“Yeah,” I say, removing my arm from her grasp. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“So is he a good kisser?” The cashier wants to know.
I laugh uncomfortably. “Um, I’m running sort of late, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to pay for my stuff and go.”
The cashier shakes her head. “Not until you sign this for me.” She grabs another magazine and a pen. “Make it out to Tonya.”
I end up signing a half dozen more magazines, and fielding several uncomfortable questions. I would have made my exit sooner, but I don’t want Twitter to be buzzing with how rude I am. It’s the last thing I need.
So I’m seriously late when I finally get to jury duty. I run up to the break room where I know everybody will be waiting, and I’m ready to make my apologies as I scuffle in. It’s 9:07 when I open the door, and the eleven of them are all sitting around the table, each in their usual spot. “I am so sorry to be late!” I cry. “Were they ready for us? Have I held everyone up?”
At first nobody says anything. They all just look at each other and then they look at me, and I worry that it’s worse than I thought. That the judge had said starting time was actually 8:30 and I’m fatally late. Then Two holds up Alright Magazine.
“It is you. It is TOTALLY you!” She laughs in her loud, braying sort of way and rubs at one of her heavily made up eyes.
“Yes, it’s me.” I sit down in my chair, place my coffee cup on the table, and put my jacket on the back of my chair. Luckily my copy of the magazine is hidden in my bag. But I haven’t even had time to read the article yet.
Six speaks next. “We had no idea that we’re on a jury with a celebrity! Why didn’t you say something?” In this moment she reminds me of my Aunt Natalie, proud and affectionate.
Four is in the chair next to me, and her comment isn’t quite as enthusiastic. “I’m surprised they chose you for jury duty. How can you be anything but a distraction?”
I don’t know how to answer that, and luckily I don’t have to. Tommy the clerk comes in.
“Is everyone ready?” He asks us all. He isn’t really looking in my direction any more than he usually does, so I guess not everyone is aware of whom I am.
We all stand. And, speaking of people not looking at me, Ten avoids my eyes just as he has ever since I yelled at him. I try to fling him a smile, but he’s not up for catching one. So we all file out, and as we do I ask Seven if this is the first time the clerk has come for us, or if he tried before when I wasn’t there.
“Don’t worry,” Seven tells me. “The judge must have been running late too.”
This morning’s witnesses require a translator, because they are the owners of Potenza, the Greek yacht company, and they don’t speak English. The testimony takes a while. However, the gist of it is this: Potenza says that the Smythes didn’t take proper care of the boats. Potenza had outlined how high-maintenance these boats are, that they require at least ten thousand dollars worth of varnish a year to protect them, and that they should be stored somewhere that isn’t on flat land, or in a leaky warehouse, or in the harsh sunlight but not in the water, which is exactly how the Smythes stored them for months at a time. At one point a Smythe shipyard had received a bunch of boats, but nothing was done with them. They just sat outside, their beautiful varnish jobs slowly decaying under the rays of the sun and their hulls becoming compromised without the proper supports and weight distribution.
The ex-college frat boy/defense lawyer asks his witness, “Why are you here Sir, when you have employees that could have travelled and testified on your behalf?”
The man in the witness stand is huge and bald, and he looks like he sweats a lot. He’s stuffed into his suit, and I’m guessing he’s a lot more comfortable in shorts and bare feet, out by the water. He starts yelling in Greek. The translator, a meek woman who is half his size, tries to keep up.
“My honor is stake,” she says for him. “These boats are my life and my livelihood. This case is an insult to my name so I must defend my name and my boats. I make these boats by hand and I put my blood into them. How dare they say what they say! How dare they accuse me of building a deficient boat! My boats are top of line, best in the industry, and everybody knows this.”
I would laugh at the ridiculousness of a sweet, mild-mannered woman expressing such anger on this thunderous man’s behalf, as he continues to yell behind her. But I hold my tongue because it’s not appropriate to laugh when you’re on a jury, like how Beth and the others did towards the end. It helps nothing.
Besides, the generic white-haired lawyer for the plaintiff speaks up.
“Objection, your honor. Improper characterization. It is not Mr. Speros’ job to summarize the testimony made by the plaintiffs, nor should he be able to quantify the superiority of his boats in relation to other boats.”
The translator whispers to Mr. Speros, and I’m assuming she is translating the objection for him. The defense lawyer pushes his wire-rim glasses up on his nose and gives the judge his sardonic smile.
“Your honor, the witness is merely answering my question in his own way. This is an emotional issue for him, and he is treating it as such.”
The judge looks down and her eyes appear closed. Is she asleep or is she just thinking? Silence surrounds us and we can literally hear the large wall clock clicking as we all wait for her answer. The lawyers seem as unsettled by her as The Holdout cast was by Joe Pine.
Pained that they might need to repeat themselves, the lawyers make eye contact with each other in a rare moment of camaraderie. Even Tommy the clerk is squirming a little in his seat off to the side. Then the judge's head rises up sharply. She addresses the defense lawyer. “That may be. But in a court of law it is our job to look past the emotions of a case and to examine the facts. Sustained.”
The defense lawyer wilts and the plaintiff lawyer glows, and the testimony continues.
Damn. This judge has got it going on. I hope someday I can be as self-possessed as she is. Maybe thirty years from now, when I’m around her age, I’ll be able to take my time in answering a question, and once I do, the men who asked it will follow my directives with no complaint.
Later we break for lunch. As we file out of the courtroom and into the break room I lunge forward and tug on Ten’s sleeve. He stops and turns around, so I pull him aside, around the bend of the wall. We stand by a big picture window that overlooks downtown Des Moines.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to yell at you the other day. I was just embarrassed, self-conscious, and all the other things that make a person feel bad about herself.”
At first I’m worry that he’s holding onto his resentment. Then he smiles, his face transforms, and my senses relax. He speaks in a hushed, conspiratorial voice. “But you should be proud. After all, you’re on the cover of Alright Magazine. How many people will ever be able to say that in their lifetime?”
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not, but if he is, it’s a gentle, teasing sarcasm, and I almost want to step in closer to him. I almost want to get a stronger whiff of his Ivory Soap scent, and to touch the soft fabric of his oxford cloth shirt that must be standard issue for all real estate agents. The one he’s wearing today is blue, and the cloth clings to his torso, accentuating his flat stomach and broad chest.
“Yeah, about that. Would you do me a huge favor?”
He wrinkles his nose. “What?”
“There’s a copy of Alright Magazine in my bag, but I haven’t even gotten to read it yet. And I can’t face more questions about the show until I do.”
He nods solemnly. “You want me to go in there, get your bag, and bring it to you?”
“Yes. And my coat. And find me downstairs. I’ll take the elevator down now, and I’ll walk around to the south door, and wait for you there. Okay?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Anything else?”
I do step in closer, but only by a millimeter. “Have lunch with me? I found a great bakery the other day. We could go th
ere.”
He looks out the window, down at the tiny, ant-like pedestrians below. Then his gaze is back on me. “You should go get the elevator now. I’ll wait until after they leave to go in and get your stuff. So it might be a few minutes. Is this bakery close by?”
I nod and grin. “Yeah. And the service is quick, especially if you get the soup.”
“I love soup,” he says.
“Yeah, me too.”
Then neither of us can think of more to say, so we go our separate ways. But I’m still grinning. I know he’ll find me again soon.
§
We make it to the bakery and sit down with our food. I ordered the same creamy tomato soup and buttered roll from last time, and Ten has a half turkey sandwich and a cup of chicken wild rice.
I pull out the magazine. I start to read the article silently to myself, but Ten protests. “No fair,” he says. “I got your stuff for you, so you’re reading that out loud.”
I sigh and give a quick glance around the bakery. Nobody seems at all interested in me, so I clear my throat and begin to read.
“The path to love is a complicated one, as anybody who has been watching this season of ‘The Holdout’ would know. Grant Zane has set his sights on two fellow contestants, Robin Bricker and Klementina Silvera. After last week’s contentious Island Assembly, Bricker confronted Zane about his intentions. The end result? These former lovebirds are now promising to vote each other out.
‘Grant’s heart was broken,’ says a source close to Zane. ‘He totally dug Robin, and knowing she would vote him out really hit him where it hurts.’ Meanwhile, Silvera is playing it cool. Though Silvera says she typically stays out of the world of wild hook-ups and dating drama, perhaps the chance to be with Zane was too good to turn down.
‘I wasn’t just using him to get ahead,’ said Silvera in an exclusive interview with Alright Magazine. ‘I have real deep feelings for Grant.’
Fans online seem stunned but fascinated by this love triangle, and many would say it actually does make some sense. ‘Klemi is the sort of girl that any guy would want to be with,’ said one online fan. ‘But Grant and Robin have so much in common. I can totally understand their connection. If I was Grant I wouldn’t know who to pick.’
What does the future hold for Grant Zane, Robin Bricker, and Klementina Silvera? Silvera clearly has a major crush, but she’s not ready to sacrifice a million dollars for Zane’s love. ‘You’ll just have to watch the remaining episodes,’ says Silvera. ‘I promise there are more surprises to come!’
What do you think? Will Cupid’s arrow make any lasting impressions on these ‘The Holdout’ paramours? Join the conversation on Twitter. #Alright #HoldOutLove”
I stop reading and look at the surrounding photos and their captions underneath. One picture is of Grant and me kissing in the bushes. Below it is a quote from Joe Pine, "Grant and Robin have an undeniable attraction to each other. I could sense the heat between them from the beginning."
“Well, that isn’t terrible,” Ten says.
I lower the magazine. Ten is eating his sandwich and chewing while he talks. At least he manages not to be disgusting about it. He keeps his food off to the side of his mouth, unseen.
“It’s all right,” I say.
Ten laughs. “Ha ha. Get it? It’s all right, and it’s from Alright Magazine? I bet you didn’t even realize when you said that…” His voice fades out when he realizes I’m not laughing with him.
I hang my head in my hands.
“What’s wrong, Robin? It’s not like they said anything bad about you. In fact I think you come off pretty good.”
I’m looking down at the table as I answer. “I’m just so embarrassed.”
“Why?”
I raise my head to respond. “Because. I was there to win and to prove how competent I am. Instead I fell for a guy. And he didn’t even turn out to be nice.”
“Well, of course not.” Ten takes a sip of his water and I wait for him to elaborate.
After a moment I ask. “Why of course not?”
Ten uses his finger to trace the beads of moisture on his water glass. “Women never fall for the nice guys in these situations. They only fall for the nice guys when they’ve made a conscious decision to find one. The rest of the time they go for the bastards.”
The sunlight is streaming through the window and it bounces off Ten’s watch. I look from his wrist to his face. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
If he’s thrown by my question, he doesn’t show it. His face stays the same, a medley of brown, and he shakes his head no.
“But,” he says, “I have a little sister. We watched the show together the other night, and I told her that you and I are on this jury together. She’s dying to meet you.”
I swallow my surprise. But what rises back up is worse. It’s humiliation. “I didn’t have sex with Grant, you know. It was the editing. They made it look like we were about to do it, but I had actually pushed him away.”
Ten gives me a sideways sort of look, and nods gravely. “Okay.”
I can’t tell if believes me. Whatever. “Hey. I feel kind of silly asking you at this point, but what’s your name?”
Ten laughs. “Nick.”
Nick: a good, sturdy, nice name for a good, sturdy, nice guy. “Nick is a great name. But don’t be offended if I still occasionally call you Ten.”
“You call me Ten because you think I’m perfect?”
“No. Because you’re juror number Ten.”
He gives me an exaggerated eye roll. “Couldn’t you have humored me on that one?”
I giggle. “Sorry.”
He smiles and adjusts himself a little. He takes another drink of water, and I start in on my soup.
“So,” he says. “Would you be willing to meet my sister? She’s sixteen years old and your biggest fan. It would mean a lot to her, and she’d be very impressed with me too.”
“Oh,” I stammer. “Sure.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t suggest a time or place. I assume that’s coming later. But awkwardness descends upon us.
I do a little math in my head. “If your sister is only sixteen, how old does that make you?”
“Thirty,” says Nick/Ten. “I was fourteen when she was born.”
“Oh.” I nod. “There’s a big age difference between my brothers and me too.”
“Yeah, I know.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s not stalking me.
“Right. You know a lot about me because you watch the show.”
Ten/Nick shrugs his shoulders. “Hey, just to be fair, I’ll tell you anything about myself that you want to know.”
I reach out, grab his wrist, and turn his watch so I can see its face. “Maybe some other time,” I say. “We need to finish our lunch and go.”
He doesn’t recoil at my touch and I don’t pull my hand away super fast. Without looking down at his watch he responds. “We have plenty of time.”
Chapter 11
This weekend I decide to kill two birds with one stone. I stop by Jack’s restaurant to meet Jessie, but I also tell Nick to swing by with his sister. When I arrive on Saturday night the place is hopping and I’m lucky to find a table. There’s no way Jack or Jessie will be able to chat for some time. So When Nick and his little sister Andrea arrive we sit and order drinks and food.
I end up having more fun than I thought I would. Andrea mostly asks questions about the filming of the show, and she also wants to know about the challenges. She barely mentions Grant at all.
I ask her about school. Turns out she’s on the swim team like I was when I was her age. Unlike me, she’s also in National Honor Society and Student Council.
I look at Nick’s beaming face. His brotherly pride is pouring out. “Your parents must be so thrilled!” I say.
Andrea flips her long brown hair off one shoulder and her cheeks turn a little pink. “Not really,” she says.
I knit my eyebrows together, and Nic
k can sense my question.
“I’m sure she would be proud, but our mother died when she was four and I was eighteen,” says Nick. “Breast cancer.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“You mentioned on The Holdout that your mom died when you were young too.” Andrea’s wide brown eyes overflow with compassion.
“Yes,” I say. “In a car accident.” I dip a calamari in marinara sauce, but I put it on my plate instead of in my mouth. “I was only two, which is probably a better age to lose her at than four. I have no memories of her at all, except from stories and pictures, so I don’t really know what I’m missing.”
Andrea and Nick nod. “I don’t know if that’s better,” says Andrea.
“Losing your mother sucks. Period.” The force of Nick’s words are like a sudden strong wind, the kind that makes you drop your stuff and go scurrying after it. But I can’t disagree.
“Yes.” We meet eyes, and I see something, a connection between us, that I hadn’t detected before. Usually when people want to talk about my mom something inside me clenches up and it becomes difficult to breathe like a normal person. Not now. Still, I change the subject because I don’t want them to think I’m feeling sorry for myself.
“But my father is great. He did a really good job, given the circumstances.”
“I wish I could say the same about my dad,” says Andrea. “He’s always been very distant. So when I was nine I asked Nick if I could live with him, and he said yes, thank God.”
“Don’t you guys have an older sister too? The one who just had a baby?”
Nick straightens his posture. “Yeah. She sort of went through a bad girl stage for a while. After our mom died she dated a lot of guys who played guitars, and she crashed on a lot of people’s couches. She’s settled down now, but she wouldn’t have been a good bet for Andrea back then.”
Andrea turns to Nick. “You were all I had.”
His cheeks pinken. “It’s not like you’re any trouble.” He nudges her, shoulder to shoulder. “Actually, she’s the one keeping me in line.”
I look from her face to his. The resemblance is uncanny. I bet teachers never had any trouble figuring out they were siblings, despite the age difference. Brown hair, brown eyes, tan skin, wide, warm smile. Completely un-extraordinary, except you can’t stop looking at them.
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