Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  Jillian roughly scooped some rice. “Hah. Brittany is a fighter. Do not mess with her when it’s something important—like a prime gig, or a prime guy, things like that.”

  “Brittany?” Chalise shook her head. “She’s one of the nicest people I know. And seriously, she’s hardly spoken to him since we got here.”

  Megan looked toward Chalise but at that moment saw beyond her shoulder into the distance—a blonde girl in a white camisole shift, leaning on one arm against a table, talking to someone with a mango-colored sleeve.

  Yes, chummy indeed.

  The dark-haired Chad sat next to Bryant, playing with an electronic device, but she saw him glance up at the girl with an annoyed expression.

  Megan turned back to the conversation, slightly bothered by seeing Bryant and Brittany together.

  Jillian picked up her glass. “Hello, Chalise, they dance together. Can you imagine how uncomfortable that would be?”

  Chalise shook her head. “I’ve seen them today and you wouldn’t even know there had been anything between them.”

  “That’s why they’re Premier Performers, Leesy.”

  Megan looked down at her shrimp. She didn’t even know why she cared, sitting there, gathering up every word about him as if they were falling pearls.

  Good grief, what’s wrong with me, she chided herself. Will I ever learn? He’s a performer, he’s a surfer, he’s got baggage. Technically, there’s no dating between cast members. And besides, I’m off men.

  Finishing up, the girls left the buffet room. On the way out, Jillian found Derek who had been playing on some techie toy with the guys and had forgotten all about dinner with her. They had an intense conversation in the hall that Megan chose to avoid.

  Chalise invited her to go dancing—“It’s disco night, come on!”—but Megan begged off with a polite refusal. Maybe she was getting older, or fussier, or just plain boring. But she was sick of dancing, lights, and sound. By now all she sought was a silent refuge.

  Searching on the higher decks—quieter by far, with everyone moving below into the clubs and casinos—Megan walked in a through-way and found the perfect spot. Moonlight framed a small nook between the ship’s wall and a staff service station.

  With her back against the cool metal of the ship, she pulled her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around them. The tangy air engulfed her and she breathed deeply, in and out, letting the air pass through her lungs in cadence with the ship’s tremendous pulsing engine. She could feel the day’s agitation float away.

  As soon as peace came, surprisingly so did thoughts of Bryant. Without invitation, flashes of him broke over her like waves—his staring at her on the dock, making her tingle in the hallway, talking to Brittany.

  He was an enigma, a walking contradiction, and his expression unlike anyone she’d known—as if he were constantly figuring out a math problem. But then he’d break into a smile and it was sun on the water, Mr. California. Of course, he could be from Maine for all she knew.

  His hair—she smiled in spite of herself. Perpetually mussed but it suited him. The kind of style that other guys could try to copy but wouldn’t work—on him it was a natural wave. And clean cut but always a bit of stubble, with a random knick somewhere. He must hate shaving. She pictured him staring into her, his blue eyes with that thin concentric black circle encasing the iris—piercing, focused.

  Megan shifted. She didn’t want to think about Bryant, so why was she? Deep inside her something unexpected had opened in the hallway, touching him like that. The most random gesture and yet, it had cracked open a crevasse. But why? It had been simply a touch. Had she been so hands-off about romantic emotions, so raw from holding back that the first sensation of feeling made her woozy? Or was it something about him?

  She closed her eyes, willing the subject away but like tentacles the thoughts continued. What had been between Bryant and Brittany? Was it still there? She wasn’t exactly hard to look at. But then, neither was he.

  Megan hugged her knees closer. Rehearsal tomorrow morning would tell her more.

  Not that she cared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Megan dressed in her typical white workout shirt and capris pants. But surprisingly, she felt to put on some lip gloss. Before walking out the door, she pointed to herself in the mirror.

  Stay focused.

  Today, she would not mess up. She would not be nervous. She would be her Bold Self. And she would not think about anyone in particular. This was business. This was the New Megan.

  Okay. Good.

  A few minutes later she stood on the stage in the Coral Theater while Clint tried to elicit interest from twenty sleepy performers and crew members at the early hour. His urgent voice echoed through the empty theater.

  “Let’s wake up people. I know you haven’t had your beauty sleep. Wait till you’re our age—you don’t need any.” He winked at his wife, who gave him the usual, “Go on” look, and went back to putting a tape measure up against one of the girls.

  Megan waited in formation for the “Unsinkable Molly Brown” number opposite of Jillian but near Bryant. Though she felt his presence, she steadily ignored him. Everyone stood ready for the number which happened to involve him and Brittany—and her big solo—but she hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Brittany Shay still not here?” Clint glanced at the main auditorium door and back to the cast—he narrowed his eyebrows. “Hmm. All right, let’s go ahead since this needs lighting work. Megan, why don’t you just stand in for now.” Clint motioned to the designated spot but Megan stood speechless and pointed to herself. “Yes, you dear, just stand in for now, Bryant knows what to do.” He hollered directions to the lighting crew watching from the booth through a small open window.

  Megan felt her face flush and moved as slowly as she could get away with. So much for staying in the background.

  “Morning,” Bryant said, wearing that bemused expression that almost bordered on arrogance, as if he knew of her discomfort.

  Was he mocking her? Megan wore an overly cheerful expression, determined to show he did not affect her. “Top o’ the mornin’ to you.”

  He looked down. “I have a cousin who’s Irish.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “That’s British.”

  Exasperated, she looked up at him. “What, are you the international committee?”

  He shrugged and grinned.

  That smile. Megan ignored him, and the desire to smile back.

  Clint clapped his hands. “Okay, take your positions—we’re going to do the first main poses but no performance energy, just blocking. Find your first marks.”

  Bryant took up her hand and Megan felt a quiver of something, whether it was nerves or from him, she wasn’t sure. But either way she’d never let him know it. In a quick movement he put his hand in the small of her back and led her to the first mark, at the center of the stage.

  Low and quiet he said, “I’m going to lean you back.” With her panicked reaction, he added, “Bend your left knee. Kick out your right leg and rest your heel on the stage. It’s easier.”

  On Clint’s cue, he went down on one knee and dipped her backwards as she obeyed his instructions.

  Bryant balanced her back on his thigh and stared straight ahead while Clint commented on the solitary shaft of light now focused on them and what color it should be. Megan wrapped her right hand around Bryant’s arm to steady herself. Not pumped up muscles but solid, like a working man. Very nice. No, not nice, nothing, it was nothing at all. She stared at the black lighting tray above her, trying to focus on Clint’s directions.

  For balance, she continued to hold onto his arm but not too tight—she didn’t want to give him any ideas. He held her firm and confident. Somewhere inside she knew he wouldn’t drop her, even if they stayed that way until dinnertime. And he smelled good, like getting back from a day at the beach then taking a fresh shower. Megan stole a glance to the side—the shaving knick was along his upper neck today. Such a smal
l thing, but so frustratingly appealing. Still—she reminded herself—with his tanned face and surfer hair he was way too All-American Boy.

  He glanced down at her. “Yes?”

  Had she been staring at him? “Nothing, you just look like someone I think I know.” It was an awkward response, but she didn’t know how to justify looking at him.

  He took it in stride. “You look like Gidget.”

  “I get that all the time, especially from the old timers.”

  “Are you saying I’m elderly?”

  “No, but I can’t believe you know who that is.” She was conscious of his strong arm still around her shoulders, her lower back resting on his knee.

  He stared ahead again. “My family is into the oldies channel—I Love Lucy, the Mayberry show, all those.”

  Megan nodded, her mom was too. How many nights had they sat munching pretzels and watching the black and white reruns, one of their few ways to connect.

  “They’re all right,” Bryant continued, “but after a while I can’t take one more, ‘Gee that sounds swell.’”

  Megan laughed in spite of herself, and he looked down, eyes clear and open. Why was he so disarming? One minute he looked maddeningly arrogant, the next like her new best friend.

  Clint clapped them back to reality. “Okay, to the bridge of the song,” and he sang a few lines, “hit the transition marks. Bryant—you and Megan hold the next position for a minute there while we get the right color gel.”

  Bryant helped her stand upright then took her hand as naturally as if they’d partnered for years, walking her to top of the stage. Megan focused on not stumbling.

  Speaking quietly, he said “Face the seats, raise both hands to the sky, feet straddled,” then he moved to stand behind her. She did as he directed, once again aware of how tall he was. He placed his hands on her waist—lightly at first, as if hesitating for the briefest moment, then holding her firmly.

  Nice, solid hands. Megan fought to ignore the pleasant sensation.

  Clint shouted directions to lighting when the auditorium door slammed shut. “Brittany Shay, you grace us with your presence,” he joked, but an undercurrent of seriousness laced his comment.

  Brittany gracefully moved down the aisle giving the two of them a piercing look. It wasn’t disapproval, but more of a cool assessment. Megan instinctively pulled down her hands. She didn’t want to appear like she was taking over Brittany’s spot. Or former guy.

  Bryant kept his hands on her waist.

  Brittany walked straight to Clint. Bedecked in black leggings and silver tank, her hair, skin, and smile pulsed “flawless.” As she spoke with him, he nodded, seeming to approve of what she said, and motioned to the stage. When Megan moved slightly to his side, Bryant dropped his hands. Brittany glanced once more at the duo—all smiles and charm again—but Megan wondered about the look. Was it seeing Bryant with someone else, or that someone was in the star performer position?

  “Okay everyone, Brittany Shay has been hobnobbing with the board members at breakfast while we’ve been working,” said Clint. A series of “ooh-ahs” popped from the cast. “Let’s get back to work.”

  Brittany walked onto the stage, hips slightly swaying. “Sorry, Bry,” she said, looking at him with an unreadable expression, then turned to Megan with a smile. “Thanks for stepping in—the board didn’t think we’d be that long.”

  “No problem. Thankfully, they didn’t have me do much,” Megan said, and with a half-look at Bryant, returned to where she thought her current position was. Brittany exchanged a few more words with Bryant, who responded and then took his position.

  Megan wondered at the sudden unease within her. She hadn’t been doing anything wrong, Clint had asked her to stand in. So why the nervousness? It couldn’t be jealousy, she hardly knew either of them. Looking at Bryant and Brittany take their position, taking her hand, holding her close, she shook her head. Stop it.

  Not. Going. There. It’s too soon, too obvious, too ludicrous.

  The rehearsal progressed through the next few hours to Clint’s satisfaction and just as Megan felt fairly decent with the result, he called for the salsa number again. “We’re still having a few troubles with this one. I know the music is fast, so let’s try it again.”

  Everyone groaned, ready to break for lunch. And while he didn’t say her name, Megan felt sure it was because of her. Of all the numbers this was the hardest one.

  The music started and Megan paired up with Garrett, who smiled briefly and took her across the stage. As she attempted to twist her hips and turn in formation with the rapid music she stumbled into another dancer—thankfully, not Tag. After the third and finally barely successful try, Clint called out, “Okay, that’s good work. Let’s break for lunch.”

  A round of relieved groans went around the room. Clint smiled but scratched his head and surveyed the stage again.

  The group moved towards their water bottles and bags. Jillian approached Megan. “Hey, after lunch we’re hitting the special cast showing at the cinema. Gonna come?”

  “Um, I’m not sure …” After the morning’s rehearsal Megan had decided on other plans but wasn’t about to divulge them.

  “Megs, come on. Two words for you—Be. Social. Can you say it with me?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I’ve just got a few things to do.”

  Jillian gave her a doubtful look. “Trim your toenails?”

  Megan sighed. Jillian was only trying to help, she knew that, and would likely keep “trying to help” unless she caved on something. “Okay, what time’s the movie?”

  “Two o’clock. Be. There.”

  “Two words for you—May. Be.”

  Megan smiled as Jillian shook her head and pointed at her. “I’ll see you there.” Then hurried off to Derek.

  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. Afte
r 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?”