Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  For now I know,

  now I know,

  I’m home.

  As the music slowed to the finale, Bryant gently turned her and leaned her back as the closing notes of the single clarinet soulfully drifted into the air. His face was inches from hers and she knew she should do something, but what? Turn, turn her head, that was what she’d seen Brittany do.

  But his face was before her, his mouth a breath away. He stared through her eyes and into her heart and she felt a tangible, pulsing current pass between them. The sometimes playful thread that usually wove through the dance was gone. It was deep and open and soulful. The music, the moment, it all had swelled to this point, as if waiting for a capstone ending.

  Without warning or thought, he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips, just once, as the last note sounded and faded. The softness of it, the feel of his skin to hers, and the shimmering tingle made her feel removed. She wasn’t on a stage, she was somewhere, floating.

  Boom! The small tubes of fireworks lit brightly behind them while the crowd clapped appreciatively. Megan couldn’t tell if it was the heated lights or the kiss, but she felt warm and fuzzy. She could hear clapping and knew the curtains were closing but it registered slow and muffled. He still stared at her, she stared back. The current held between them as the last firework ended.

  Once the curtains dropped, he lifted her up, gently, then turned professionally to the front as the curtain opened again. The obligatory bow—smiling, bobbing—hurled Megan back to the present. Had it been real, or was it for the show?

  She had no time to solve it as the cast immediately barged in between them, chuckling and making comments, “Nice ending, dude. Can I do that number next time?” and “Hey, no PDA, this is a family tour.”

  Feeling her face hot and pink, Megan refused to look at Bryant and hurried back to the girls’ dressing room to change, all the while wondering what it meant.

  But arriving at the Green Room, already a few of the semi-recovered cast members had joined them to congratulate their performance. Megan tried to unobtrusively steal into a corner but the remaining cast entered—sweaty, elated, and ready to party.

  “We totally rock, people!” said Sienna, who turned to Maya and gave her a high five. “Who’s for The Cove?” Loud assents were all around, just as Bryant entered. After finishing talking to and thanking the others, the cast nixed changing and immediately moved out to celebrate.

  With just Bryant and her left in the room, Megan sensed the awkwardness of the moment but he walked to her. “Come on, I know a place that’s got great food.”

  Trying to smile at his joke, she was unsure. Was he playing with her? “Aren’t you exhausted?”

  “Exhausted but starved,” he said, taking her hand and leading her toward the door. “I don’t care if it’s got e-coli, I need sustenance.”

  “Gee, now I’ve got an appetite.”

  Trying to go with the moment, Megan followed him but still fought the question of the kiss. Walking down hallways together, still in costume, they were stopped by various people who, on recognizing their dress, engaged in well-wishes and conversation so that by the time they made it to the buffet lounge, it was closed.

  “Seriously?” Bryant stood in disbelief. “This can’t be. A cruise ship and no food?” He turned to Megan. “Water, water everywhere …”

  “. . . nor any drop to drink,” she finished automatically. “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. Bryant, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe we could—”

  A sound from near the doorway on the right made them both turn. A sweet-looking fair-haired girl gestured to them. “You singers, yes?” She sounded Russian.

  Megan nodded.

  “Oh-kay.” She stared at their costumes. “I can get you food. Wait here.”

  Together they slumped into nearby chairs, the post-adrenaline from the show wearing off. In a few minutes the girl returned with round china plates piled high with chicken, pulled pork, a medley of vegetables and roasted potatoes, and soft buttery rolls balanced on top. She handed them over carefully, as well as two bottled sodas.

  Expressing sincere thanks, they made their way to her favorite starboard area of the Atrium deck and put their plates on the empty chess board. Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes, both giving into the physical need for fuel. It had to be close to 2:00 a.m., but curfew worries were forgotten tonight. The aroma from the plate made her salivate. Savory sauces and juicy meats—the tastes were divine and they ate ravenously. In between bites both of them recounted the evening’s successes, keeping the conversation on a safe level.

  “My particular favorite being your impromptu variety show,” said Megan, grinning as she put down her fork. “And the Senior Sensation? How do you remember these things?”

  “Ah, the art of a true showman,” he said, swallowing a huge bite of chicken. “And a kiss-up. I’ve learned for the past five years a little bit about making it work when you’ve got nothing in hand.”

  “Well, I think you sold Mrs. V.,” said Megan, leaning back while crossing her legs. The strange evening and the late hour gave her a fuzzy, giddy feeling. The meal filled her with a peaceful contentment. She raised her soda bottle to Bryant. “To showmen.”

  He raised his. “To kissing up.” Then he got a reflective look, and instantly she knew what he was thinking. She looked deep into her soda bottle for something to do. It struck her for the first time where they were—the deck devoid of people, and the ocean breeze surprisingly mild tonight, lifting both her hair and soft capri-length skirt in lilting motions. Everything in the environment overflowed with romance. She felt her mouth go sticky and took a drink.

  He reached down for her feet which were close to him, and gently took off a shoe.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said, light but tremulous.

  “I’ve smelled worse.”

  “Thank you.” He rubbed soft and slow, starting at the center of her foot then spreading out to the heel.

  A dueling match went on in her soul, one that Bryant could hardly be aware of: her instinct was to pull away. Her in-the-moment feeling was to wait. Just wait. And let it play out for a few more minutes. She watched his expression as he focused on her foot—the math-solving eyebrows, the firm lips set in concentration. Too tired to fight it, Megan gave in to the sheer pleasure of the feeling as he kneaded out tension in the soft center of her arch. It almost made her sigh aloud, but she did not.

  From below they could hear the drifting sounds of a Benny Goodman-type band playing on one of the open promenades.

  After a few more minutes, Megan felt a touch on her hand. She didn’t know her eyes had closed. Opening them, she saw Bryant standing before her. “Shall we?”

  She returned a drowsy smile, heady with the air and the night and the massage. “Honestly, how can you want to dance?”

  “It’s not dancing. You’re holding me up.” He pulled her to him, and both shuffled in a tired but content circle waltz. She laid her head on his shoulder, allowing herself to lean into him. The ocean and man smell, the smoothness of the costume, the feel of his hand on her waist and the firmness beneath his shirt. For a few delicious minutes time was gloriously suspended.

  Megan pulled back for a moment without interrupting the movement to look at him. She took in his startling blue eyes, the sure line of his jaw, and felt his firm hold on her.

  Quietly she said, “Do you really want to dance?”

  He looked down at her. “No, I just really want to hold you.”

  Together they turned in a close, relaxed circle, feeling the sweet normality of it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bryant glanced at the clock on the small nightstand again. Still 5:03 a.m. He could not get the evening out of his mind. And what had possessed him to kiss her, on stage? The picture came clearly to him: leaning back under the lights, her softly tanned skin with just a slight glow from exertion, her chestnut hair falling behind her. Those brown, soulful eyes. How could he help
it? It was her, the feel of her, the way she moved with him, her essence. Her. Megan.

  Agh, he rolled over, trying to find a comfortable position. She was a constant thread running through his life, ingratiatingly woven into him in some unintentional way. And now surely he’d blown it. Megan was not ready for public displays of anything, and he’d kissed her, on stage. Luckily, it seemed part of the performance so she was spared any real interrogation. He had no idea how she would respond this morning. Sure she had eaten on deck with him, even danced, but he could see she was humoring him, letting her guard down only for a moment. Even walking her to the cabin she had begun to shut down, return to her distant state. And now it was morning—almost—and she might be regretting she’d spent any time with him at all.

  Not that that would stop him. But he had to get it together and move carefully with her. She was skittish, like an injured bird. Let her give the next clear signal. Allow her to be comfortable. Take it slow and let her give some direction, show her threshold.

  Bryant let out an exasperated sigh. Too much work, that’s what she was. And why for the five hundredth time did he care? In the dark quiet, with the sun barely lightening through the small porthole window, he listened for answers.

  None came.

  ***

  Megan lay in her bed, relishing the morning quiet of an empty room. Foregoing breakfast with the girls, she wanted the time to reflect on the night before and choose how to act today. According to Chalise, several of the cast members, including any who had recovered from the food poisoning, were gathering for the last excursion of the current voyage, this time to Jamaica.

  Megan felt compelled to go. In general, she disliked touristy trips, but something told her Bryant might be there too. With his name came the mixed feeling of giddiness and fear. How should she be after last night? What exactly had happened?

  He had walked her to her cabin afterwards. She had avoided a scene by being professional and slipping quickly into her room. Although she had tried to stay awake to savor the evening’s events, surprisingly—in a state of complete contentment—sleep had come almost immediately.

  But now in the peaceful morning she relived the sweetness of the performance kiss and the slow, tender dance on the deck. A warm, liquid feeling flowed through her, like drinking hot, creamy cocoa after a cold sledding day.

  Unbidden, came the gray doubt, tainting the joy. But why?

  Unwelcome thoughts about Bryant randomly floated through her mind. A Premier Performer. Looks like it means something, but it doesn’t. Just a friendly guy. Could he be playing her? The cold grayness pushed out the warmth and she sat up. She’d been a sap before, that’s right. She had had similar feelings, though not exactly the same, and had been wrong. Dead wrong.

  And last night, nothing had really been said, or exchanged. He had kissed her—as part of the performance. They had eaten—they were starving. He had waltzed with her on the deck—well, turned in a circle. He’d wanted to hold her, but wasn’t that men?

  Nothing declared, You and I are a thing. And that’s what she needed now. No, required. Some evidence or proof, actual words that said, “Yes, I like you and want to date you exclusively”—in writing would be even better. Yes, that’s where she was and that’s what she needed to feel safe. Forget this wondering and guessing and soaking in euphoria. If he wasn’t going to state his intentions clearly, neither was she. Otherwise it was just a lot of stage lighting and giddy feelings, and she’d have learned nothing.

  The gray doubt felt heavy in her mind. Shaking it off, Megan dressed for the trip but vowed no matter what, not to appear overly interested in Bryant. She would be wiser this time. He would need to state his clear intentions, not just for a night, but for a relationship.

  ***

  After an uneventful shuttle ride through a few back streets of Jamaica—both she and Bryant had sat on opposite ends—the bus dropped all eight of them at the main gathering point. Bryant hadn’t seemed particularly different—friendly to everyone, including her, but nothing distinct. That answered her question. It had been the performance, the headiness of the night. Fine.

  Megan tried to behave the same as usual, ignoring the dull pain in her heart.

  As the group made plans, everyone immediately opted for the beach, except Chad, who preferred to check out an electronics store. Clint had been clear about the buddy system, especially here. Megan watched the female cast members gaze openly at Bryant and Garrett. She pointed to Chad and said, “Buddy system, I’ll go with him.”

  She couldn’t be sure but from her periphery Bryant seemed to frown. Well, too bad for him. Megan still didn’t know what last night meant to him and he wasn’t saying.

  As the girls excitedly chatted and clustered into taxis, Megan turned to ask Chad about the store location and, shockingly, found Bryant at her elbow.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Chad is directionally challenged. I’d better make sure you guys can find the place.” Another male crew member trotted up to them. “Taxi’s full, can I ride with you guys? I need a cover for my phone.”

  Squeezing into the taxi, the two guys came in last, forcing Megan halfway onto Bryant’s lap. He gently sat her square on his legs but kept his hand around her waist for balance. It felt good, she couldn’t deny it. Those solid hands made her feel safe. But that bugged feeling came back, that feeling of falling but this time at the top of the rollercoaster, at the tipping point but fiercely holding back, knowing where this could go. But even as she thought it, Megan knew it was exhausting to try holding back. At some point, she would tire. Maybe that’s what he was counting on.

  Irritated, she purposefully looked toward the taxi front, wearing a neutral expression but involuntarily worrying she was too heavy for his lap.

  Why did he have to stick his broken nose into things?

  At the electronics store, the two other young men were in heaven. After thirty minutes and no signs of their surfacing, Bryant took Megan’s arm and leaned in. “What do you say we make a break for it?”

  “What about the buddy system?”

  “And what am I?” He gave her a look. “Does it have to be nerds?”

  “Then I guess you’ll do.” She tried to be light but before she could suggest they wait another half hour, Bryant was already exiting the store, pulling her with him.

  Stepping into the Jamaican afternoon sunshine, he hailed a taxi.

  “How’s it goin’?” Bryant spoke to the driver who wore a brightly knitted cap. “Do you know where we can get a great dinner with some good local atmosphere?” Half-turning in his seat, the driver revealed blinding white teeth that set off his charcoal black skin.

  “Call me Jahaman. And I know just da place,” he said in a deep throaty voice, assessing the two of them and chuckling under his breath. Bryant and Megan exchanged looks—hers concerned, his adventurous. To avoid giving a wrong impression, she kept close to her window. A few times Bryant gave her a perplexed look but didn’t say anything.

  Megan felt her stomach gurgle. Why couldn’t she just be? All this worrying and what should she do, how should she act. But he showed no signs of anything different. Well, it was a stage kiss. Get over it. This was life, the life of Premier Performers.

  The driver took them down dirty strips of land that only denoted “roads” because of the generally consistent cut path through the people and hodgepodge construction. A variety of houses appeared on the sides—half-built cinder block foundations, wooden shacks, even cardboard boxes where brightly but barely dressed children stood in front, silently watching them drive by. It made Megan quiet and thoughtful.

  “It’s odd, isn’t it, the disparity?” she said.

  “Again with the big words.” They had been mostly silent but it was comfortable when she let it be. He so reminded her of Sam. Her brother talked the same way, understood the same things. It was easy being with Sam. It was easy being with Bryant.

  “But you’re right, it is,” he said. “It’s
the same thing on the cruise ship.”

  “All the opulence, and indulgence. You see that too?”

  “Yeah, even us neanderthalic food hoarders.”

  “Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to infer he was clueless.

  “I see them,” he said. “Pot-bellied men staggering to the next buffet line, talking too loud, drinking too much. It makes me embarrassed to be American.”

  “You didn’t include the ladies. That was gracious.”

  “Well, I’ve been warned about assault in Jamaica—” He grinned then looked out at the passing scenery.

  Megan hesitated. “That’s why I’ve wanted to help Rosa. She works hard, really hard, and wants more from life. I feel like she only needs the opportunity.”

  “Well, it’s a good desire and I commend you on it. But”— he glanced out the window—“you have to watch out for the actual opportunists. I’ve been through that before.”

  She felt funny inside. In a way, it had been an attempt to connect as friends, to make things normal again, though she had no idea why since not ten minutes before she had been wishing he hadn’t come. His realistic approach dampened her optimism. She sat quietly.

  “I’m not trying to burst your helping bubble,” he turned, aware of the silence.

  “That’s okay.”

  He faced her full on. “No, that’s not what I meant to do.” He looked down at his hands for a minute. “On one voyage I met a man, a Slavic gentleman who waited our cast table, back when we used to sit as a group for dinner. He was a good guy, diligent in his job. But there was, I don’t know, a gloom and doom about him. He’d been an engineer in his country before the civil war, and he constantly bellyached that everything had gone south from there. ‘No opportunities, nowhere,’” Bryant said in an accent, then sat back in his seat. “So, I got in my Ghandi mode and thought, I know a guy, friend of my mother’s, who could possibly hire him. I made a ship-to-shore call, got the prelim done on it, then at dinner presented him with the idea, and the offer.”