Anyone but Him

by Cassie Graham

  Last week, when she opened up to him—me—I knew then she was feeling something for him. It’s different than the connection we share, though. Jennings is in deep with her. Oliver is just getting to know her. It’s confusing.

  And I’m thinking in the third-person. My brain is fucked.

  I pull into the narrow driveway of Whitley’s house and shut off my car. My jeans squeak on the shiny leather seats as I slide out. Closing the door, the sticky, salty air assails my face and I look to the sky. Dark clouds are forming just over the ocean and lightning illuminates the distance. The hot days are forgiven during the summer with these night storms. It’s like Mother Nature’s way of saying sorry for the shitty weather.

  Not that I’m complaining. It reminds me of Alabama’s storms.

  Ringing the doorbell, I impatiently wait. It’s been a long time since Jennings has seen her.

  And fuck me, I want to touch her. Oliver can’t, but Jennings—man, I hope Jennings can.

  We aren’t together in any way. If anything, this past month has only brought us closer as friends. I’ve gotten to know Whitley in a way I’ve never known another woman before. We’ve delved into so much of my life, I’m almost positive she knows me better than anyone else. It’s odd what the distance of thousand of miles can do for a friendship. Somehow, all of those shallow barriers that are put up in everyday interaction are broken down completely when we can divulge our secrets in the quietness of our own home and space.

  The door opens with a whoosh and our eyes meet. For a split second, her eyes widen and I panic. But the second my heart accelerates, Whitley throws her arms around my shoulders and hugs me with ferocity, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Her scent overcomes me and I close my eyes.

  I’ve missed her.

  We stay in our embrace for minutes…I don’t know how long. Time speeds up and slows down when I’m with her.

  I pull back and give her a once-over. She looks stunning. Glamorous, yet laid back. It’s a perfect combination of all parts Whitley.

  “Hi,” she breathes, tucking her hair out of her face.

  “Hi.” And I can’t keep my hand from going to her neck and pulling her forehead to my lips.

  When I let her go, her eyes mist ever so slightly and I think I might see a vulnerable side that Oliver got to see. It makes me feel triumphant. Kind of like I’ve one-upped him.

  She smiles and turns her head to look for something. Grabbing her keys off of the hook on the wall, she slips her purse over her head so it sits across her chest. She puts a hand on her hip and jabs my torso with her finger, pushing me back.

  I hadn’t realized I was crowding her.

  I must have missed her more than I thought.

  Once she locks the house up and arms the alarm system, she turns toward me, eyes big.

  “Where to?” she asks.

  “Dinner,” I evade.

  She sighs heavily and rolls her eyes but hooks her hand around my arm and I lead us to my car.

  “I like this one better.”

  My brows crinkle and I give her a look of question.

  “The Mustang, I mean. I liked your other car, but this one is extraordinary.”

  The soft orange glistens as the lightening strikes off in the distance. I can’t help but be proud. This car has been with me since I was sixteen when I bought it off of an old man back home in Alabama. He had bought it when it was brand new in 1965, but it had deteriorated over the years. He attempted to fix it up for his son to drive when he came home serving his time in the army, but sadly, he never made it home. The old man was so thankful to give it to another young man that he sold it to me for a steal. I had to spend some money to get it in the condition it is now, but shit, it was worth it.

  Opening Whit’s door, I let her in and jog to the driver’s side.

  The engine roars to life and Whitley’s eyes dance. She clutches the poppy red and white leather seat and drums on her thighs, thrilled.

  “Have I told you that you look absolutely stunning tonight?” I give her a sincere smile and move my eyes to the rear view mirror.

  Whitley avoids my question and looks down at her lap, crimson spreading beautifully across her face.

  “No?” I ask, being coy. “Well, you do,” I say, grabbing her hand, lacing our fingers together. “You look beautiful.” As I say the last word, I bring her hand to my mouth.

  Her eyes finally move to me, slightly astonished. In just a few seconds I’ve changed our entire relationship, and I think I’m okay with it. My need to touch her and claim her was growing more and more by the second. I couldn’t hold off any longer.

  We’re just about to exit her driveway when Whitley speaks.

  “Stop the car,” she breathes deep, her chest heaving. “Now.”

  My foot immediately moves to the brake and I slam it down, making the car jolt to a stop.

  Whitley unbuckles her seatbelt and moves to me so quickly that my brain and my eyes don’t believe what I’m seeing. Like the lightning striking outside, she grabs my face and brings our lips together, kissing me with so much emotion that I might be having an out of body experience.

  I’m caught off guard and stunned, a little turned on and slightly mortified.

  I thought she was asking me to stop so she could bolt and go home. Never did I think she’d actually have me stop the car to do this.

  Her soft, inviting lips caress and move with mine in way that intoxicates and wakes me up. Leaning over the console, I move my hand to the side of her face, combing through her long hair. She moans in my mouth and my blood pressure spikes at the sound. I open mine hoping to coax hers, and she doesn’t keep me waiting. She grins against my mouth and pulls at the front of my shirt.

  The rain begins to pour outside making the inside of the car seem even more intense. It’s foreshadowing, somehow. Rain has always calmed me.

  I break apart from her, short of breath, and lick my lips. A small smile forms on Whitley’s lips and I’m sure she mirrors my own expression.

  I clear my throat and adjust myself back into my seat—and pants.

  “Ready for dinner?”

  Her smile lights up the cab. “Hell yes.”

  “Whoa.” Whitley stops just inside the restaurant.

  I stop walking toward our table and turn to look at her. “What?”

  “This place. It’s…it’s whoa.”

  I look around at the brightly colored restaurant. The bright yellows and blues can make the moodiest person seem happier. The entire back side of the building has a built in fish tank. Full of colorful fish, turtles and one shark, it’s a sight, to say the least. I’ve only been here once, before I hit it big and the feel of the place is still intact.

  “Right? It’s definitely whoa.”

  Taking her hand, we follow the server toward our table. I keep my head down and walk as quickly as possible so no one notices me. A couple photographers were camped just outside our community, but I was able to dodge them on the freeway. Most times, if I don’t make a spectacle of myself, I can get away without being seen. I’m nothing, if not a chameleon.

  “Here we are, Mr. Cohen.” The waiter points to a table in the corner.

  I make a quick scan of the place, but the patrons of the restaurant go on eating their food, not caring about me.

  Pulling Whitley’s chair out, I wave my hand and offer her a seat. She kisses me on the cheek as she passes me and sits down. I don’t take my eyes off of Whit as I make my way to the other side of the table to take a seat.

  “Can I get you an appetizer, Mr. Cohen?” the waitress asks in a sultry voice. I hadn’t noticed she was a young woman until now.

  My eyes lift to Whitley, a grin threatening to break from her mouth. She’s enjoying this woman hitting on me?

  I tilt my head and wink. “No, thank you. But, we need a couple minutes to look over the menu.”

  “Drinks?” she asks.

  “I’ll take a beer. Any lager is fine.”

  The
waitress looks to Whitley for the first time and her eyes wide. “And, for you?” her voice cracks.

  “I’ll have the same,” she says in a slow, steady voice, straightening her shoulders, making herself bigger.

  Alright, then. I kind of like Jealous Whitley.

  The waitress scurries away, and I look to Whitley, squinting my eyes. “Having fun, are we?”

  She shrugs her shoulder. “A little. It’s quite the sight to watch these people fawn all over you.”

  “These people?” I question. I hadn’t noticed anyone else but Whitley since the moment I picked her up.

  She levels her eyes, taking a drink of the water that was just delivered. I watch as she plays with the straw with her tongue, unintentionally. My mouth goes dry and I have to gulp past the lump in my throat.

  “Yes, these people.” She slyly motions at the room. “Every person who’s made any sort of contact with you has this starry-eyed, dopey look to them.”

  I put my arms on the table and lower my head. “You know,” I whisper. “I’m sort of famous.”

  Next comes a swift kick to my shin and I wince, laughing. “Okay, okay. That was tacky.”

  She covers her mouth from laughing. “Maybe a little.”

  “What can I get you?” the waitress asks, interrupting us.

  Whitley’s eyes widen. “Oh, umm.” She pushes the hair back from her face.

  She’s so beautiful.

  “Instead of the Mahi-Mahi, can I just get the one Mahi, because I’m not that hungry?”

  My eyes bulge and I can’t contain my burst of laughter.

  The waitress says nothing as Whitley looks up to her looking innocent and doe-eyed.

  I have to give it to Whitley, she doesn’t break. She keeps a straight face and looks to the waitress, expecting a response.

  “We,” the waitress, whose name appears to be Lacy, stutters, not understanding the movie quote. “We’re actually out of the Mahi-Mahi.”

  Unaffected, Whitley closes the menu. “Oh, well, okay. I’ll just have the tilapia with roasted vegetables. Thank you.”

  Lacy takes Whit’s menu, shakes her head and turns to me. “And, for you?”

  “I’ll take the flounder. Thank you.” I smile at her, struggling to break the tension.

  Lacy’s shoulders soften and she takes my menu and heads toward the kitchen.

  When we’re alone, I look to Whitley. “House Bunny? Really?”

  “What? I thought it was funny.”

  “Me too,” I admit. Laughter is something that has been sparse in my life.

  “Is it your favorite movie?”

  She laughs. “House Bunny? God, no. Funny, but certainly not my favorite.”

  “Then, what is?”

  She takes a moment to think, not answering right away. “Honestly? I don’t really have a favorite movie. Well…I mean, maybe I do. It’s just so hard to choose.”

  “Okay. Top three, then.”

  She beams, excited to answer the question. “Top three, I can do. Princess Bride, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and uhh—oh geeze, any Harry Potter.”

  She seems embarrassed by her admission, but I sort of love her list. All classics in their own right.

  “My name is Inigo Montoya. You kill my father. Prepare to die.”

  “Yes!” She whoops. “Best line, ever.”

  I laugh. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

  She stomps her foot under the table. “Inconceivable!”

  We laugh together, and Whitley’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

  “Okay, Mr. Famous, what is your top three?”

  I hesitate. I’m always asked this question in interviews. Most are just hoping for their next endorsement, but I always give a generic answer. Usually, it’s the movie I’m filming or promoting at the time.

  Cracking my knuckles, I try to really think about my answer. I’ve never genuinely thought about it. “Oh Christ, you can’t ask an actor that.” I laugh. “Really, I don’t know.”

  Her shoulders sag. “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t. I’m always in movies. I don’t have time to actually watch them. Hell, I’ve never even seen any of the movies I’ve filmed.”

  “Wait, wait.” Whitley puts her hands up, stopping me. “You’ve never watched one of your own movies? Like, you’ve never watched yourself on the big screen?”

  I shrug a shoulder. “Nope.”

  “What?” she asks, dumbfounded. “Why? How? I mean—Jesus, Jenns, what do you do at premiers?”

  I turn away, not really proud of my answer. “I leave. Slip out the back, or sit in the lobby. It’s always deserted while the film is running.”

  “Then what? You return as the credits roll?”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “Wow,” she breathes.

  “It’s just my thing. I don’t like to watch myself. In my eyes, I could always change my performance. I could have said something with more feeling, or looked deeper into the characters eyes. I’m hard on my acting, and in turn, end up beating myself up. It makes me a shitty actor.”

  Whitley stares at me blankly as I give up one of my secrets.

  It seems like hours before she blinks.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  Slightly shaking her head, she drags her fingers through her hair. “Holy shit. You have no idea.”

  My mouth quirks down, and I tilt my head. “I have no idea, what?”

  “You are…” Her eyes haze, letting me see into that door of her soul. “You are phenomenal on screen. Charismatic and fluid. Compelling and magnetic.” She touches my hand. “You draw people in with looks alone, Jennings.”

  Not that my ego needs anymore feeding, but, fuck me, hearing her say those words. Words that don’t mean shit from anyone else, make me feel like jumping on the table and taking a bow.

  My smile can’t be controlled. “You’ve seen my movies, Whitley?”

  She rolls her eyes, a smirk breaking through her features. “Shut up. Everyone has.”

  “I didn’t peg you for someone to watch those kinds of movies.”

  She snorts a laugh and rubs under her eye. “Yeah, well, you’re sort of famous.”

  “You can’t resist my raw magnetism, right? God, I’m sexy.”

  She bumps my foot under the table, rolling her eyes. “You’re alright.”

  Lacy returns with our food, setting the plates in front of us. “How about a toast?” I hold up my beer, and she follows suit, doing the same.

  “To new experiences,” I offer.

  “And having fun.”

  We clink our amber colored bottles together and take a drink.

  Diving into our meal, I take a conspicuous look around the restaurant. There aren’t many people here tonight. An older couple sits in the back, holding hands, sipping wine, and a few younger looking couples fill the tables. One in particular catches my eyes, and I tap Whitley’s foot with mine.

  “Hey, Pretty Girl.” I point to the couple to our left. “See those two people over there?”

  Whitley blushes and moves her eyes to look at them. “Yeah.”

  The twenty-something redhead, with long legs and a tight red dress fidgets with her phone on her lap while the middle-aged man rambles on about something.

  “From the looks of it, I’d say they’re on a first date.”

  Invested, Whitley puts her fork down and wipes her mouth. “What makes you say that?”

  “First of all, she’s way too pretty to be with him.”

  Whit raises her eyebrow with a leer.

  “You know what I mean.” I shake my head. If she thinks that redhead is anywhere near as gorgeous as she is, Whit is out of her mind.

  “Go on.”

  “Anyway, they seem uncomfortable.”

  Adjusting herself in her seat, she takes a good look at them. “They really do.” She stops to gag. “Oh God, is he picking his teeth?”

  “With his pinky fingernail, yeah
.”

  “Gross—oh, wait. She just grabbed his arm.”

  “Interesting. Look, she just pointed to the bathroom. Let’s see what he does while she’s gone.”

  Whitley snickers.

  When the redhead leaves the table, the man immediately pulls out his phone, dialing. “Tony, holy shit, the chick you hooked me up with is bangin’,” he says rowdily.

  “Did that forty year old just say, ‘bangin’?” Whit makes fun.

  I side glance at her, trying to hide my smile and try listening harder without being noticed.

  The man continues, “Yeah, thanks man. I’m totally fucking her later.”

  The woman exits the bathroom, and he ends the call.

  Damn, it was just getting good.

  “Hey, sexy. Glad you’re back.”

  The woman’s smile isn’t genuine, and she looks elsewhere.

  “Oh, this isn’t going to be good,” I whisper.

  “Wait.” Whit points. “Look at her leg.”

  Sure enough, her red-heeled shoe slides up his thigh.

  “No way.”

  “Right?” Whit giggles. “Maybe he has money.”

  Her little laugh makes me drag my eyes from the clusterfuck of the first date to look at her. That laugh, that beautiful sound, might be the finest melody I’ve ever heard. Pure and sweet.

  Dammit, I’m beginning to like her laugh.

  Who the hell am I?

  “So, you think they’ll leave together?”

  I look back to the couple. “I think it all depends on the guy, honestly.”

  “He just blew his nose, Jenns.”

  The redhead pulls herself back from the table, looking mortified.

  “Maybe they won’t leave together.” I laugh.

  The man shoves his hanky in his coat pocket and grabs the woman’s hand, making her visibly gag. In the process of grossing her out with his snot-hand, he sneers something offensive, making the woman’s face contort in an expression that can only be described as mortified. Unadulterated mortification.

  The woman gets up, slapping the man square across the face. “You’re a pig,” she yells loud enough for us to hear. “I hope you and your hand are very happy together.” Turning fast on her feet, she leaves.

  “Whoa,” Whitley breathes.

  “Damn, that was like a bad movie. And we just got to watch it for free.”