning! Warning! Too close!

“Hypocrite. Here you seem all put together and you’re not.”

“So sue me.” She looked at him. Putting a popcorn piece to her mouth, she stopped. Crackling. His blue eyes conducted an actual energy she could feel, sparking like a bright blue fire.  

From her peripheral view, Megan saw Brittany lean forward—ostensibly to get something from her purse—and glance their way. Reflexively, Megan stuffed the entire handful of popcorn in her mouth then shoved both hands in her lap. She did
not
want anyone getting the wrong idea.

Someone asked Bryant a question from the row in front and he leaned forward. She tried not to notice the details; the ripple of his Polo shirt when he moved; the broadness of his shoulders, the profile of his forehead down to his jaw.

The room went dark and the opening trailer began. “Man, these bags are small. More popcorn, anyone?” said Bryant as he stood up. 

Turning, his foot caught in Megan’s purse loop and he almost went down, saving himself by putting both hands on either side of Megan’s seat, but with the rest of his popcorn landing squarely in her lap.

“Oh, sorry about that—” but he was trying not to laugh as he said it, his face only inches from hers in the movie light. Trying to move, he stepped on her open toes.

“Ouch!” said Megan, trying to move and only getting closer to his face.

The row behind him called out—“Yo, get down,” and, “Get a room, this is the good part.”

“It’s the credits, give me a break,” said Bryant. In the dark he whispered, “Sorry, Megan.”

Hearing him speak her name—unreasonably, a string of goose bumps flashed up her spine. She shook her head to clear her mind, which he took differently and apologized again, finally extricating himself from the situation.

Foregoing the extra popcorn, he sat down and let it be, although she heard him chuckle a few minutes later, which seemed to have nothing to do with the movie.

Round One Bryant. Megan set her lips in a tight line. This was not how things were to go. She was here to work, to focus, to heal. Not to think about blond men with laughing, sparking blue eyes. That was it. Rein it in. Refocus.

Round Two would be hers.

***

In the early morning sunlight, Megan glanced from side to side, double checked she was alone, and opened the metal pool house door. A smile stole across her face. She had outwitted him.

Since the Cinema Fiasco yesterday, she had purposely made herself scarce. Or tried to, except that Bryant seemed to be everywhere.

After rehearsal she had hurried off to nowhere in particular, ending up at a gift shop and admiring a beautiful swimsuit. Funny that she’d even noticed it, she hadn’t bought something new in a while. The colors had drawn her—a mix of soft peach, hot pink, and fresh white—and the cut was modest but pretty, like something she used to wear. A long time ago.

As Megan had held it, debating the ridiculous price but duty-free benefit, Bryant materialized on the other side of the rack. For some reason she had turned a bright pink and quickly headed to the cash register without looking back. Was it just a coincidence he was there? But if it wasn’t, why would he be seeking her out? It wasn’t like she was encouraging him. Because she
didn’t want
to encourage him.

Right?

Megan had spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to look for him, when she realized she was doing it again. Falling into the same trap, leaping before she looked, just because someone seemed
so
nice. No, the safe thing to do was to stay distant, disconnected, not opening any emotional door in the slightest. 

Then yesterday evening while the rest of the cast enjoyed a pool party, she’d opted to jog on the indoor treadmills. Engrossed in her book, she hadn’t even noticed who was running on the machine next to her until she smelled an ocean and sand scent and looked up. There he was, smiling that smile—confident, almost arrogant. Like he knew her, knew her feelings, her struggle to act one way but that she felt another. For just a moment looking at him and his sharp blue eyes, she had felt raw, exposed. How did he do that? Afraid he had seen too much, she punched the stop button, grabbed her book and towel, and walked away.

Megan had run Emergency Exit stairs to work off the frustration. How did he know her like that when she tried so hard to stay detached? Why wouldn’t he let her be—let her curl up and be alone? Yet at the same time something inside her yearned for him, his solidness, his openness. Then just as real came the fear, the out of control feeling that she would lose herself again. Her heart had already begun the Yo-Yo cycle of interested/not interested.

Without warning, Jackson’s smiling face flashed through her mind. She’d felt the same way at the start, that compulsive pull toward him. And it had begun innocently enough, too. He’d pursued her but not in a pushy way. All along he’d made it easy and before she knew what was happening they were a couple, and her mom was hinting wedding bells at the Tuesday ladies’ lunch.

Megan frowned. Jackson had made her believe it was love. But it had been like getting the measles when you were older, and it had hit her hard. The game had been so natural to him, one that he played well, and enjoyed. She, on the other hand, had to fight for every bit of understanding her emotions, avoiding them since her parents’ divorce. And now she was paying the price.

But this time, she was smarter, right? She did have more control. And she would not be pulled in to another possible Jackson. 

This morning, she had decided to change it up altogether, to be her bold self and swim. But early. Opening night was tonight and she was anxious to be well-rested for it. And she would avoid Bryant, especially in swimwear.

Jillian had said, “You’re on a cruise ship. He’s going to see you in a swimsuit. Though honestly, I have no idea why you care, as you’d look gorgeous in a paper bag.”

Megan couldn’t explain the truth—the swimsuit rating scale, the way Jackson had looked at her sometimes when she wore one.

She fought down a burst of humiliation. Men.

Well, she wasn’t going to give up being herself and the swimming she loved, but she would do it on her own terms. Alone. Quickly resurveying the empty echo-sounding pool room, Megan took off her cover up just as the door banged open.

“Top o’ the mornin’,” Bryant said, walking straight to where she stood.

Not possible!

Furious, Megan stared in open anger at his face, trying to ignore his taught bare chest as he put down his key and took off the towel from around his neck.

He looked up at her. Megan flushed involuntarily, feeling practically naked. With his arrogant smile he said, “About that swimsuit—”

That’s it.
Megan felt something lash out from inside. She didn’t care what she said, that knowing smirk was going to get wiped off his face.

“All right, surfer boy, let’s get this straight, right off. I’m not Talia, okay, or Mahalia, or Brittany, or even Betty Boop. This is what a real woman’s body looks like, it’s got some curves to it, and it’s not drug-addict thin. It’s strong, and supple, and healthy, and about mid-day it gets a little poof right here around the middle no matter how many sit ups you do. So just to be clear—I will never have a bimbo body and I’m sick of hearing and feeling like I need to. And if you think you can sit in judgment like one of those bachelorette shows, let me tell you, buddy, you are—you are wronger than wrong.”

“Wronger than wrong?”

“That’s right, and I don’t care how bad the grammar is. So long as we understand each other. And whatever little comment you were about to make, you can just swallow it, right along with your whale-size ego.”

Megan’s chest rose and fell but he just stood there. Then he picked up his towel. “I was just going to say that your price tag is still on.” He took his key and walked out.

Megan looked down and sure enough on her shoulder strap was a price tag for $69.99. She wanted to crawl under the ship.

***

Megan walked cautiously toward the Green Room, checking her watch. She was a good forty-five minutes early, giving her time to dress and think of a sincere apology for Bryant, but without making her sound too vulnerable, or interested, but appropriately remorseful. She was sorry and embarrassed but she dreaded talking with him face to face. How could she even begin to explain her behavior?

Gurgles sounded in her tummy—she couldn’t tell if it was from nerves for the evening or from her thoughts. Opening the door she stopped short—Bryant turned in the folding chair, holding a letter, his expression was as shocked as hers.

“What are you doing here?” said Megan, unable to withhold it. Of course she wanted to apologize, but first to figure out what to say.

“Do I need a reservation?”

“No, but for heaven’s sakes, you don’t need a lot of—” she was about to say makeup but it sounded strange—“costume changing.”

“I wanted to think, some peace and quiet.” With his foot he pushed out a chair for her to sit on.

Megan debated—each interaction so far had been way too close despite her best attempts to stay distant. Cold and distant was not her usual way. Pretending to be was even harder. Especially with him. For months she’d been able to stiff arm any feelings she didn’t want to feel but he had a way of softening her, without her permission. Then, remembering her need to apologize for the Swimsuit Incident, she instantly felt contrite. But then, wasn’t she supposed to be winning Round Two? Sarcasm and fight?       

Okay, contrite was good. But with an edge of sarcasm. Right after she apologized. Megan sighed inwardly. Before she could confuse herself further, she strode to the chair. She’d just have to wing this. “Peace and quiet? And you can’t find that in a four-person bunk room?”

“Exactly.”

“Who’s the letter from—one of your many adoring fans?”

“All over sixty.” He looked at the letter. “Just my family.” Again, the bitterness.

“And they still write actual letters? It has to be from your mother.” His expression remained pensive so she stopped being light. “Is it bad news?”

He folded up the letter and stuffed it back in the envelope. “No, it’s not bad, not for them at least. It’s about my post-cruise life.”

“So after the summer dancing extravaganza, you go back to a real job like the rest of us?”   

“Why, is your temp agency hiring?”

“No, I mean cruise singing is great and all that, but don’t you want to graduate from the Mickey Mouse Club?”

Too sarcastic. She knew as soon as she said it. He just looked at her.

“Sorry.” And she meant it. What was it about him that made her defenses go on alert? She took an imperceptible breath. It was now or never. 

“Bryant, about earlier . . .” For a moment the thought came to her that she liked saying his name. “About the swimsuit diatribe . . .”

His mouth upturned slightly.

“I don’t know how to explain this, but, it had nothing to do with you. As if you couldn’t tell.”

“Yeah, I think I got that message.”

Megan smiled deprecatingly. “For some reason, I don’t know, well, I kind of do, but it’s hard to explain, that I feel sometimes, let’s say the tiniest bit hostile toward you.” She could feel her face reddening, which made her speak faster. “Which is very odd because that’s not my nature, really. And I find myself saying or doing very unusual things, that don’t make sense to you, I’m sure, and most of the time not even to me.” She blew out a small breath, watching his confused face. “There’s just so much that I wish I could explain that would make sense why I said what I did. But I just can’t.” Megan wanted to add
not yet
but simply shook her head. “You’re . . . a really nice guy.” She felt the redness spread to her ears. “And I am sorry for being rude. And treating you like a disease. And making you feel like you’re always doing something wrong.” Megan paused. “Did I miss anything?”