by Karen Grey
“I’m… I’m… sorry… I…” My throat closes down. The crowd and the juggler get louder. I curl into a ball.
Suddenly, everything quiets. After a few hammering heartbeats, I risk another look. A tall man, silhouetted by the sun, speaks to the performer in a calming voice.
The man turns to the crowd, a hand on the juggler’s shoulder. “Okay, show’s over. Hey, can somebody hand me those pins?”
It’s Will. Come to rescue me.
Anger shoves embarrassment aside. I may be a total dork, but I don’t need rescuing. I get to my feet but then everything goes hazy.
A firm grip catches me. “Hey, hey, no rush.”
“Whoo.” I sink back to earth. “Dizzy.”
“It’s okay. It’s probably just adrenaline. Just take a few deep breaths; it’ll undo the proprioceptive response.”
Everything’s still so fuzzy all I can come up with is “Huh.”
“I know, big word for an actor.” His voice holds a smile but I don’t think he’s laughing at me. “Deep breaths.”
When I do as he suggests, he makes a disapproving sound. “Hm.”
“What? I’m breathing.” I suck in and blow out a couple more breaths. “I’m getting dizzier.” And more irritated.
“Well, to really convince your body to calm down, you have to breathe using your diaphragm.” Sitting on the ground next to me, he places a hand on his stomach. “Into your belly.”
“You’re telling me I breathe wrong?”
“You don’t breathe naturally. Most people don’t,” he adds.
“How is it possible to breathe wrong? My body just breathes.”
“Believe me, it’s possible. It’s… complicated. Breathing incorrectly is a habit you develop over time, usually starting in adolescence.”
He reaches for my belly. “Here, I’ll show you.” He pauses before actually touching me. “Can I touch you?”
Yes please, anywhere you’d like, I almost blurt out. But we’re in the middle of Harvard Square.
“On your stomach,” he clarifies.
Squashing naughty thoughts, I move my own hands out of the way. “Sure. I would love to know how I’m breathing wrong. I’m a runner, you know. I can run miles without getting winded.”
“I’m sure you can.”
He seems to realize that we’re in the way of foot traffic that has built up since the juggler cleared out, because he helps me move over to a low brick wall and sits next to me. When he rests a warm hand on my belly, the muscles flinch. “You okay?”
“Yep. Just… ticklish.”
“Good. Close your eyes.”
I narrow them instead.
“Trust me?”
“This is very strange.”
“Yeah. I get it. Just focus on my hand.” The mellow sound of his voice lulls my eyes closed. “Bring your mind here.” It’s like the warmth of his hand is melting through my clothes, my skin. “Let the muscles relax.”
My eyes fly open. “I am not letting my tummy pooch into your hand.”
His smile is sympathetic. “It’s part of the process.” When he removes his palm to unfold the arms I didn’t realize I’d crossed, I miss its heat. “I won’t judge.”
When the hand returns, my eyes flutter closed again.
“Good,” he says soothingly. “Just let all your muscles go. Picture your spine as a tree trunk. Its roots deep in the earth can hold you up. Picture open space in your torso. Lots of space where the air can go. Try to let go of literal anatomy. Just picture your body full of space.”
It’s hard, but I can kind of see it.
“Relax all the muscles of your face.”
As he continues to guide my thoughts, his low voice in my ear and the warmth of his whole body next to me are so soothing that a big sigh releases past my lips all by itself.
“Good! Did you feel that?”
“Oh! I did.” My belly had pooched right into his hand, but the breath that flowed in and out of me was so cleansing that I don’t even care.
“Now you have to practice it so you get it into your muscle memory. Close your eyes and try it again.”
Who knows how many minutes later, he removes that hand that’s now my belly’s best friend. When I open my eyes, his are studying my legs.
“You got a little scraped up, huh?”
A gentle touch on my calf brings my attention to my pants, which are torn, revealing an abrasion on my knee. My arm throbs too, and I twist to check it out. It’s bleeding. “Huh.”
“Been drinking wine spritzers again?”
I try to laugh it off. “Uh… heh.” My brain seems to have relaxed as much as my body.
“Did you hit your head when you fell? What exactly happened?”
I can’t look at him and think straight at the same time so I pretend to inspect my capris for further damage. “Somebody ran into me…” I press my fingers into my skull to try and wake it back up.
“Someone knocked you down? On purpose?”
“No, no. I was”—I mime the action with my hand until I find the word—“throwing the juggling thingies to the clown. I guess when I stepped back, someone else was moving forward. Anyway, I stumbled into him and messed up his act and everything went flying, and then he was yelling at me and I maybe blacked out or something. Stupid.” I cover my face with my hands.
“Yeah. I know him. He’s not a bad guy, but he has some serious mood swings. He can be scary. Don’t be embarrassed.”
I talk to my palms. “You must think I’m such a freak. First the fake drinking and now this.”
“Well, you certainly give me some good stories to tell.”
I swat at him. “Hey, I thought the bar was like a confessional, no secrets revealed.”
“Well, I didn’t use your name. But I may have bragged about how my recipe saved a damsel in distress.”
“Well, thanks for saving me. Again.” It’s hard to keep the grumpiness out of my voice. I don’t like feeling helpless.
He stands and holds out a hand. When I take it, half reluctantly, he pulls so hard that I plow right into his chest. Where his lemony-woodsy scent invites me to stay. Even better, the look in his eyes has me wondering if he wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss him right now.
“Is this yours, miss?”
Yes, I believe he is.
“Miss?”
An older woman taps me on the shoulder and holds out my backpack, which I must’ve dropped during the juggler tango. “Oh my gosh. Yes. Thank you.”
The woman looks Will up and down. “You’re welcome. Sorry to interrupt.”
Aaand it’s back to reality. “Nothing to interrupt!”
I pretend to search for more detritus so I don’t have to face him, but there’s nothing. Not even a stray piece of trash to pick up. Then we both speak at the same time.
“Well, then—”
“Did you—”
He bows slightly. “You go ahead.”
“I should…” I wave my hand at my scrapes.
He peers at my arm, and then into my eyes. “Wait. Wait right here. Don’t run away.”
“Uh, okay.” Just like at the bar, his voice has me pinned in place. All I can do is watch while he jogs toward a nearby deli. Moments later he’s back, and I honestly don’t think I moved a muscle.
He’s got a cup of ice between his teeth and dabs my scraped arm with a wet paper towel. I clamp down on the pain. I’m not going to cry in front of him too. Compassion in his eyes, he talks around the cup. “That okay?”
“It’s fine,” I lie, taking the paper towel and brushing the grit out of my knee myself.
He pours some ice into another towel and hands the wad to me. “This’ll help.”
“Are you an EMT, too?”
He grins. “Nah, I just grew up with two brothers.”
Nodding, I tentatively stretch the bruised side. “I think I need to walk this off a little. Thanks for the first aid and… everything.”
“Did
you still want to get a cup of coffee?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t need any caffeine right now.”
“Oh, well, then—”
“But do you want to walk instead?”
The smile on his face seems relieved. “Yeah. That’d be good.”
I fiddle with the strap of my bag. “Okay, good.”
“Here, I’ll take that.” I start to protest, but he’s already eased it off my shoulder.
Without discussion, we head out of the square and onto one of Cambridge’s tree-lined side streets. I figure I’ll circle back around to get my bike later. As we walk slowly through dappled light, the adrenaline’s definitely worn off, but a new jittery feeling shivers just behind my solar plexus. I accidentally brush into him, then lurch away. “Oops. Sorry.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Walking, you know. It can be a challenge. Good thing I’m not trying to talk at the same time. Who knows what could happen. Heh heh.”
Could I possibly be more of a dweeb?
He laughs, the sound as delicious as Häägen-Dazs chocolate.
“Anyway, it’s such a pretty day, can’t waste it crying over spilled juggling pins,” I joke. Lamely.
He gazes up through the trees and inhales deeply. “Yeah. So glad I don’t have to be inside this afternoon.”
A gentle breeze has daffodils waving at us as we stroll down the sidewalk. Two tiny birds flitter from bush to bush, chasing each other.
Will shoves his hands in his pockets. “You’ve got to give the guy credit.” His feet scuff lightly on the concrete. “He’s out there, doing what he loves.”
“I guess.” I look over at him. “If he loves it, why was he so mad at me?”
He shrugs. “Maybe it was just a bad day. Even when you love what you do, it doesn’t always go the way you want it to.”
His voice has dropped in volume, but it still tickles my bones. And other places.
I clear my throat. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
He squints into the distance. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“So, you love what you do? Acting? Bartending?”
He nods, eyes back on the uneven sidewalk. “Yeah. I mean, I like bartending okay. The money’s good, and I’m good at it. I like talking to people, and I’ve been working there for so long I can make my own hours. Acting, I do love.” When he smiles, my heart nearly stops. It makes sense that people pay good money to watch him onstage. “I’m lucky I get to work as much as I do.”
He’s like a different species from my male colleagues. And not just because his voice makes me wobbly all over. Wearing yet another goofy vest, this one striped, he seems comfortable in his skin. The air blows through his dark curls, free of slick gel. His light blue eyes, flecked with gold… look like he’s expecting me to say something. I furrow my brow, pretend I’m contemplating deep thoughts instead of wishing I could jump his bones. What the heck were we talking about? “So… how does it work? Do you always work at the same theater?”
“No, I audition for plays all over town. Most of my work is with one Shakespeare company, though. I’m one of the younger founding members, and I just got bumped up to fight choreographer. I’ve been in every show we’ve produced.”
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen a Shakespeare play. I mean, in person.” I don’t add that my experience as a theatergoer is limited all around. It just isn’t something I think of doing in the few hours a week I can spend as I choose.
“So you probably hate Shakespeare.” He groans. “You’re one of those people who were forced to read Julius Caesar in ninth grade and haven’t heard or read it ever since.”
“Well, it was Romeo and Juliet,” I admit. “But, yeah. I didn’t get it. It was so… formal. And all those words I didn’t know. It made me feel dumb.”
His hands tug at his curls. “Agh, you’re killing me! I can’t believe you haven’t had someone bring it alive for you.”
In the middle of the block, right in front of someone’s house, he stops, grabs my hands, and pulls me in to speak softly but passionately, capturing my eyes with his. “‘I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far as that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.’”
Whoa. “Merchandise?” I squeak, grabbing onto his last word, which he’d filled with pretty clear meaning. “So, Shakespeare’s an excuse for… checking out my goods?”
He kisses my hands and releases them. “You got it.”
“Yeah, I got it, loud and clear.” I slide my hands in my pockets, heading down the sidewalk again, trying but failing to suppress a litany of naughty thoughts. I may admire his merchandise, but do I really have time for more than window-shopping?
“See? Shakespeare’s not formal, and you’re not dumb.” He catches up to me, tapping me lightly on the elbow. “Are you doing what you love?”
“Um, yes?” I do my best to recalculate. “I mean, I like it a lot. Right now I’m in a phase where I’m still learning.”
This Shakespeare-quoting vest-wearing guy and me? Far from a sure thing. But it’s really hard to stop thinking about getting my hands on him to find out if his lips feel as good as they look.
“Do you ever feel like what you’re doing is really just gambling?” he asks abruptly.
Is he talking about kissing? No, no, he must mean work. “Me? Oh. Well, that’s a common misconception. I mean, yes, investing and managing money assumes a certain amount of risk. But it’s a calculated risk. People like me do a lot of thorough research before dollars are committed to an IPO or stock buy. That’s the whole point of my job. I’m an equity analyst. Well, junior analyst right now.”
I’m probably going on too much but at least I’m keeping my hands to myself. “I have heard that traders get a real high off of besting each other on the floor—that’s a whole macho thing. I guess that is similar to the high of gambling. We researchers counter those kinds of impulses with careful planning. At the same time, a lot of success comes from having a good nose, a good instinct for what will sell. That goes for people in my job as well as traders. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, capital has to come from somewhere. Without investors, we’d have no way of growing businesses or funding new ones.”
His brow tells me he’s not buying it.
“I remember you said you didn’t see yourself as a businessman. But are you anti-business all around?”
He starts to answer a few times before words actually come out. “No. I just—” He presses out a strained breath. “Forget it.”
My steps slow in tandem with his. “I am truly interested.”
He brushes a dried-up worm off the sidewalk with the toe of his boot. “I’m not a communist or anything. It’s… family history. I just don’t want to be a slave to making money or get caught in the delusion that there’s free money out there to be had, which is what I’ve seen happen to some people.” The ugly snarl in his voice has me wondering what some people did to him. “They’re constantly chasing the next big thing and lose sight of what’s important.”
“Are you talking about actors, or everybody?”
“I’m talking about me. I’d rather live with less than prioritize making money over making art.”
I can’t walk and process this at the same time so I stop and face him. “And there’s really no way to do both? What about what Steve was talking about? Commercials and stuff?”
He stops too, but he keeps his focus on the path ahead. “That’s a pipe dream. As they say: You can’t make a living, but you can make a killing.” He shoves his hands in his armpits, arms as closed as his mind.
“So, you’re not even going to try?”
Every muscle in his face ticks with tension.
Left hand high, right on my heart, I pledge, “Not judging, just curious.”
WILL
While Kate waits for my answer, I’m torn between wanting to kiss her and wanting to run away. I just don’t know if
I can get into my family history with somebody I barely know. I don’t get into it with people I’ve known for years.
Since even thinking about the wreck my dad made of my family has my shoulders creeping up to my ears, I take my own advice and take a deep cleansing breath.
Then I hold out a hand. “Can we just walk for a bit?”
She blinks, looks at my hand, and then takes it. “Sure.”
The warm spring breeze blows away my remaining tension. After a block of simply enjoying the feel of her soft hand in mine, I say, “Sorry. I just… It’s frustrating for me to talk about that stuff.”
She nods. “Yeah, I get that maybe mixing art and business can be tricky.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to lose what I have by gambling on something that I don’t really care about.”
She makes a face like she knows she shouldn’t say something but then she does it anyway. “Unless… it’s a calculated risk that pays off in a way that creates an income stream that gives you more freedom to pursue your artistic ambitions.”
As she elaborates, memories of my dad yelling—I told you, I’ll earn it all back—and my mom crying—How can you have lost everything?—win the battle for my attention. By the time we get back to Harvard Square, my jaw’s clenched tight. I’m not sure what she’s said for the past few minutes, but I don’t think I could deal with it anyway.
Looking at my watch, I say, “Shit. I’ve gotta get to rehearsal. Are you taking the T, or…?”
A look of confusion crosses her face, followed by one of disappointment, but they’re quickly replaced by a polite smile. “Oh, no. I rode my bike.”
I go in for a quick hug as she offers her hand to shake mine. Awkwardly, I take both her hands and squeeze them instead. “Cool. So, I’ll see you around. At the bar, maybe?”
“Um, yeah. Maybe.”
“Okay, later.” Heading for the stairs leading underground, I don’t let myself look back. My body wants more of that toned body and soft skin, and if I’m honest, there’s something about her bright, analytic mind that’s a turn-on too. But that laser focus turned on me? It’s just… too much.
