by Grea Warner
When we got to a point in our conversation where nothing else could be said, Willow changed subjects, mentioning an event taking place at our apartment building. “What do you think of that social thing on Friday?”
“I don’t know. It’s—" I started to mention the building’s anniversary party.
“It’s not 1950!” she interrupted with a boom. “They’re moving backward instead of forward. A social? First of all, who calls it that? Second, a social definitely involves guys. We already practically live in a convent.”
I couldn’t help but do a soft chuckle. “It’s still a nice idea.”
She rolled her eyes. “You going then?”
“No, I’ll be in Carolina.”
“Great excuse,” she scoffed.
“It’s actually great timing.”
“To put some distance between you and Mr. Mean."
“Ryan.”
“I know what his name is. I thought we were using code. I guess he’s not totally mean. But he is a little bit if you are hurting so much.”
But I hadn’t been correcting Willow with her choice of names for Mr. Thompson. I was making a new statement ... acknowledging his presence. “No. Ryan.” I subtly nodded in the direction of the bar door—the one I was facing and Willow was not.
It was then, when Willow turned from her bar stool, that Ryan spotted us. His eyes opened wide for a split second and then seemed to go sad and remorseful in an even quicker motion. I managed to keep watch on him, but I think it was only because I was in shock from actually seeing him there.
He wasn’t alone. There were a few others surrounding the entry, and I recognized them all from the show—Portia, the other two judges/artists, and other producers or execs. When Ryan was pulled away with them to an elongated table at the side of the room, Willow’s voice directed me back to her.
“What do you want to do?”
I took another swig of my fruity concoction and tried not to look again at the table full of television and music professionals. But it was hard. I wanted to know what he was doing ... how he was feeling. I didn’t answer my friend, though, because I didn’t know the answer. But then, just as suddenly, a very Willow-esque plan popped into my mind.
I called over the bartender—the hunk with a killer smile, squinty eyes, and bulging biceps—and leaned a little closer than I had all night. I wasn’t flirting. Neither was he. But Ryan didn’t know that. Then, not only did I order another drink, but I made a request.
Moments later, “Landslide” started blaring from the establishment’s speakers. I mouthed a “thank you” to the bartender, took a sip of my new drink, and worked really hard on not turning to see Ryan’s reaction to the song. I didn’t need to see him, though, to know he understood not only how the song came to be on at that particular moment but also how I was feeling. I knew because a text from him came through to my phone almost immediately.
What R U doing?
Drinking, I texted back, feeling both oddly nervous and proud of myself ... clearly a result of those said drinks. What are YOU doing?
Exec Prods BDay. Last min after show celebration, he answered just as straight forward. When I looked at my phone but didn’t reply—and I knew he had a seat where he could watch me straight on—he texted again. I want to talk w/U. Another follow up came when I ignored the text. Meet out back.
I flipped my phone over so I couldn’t see the screen. Willow, who had not spoken a word since questioning me about what I wanted to do, bit her top lip and made her eyes grow wide at my actions thus far. She was totally latching on to the vibe.
“What is he doing?” I asked, refusing to give him the pleasure of turning myself.
From her position at the bar, Willow could get away with the partial turn much better than I could. “Looks like he is making conversation, but he’s not,” she noted. “He keeps looking over here, and his hand is on his phone. Now he’s texting or something.” When my phone vibrated another incoming text and I didn’t even turn it over to read it, she added, “Well, now he looks mad.”
“You should be a play-by-play sports announcer,” I teased and felt for the first time that night a little tipsy. I wondered if it was all purely alcohol or seeing him that had caused the ultimate effect.
“Ha! Ha!” she joked back. “Yeah, I have a radio voice. Not the face.”
Hollywood—the dasher of dreams for all of us, I thought, and then commiserated, “Like me—I can write them, just can’t sing them.”
“Cheers, sista.” Willow raised her soda glass and then brought it abruptly back down. “Oh, well, he’s, uh ... he’s coming over ... here.”
And then, there he was, standing right next to me. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, but, even more so, I could feel him—the heat vibrating from his tall, built body. And I could smell him—the musky vanilla scent that was so Ryan. I waited for him to speak to me or touch my hand or acknowledge my presence in any manner—and he definitely could have since Willow and I were the only two at the bar besides one other couple at the opposite end. But he didn’t.
Instead, he called over the bartender, and I silently cursed myself as I turned the slightest of bits to see the interaction completely. Ryan slid his credit card and a piece of paper to the bartender and said, “I’m buying a round for that table over there.” He did a nod in the direction of the crew he was sitting with. “And that, too.” Ryan barely gave the bartender a second to look at the credit card and read whatever was on that paper before asking, “You understand? You’re good with that?” His tone was pretty sharp and a little condescending—very un-Ryan like ... more Mr. Mean.
“I’ve got it, sir,” he replied in a tone where I knew he recognized who the music rep was.
And then Ryan turned to me before I could glance away. “Out back.” His blue eyes were deeper and more direct than I ever remembered them.
And it made me nervous ... and giddy ... and bold all at the same time. “Well, hey, look, Willow, it’s Ryan Thompson.” I looked from him to Willow, whose eyes seemed to grow ten times at my sassiness.
“Please.”
His one word, which started out in the same firm tone, somehow ended a little with a plead, and it got to me that time. I’m not sure if he knew it, though. Bringing his hands up to massage the back of his neck, he glanced over at the table of his cohorts and so did I. No one seemed to be looking our direction and/or, thankfully, putting gossip photos together. But when Ryan put his phone up to his face—and I knew it had neither rung nor had he called anyone—I understood what he was doing. He was making an excuse for stepping outside, which he did with one last blink of a look at me. It was sad that I knew the tricks of deception.
I exhaled sharply as Willow said, “He’s intense.”
I found myself giving Ryan an excuse ... albeit a legitimate one. “He’s stressed.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” My best friend winked and pretend-fanned herself, not knowing how much her being there and keeping things light helped me.
“I ... I’m gonna go see him.” I hadn’t made up my mind until it came out of my mouth.
“Sure?”
I couldn’t help the sigh. I wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad decision. But I had made it. “Yeah. Rescue me, okay? You are my wing girl tonight, right?”
“I got you,” she reassured.
“Not long, Willow,” I warned, not knowing how well my emotions—especially in my alcohol-induced state—would hold up.
“I’ll pay the bill. We’re done, right?” Again, she made the decision for me. “Yeah, we’re done. Then I’ll get the car and pull it around back for operation rescue. Does that work?”
“Yeah. What do I owe?”
“We’ll settle it later. Settle whatever with Mr. Mean first.”
I didn’t argue. Willow and I were tight enough that we didn’t have to worry about who was paying and when we would even things out. Besides, I couldn’t concentrate enough to split a bill right then even if i
t was just one dollar. My stomach felt like it had two sides attempting to constrict and meet in the middle to form a fierce knot. And as I slid off the barstool, I wondered if talking with Ryan would help untie it or create a few thousand more.
***
When I walked out to the deserted alley, the first thing I noticed was the mystical look and feel of the setting sun. The next thing was Ryan. He was standing against the far wall simply staring at me. I immediately stopped and let him take the necessary steps for us to be close enough to talk.
As he did, I was thinking it was only that morning when we had been joking about the description the kids had of me. But it was also only that morning when I had walked out. It felt like years before. We, somehow, seemed like different people. And it made me so sad.
I pushed all those thoughts aside and tried to regain my strong-woman mentality. “All right, Ryan. I’m out here.”
“What’s going on, Bethany? What are you doing?” He definitely had let down his bravado.
“I told you ... drinking.” And the knots turned to swishes in my stomach just to confirm my answer.
“Uh-huh. How much?”
“Enough.” In all honesty, I wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t as much as I was probably giving out the vibe for—nerves, sadness, and anger were aiding that. “You know, I kinda had a crappy morning.”
His body contracted on my words, as if he was the one with the knots. “I want to talk with you about that. We need to talk about all of it. I want to tell—"
“No,” I interrupted. “I’ve heard it all. I need a break.” I really, truly did. Even though my heart pitter-pattered seeing him there in that bar ... in front of me ... I just needed some time removed. I knew I was almost in tears when I reiterated, “I just need a break. I want to forget for a moment.”
“Let me drive you home,” he offered. “We can talk—"
Even though it didn’t outwardly advertise it, I knew the shirt he had on was the one he bought during our getaway. And that alone almost got me to give in to him. But then I saw something else he was wearing. It was something he wore all the time. It was something he shouldn’t be. It was—
“No.” I backed up a step, glaring at his lie-of-a wedding ring.
There was a little sigh before he said, “You shouldn’t be drinking. Tell me you’re not going to have any more. I’m worried about the choices you make when you—"
“Worried I am going to eat something wrong for me or do someone wrong for me?”
Ryan fiercely squeezed his eyes at the crudity of my words. I shouldn’t have said them. It was an instinctive, couldn’t-get-hurt gut reaction that I, indeed, would have never said had I not been drinking. I felt immediately sorry for saying them and tried to make a little bit of amends when he reopened his eyes.
“I’m ...” But I couldn’t quite say I was sorry. I did, however, acknowledge his concern. “You don’t have to worry. Willow is pulling the car around. She’s sober. We’re going back home. And Ryan ...” I breathed in. Darn it, if I wasn’t going to speak the truth to him again. “I wouldn’t do that. Sober or drunk, God help me, you are the only one. I ... well, you know.”
If my own self-preservation of not wanting to be hurt didn’t stop me from telling him I loved him again, Willow’s sudden presence in front of us did. “Car is on the side. Couldn’t pull around.” She looked from me to Ryan to me again.
“I gotta go.” I gladly took Willow’s entrance as a perfect exit and walked right past him and to my savior friend.
“Bethany ...” He semi-sighed. “Bethany, please.” But I continued to walk. “Willow?” I looked at Willow when Ryan said her name that time. “Willow, can you stay for a second?”
I had no idea why Ryan wanted Willow to stay ... what he wanted to say to her. I just knew I couldn’t remain there. When Willow lifted her eyebrows at me, I shrugged, gave a slight nod, and walked to the other side of the building. It was where Willow’s car was. But it was also just out of eyesight—but not earshot—of their conversation.
It was Ryan’s voice I heard first. “I’m glad we’re getting a chance to meet. Bethany has mentioned you quite a few times.” He sounded so polite—not that he wasn’t normally, but it wasn’t the same natural way he talked with me.
“Don’t believe the hype,” was her typical witty Willow comeback.
“I won’t if you won’t.”
“Well, about ...”
Oh-oh. Was Willow going on attack? I had wondered if the reason she decided to stay back was out of curiosity or to play protective mama bear by confronting the man who had made her friend cry.
“Ryan ... can I call you that?”
Good grief, Willow. Please, just don’t call him Mr. Mean. He normally would have found the humor in it but not right then. I steadied myself against the brick wall.
“Yeah. Ryan.”
“She needs a little bit of space.” My friend echoed my sentiments.
“Did she tell you everything? I know you had your suspicions, and I told her—"
“Yeah, but really only now because she is so sad and she needed to talk.”
“I don’t want to see her hurt. That’s not ...” His voice hesitated, and I think it was more out of emotion than indecision, although I couldn’t see him to know for sure.
“Let her be for now.” Willow sounded like a wise, old fortune teller. “She knows where you are.”
“But she doesn’t know what I want to say.” There was a pause before he spoke again. “Tell her something for me. What she told me before she left this morning? I one hundred percent feel the same way. But I want to tell her in person ... face to face. She needs to give me that chance.”
“Okay.” Willow didn’t know I had told Ryan I loved him, but I was pretty sure she could deduce my feelings by everything else I had said that night.
It was interesting that Ryan didn’t say the actual words either, and I wondered if the reason was that he somehow knew I wouldn’t tell Willow that intimate of a detail, or he truly just wanted to tell me in person. But the fact was, he wanted to tell me, and it beautifully lit me up. Yet, at the same time, it brought me straight back down. I wanted to hear those words from him, but not then ... not like how we were ... not when I knew the situation around us was still not going to change. To hear him tell me he loved me would only make it hurt that much more.
After Ryan thanked Willow, she changed the conversation topic in another typical Willow way. “You know, this look suits you.” I reimagined his worn jeans and light green T-shirt as my friend continued her fashion critique. “That’s what you should be wearing on-air—not the open jacket and slick shirt. So yesterday.”
I think I heard Ryan actually do a half chuckle before he told her something I already knew. “Yeah? I’ll tell the show’s wardrobe people. They are in charge of it. Congrats, by the way, on your graduation.”
Admittedly, I swooned a little, hearing him personalize his comment to Willow. That was the Ryan I had totally fallen for—no matter what distress he was under, he cared. He cared about me. So, he cared about what and who I cared about. And Willow, I knew, would hear and see that, too.
“Thanks for being such a good friend to her,” he added.
“It goes both ways,” she replied. “I better be that now and make sure she didn’t decide to start walking. We know how she likes to do that.”
I shook my head and, if I would guess, Ryan probably did, too. It was kind of weird hearing two of my favorite people talking with one another and teasing about me. It was nice. Too bad it wasn’t under other circumstances.
“You’ll tell her what I said?”
“I will,” Willow reiterated, but that time her voice was much louder since she had begun walking and was then almost next to me. Surely not surprised I had been there the whole time, she silently took my arm and practically dragged me to her car. Once we were secured inside and the car was started, Willow immediately gave her review. “Scum ... Mr. Mean ... bastard ...”
<
br /> “He is not,” I replied quietly.
“No, darn it,” she admitted as we pulled onto the main road. “He actually seems pretty nice ... and so into you.” I couldn’t help but sigh as she continued, “You heard everything, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What did his message mean?”
“I’ve gotta keep something private.” I brought my side window down, needing the air more than ever.
“Does it change anything?” She poked at my ambiguity.
“Yeah. It makes my heart twist around even more.” The sighs were becoming a melancholy habit.
“Good God, girl. Maybe we should just live in a convent with 1950s socials. It would be easier.”
“Truth.” I managed a laugh before remembering about my monetary involvement in the evening. “How much do I owe you? What was the tab?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I tilted my head and curled my lip at my neighbor. “Willow, I drank more, and it was pricier. I am going to at least pay my fair share.” I was definitely not going to let her pay for the night, especially when it should be the other way around. I owed her for just being there for me.
“I didn’t pay a thing,” she said.
“What? You skipped out on the bill?” I almost shrieked. “Are we like Thelma and Louise now?”
“Yeah, let’s go find young, cowboy Brad Pitt.” When she went along with my idea, I realized she was taking it too casually to have really skipped out on the bill.
“Will—” I started again.
“It was covered.”
“What? By wh—?” I didn’t finish the last word because I had figured it out. “No. No. No. Tell me he didn’t pay it.”
“He did. Bartender said everyone sitting at the bar, but you know it was for you.”
“Oh, no.”
“What? Why? Had I known, I would have ordered something better.”
“Oh, geez, he shouldn’t have. Why did he do that?” I know I was getting more animated again, thinking of Ryan footing our bill.
“Didn’t we just have the conversation about how much he cares for you?”
