Captured Again

by L. L. Akers

  They rounded the corner, leaving the cubicles behind, to end up facing a section of glass broken into two small rooms, one on each side. The first room on the right was empty, but he could see it looked into another glass room where all he saw was two microphones on stands. They walked toward the left glass room, where he saw a man in front of an impressive board of lights and dials, probably the sound guy, facing a glass wall that looked directly into another room—where he finally saw Emma.

  “There she is,” his irritated guide said before he opened and entered the glass room, leaving Dusty standing outside alone, staring with his mouth hanging open.

  Dusty was mesmerized. There was Emma—behind the glass—laughing while running in place and spinning around where she stood, only to face the microphone again to laugh or squeak out the cutest voice he’d ever heard. She was wearing a tight pair of yoga pants, leaving nothing to the imagination, and a purple spandex tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but wisps of curls had escaped and were hanging loose from all of her movement. Even with the glass room between them, Dusty could still hear her contagious laugh, like bells tinkling, and the high-pitched lilt of her voice reading her lines from a large monitor facing her. The other girl—a plain-faced and serious-looking young lady, stood stonily and still while she read her own portion of the script.

  Dusty almost held his breath waiting for Emma’s turn again. He was enthralled at this version of Emma he was seeing and hearing—a happy, carefree, and nimble Emma! He looked into the glass room to see the coffee-victim dude and another man sitting in front of the sound boards, also rapt with attention, their eyes seemingly focused only on Emma, hypnotized by her graceful movements and beautiful, lithe little body.

  Emma spoke another line—actually, she sang this portion, and then did a little dance in front of the microphone, spinning around while singing, her ponytail flying up to flash her dragonfly tattoo. That’s it! he thought as it finally struck him. She reminds me of a beautiful, graceful dragonfly, captured behind the glass, flittering around. A thing of beauty, like her tattoo. Dusty looked to see if the two guys were still watching. They were now sitting up in their seats, leaning almost against the glass. He could almost feel the sexual waves coming off these guys toward Emma, and he was surprised to feel a bit possessive. Shake it off, Dusty, he said in his own head. She’s not yours.

  But he wanted her to be—as if he’d had any doubts before. She’d had him at how much do I blow?... and only reinforced it the next day after class when he saw the little spitfire throwing a fit that her car wouldn’t start. He knew he wanted to be her hero and fix it even though he had no illusions that he could. But he felt like he must have at least gotten a partial point by having his buddy fix it and taking her on her important errand. That had to count for something. Now if he could just get her out of here before the dude drooling over her yoga pants told her what an idiot he was.

  Emma and her partner were finished. The guy from the elevator jumped up and opened the separating door and threw Emma a towel—her friend didn’t need one—and Emma wiped her face first, then each armpit before teasingly throwing it back at him. He caught it and held on.

  “Emma, that was awesome as usual, superstar,” he gushed at her as she tossed him a smile over her shoulder and headed toward the door. He grabbed a backpack off the floor and followed right on her heels. “Don’t forget your bag. Want me to carry it downstairs for you? Will we see you the same time tomorrow? We can get a wrap on the next episode and send it off. Cool?” he asked, as Emma stopped directly in front of Dusty.

  “Yeah, Rick. That’s cool. I’ll be here,” she answered while reaching to take her bag from Rick’s hand, staring at Dusty and not breaking her gaze. Ignoring any further conversation with Rick, she said, “Dusty, you didn’t have to come up here. I’d have met you in the lobby. You’re early.”

  “Um, yeah. I know. Sorry ‘bout that. I asked for you and the lady said you were on the second floor. She gave me directions to the elevator, so I just headed this way,” he explained.

  Rick was still standing by, glaring at Dusty. He couldn’t stand there any longer feeling his skin burn under Rick’s scrutiny, so Dusty asked if Emma was ready to go.

  Before she could answer, Rick butted in. “You’re going out with this guy now, Emma? Seriously? Hoss messed up my shirt while loitering downstairs, then didn’t know what floor he was on, and finally was nearly crushed to death by the elevator doors while he just stood there in the doorway,” he whined to Emma, who was listening to him with raised eyebrows.

  Dusty could feel his ears starting to burn. He hoped the fire he was feeling rushing up his neck was so hot it melted him directly into the floor, never to be seen by Emma again, but he manned up. “Look, dude, I apologized for the coffee. I offered to pay for your shirt—three times now—and I had no idea where I was going... true that.” He shrugged.

  Emma looked from Rick to Dusty and back to Rick. She shook her head and laughed. “Rick, meet Dusty. Dusty, meet Rick,” she said.

  Dusty stuck his hand out. Rick paused, looking at it, then reluctantly grabbed and shook—feels like a limp fish, thought Dusty. He looked Rick in the eye and gave his limp hand a firm squeeze. Maybe the little dweeb will learn something from me.

  “Come on, Dusty, let’s go,” Emma said, grabbing his other hand and pulling him down the hall away from the nasally impaired Rick. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rick. Go out and have some fun!” she called out over her shoulder as she hurried toward the elevator, dragging Dusty behind her.

  Dusty looked back over his shoulder to see Rick standing in the middle of the hall, arms crossed and scowling. He gave him a wink before turning back to Emma, who still held his hand as she led him back toward the elevator.

  CHAPTER 18

  GABBY settled into the comfortable chair facing Dr. White, ready for yet another failed attempt at breaking through to her locked memories.

  “Gabby, let’s talk about your husband,” Dr. White said expectedly.

  She looked off into space, remembering, but not letting herself go back to the night of the accident, instead focusing on their previous date night. Jake always knew she was more comfortable at home, but he'd continued to coax her to keep their date night routine, always reminding her they needed to keep their marriage fresh and not fall into the grasp of disconnected boredom, as so many of their friends had.

  The weekend before the night of the accident, their last successful date night, she'd called him at work to check on their plans, trying to talk Jake into staying home. But he'd come in from work, seemingly in a hurry, and threw a “be ready in fifteen, casual attire required,” over his shoulder as he rushed into the spare bathroom with a hastily gathered bundle of clean clothes for himself.

  Fifteen minutes, showered, dressed, and smelling so Jake, he hovered over Gabby's shoulder in their master bathroom, poking at her, telling her she didn't need all that primping, grabbing at her rollers and plucking them out, one at a time, letting the long locks fall limply back into their original place before they'd had time to set. Finally, annoyed, she'd given up. She'd mirrored his casual clothes with her own pair of worn but comfortable jeans, but sprucing them up just a little with a clingy sequined tank top and some flashy flip-flops.

  She'd headed toward her car, as they usually drove it if they were going out. Jake had quick-stepped up beside her, grabbed her hand, and led her to his truck, opening the door for her, as usual.

  “We're taking your truck, Jake?”

  “Yep. Climb on up into your carriage, my princess,” he'd answered, grinning ear to ear.

  She'd played along with the game to humor him because she loved that he still did that, never wanting to lose the coveted playfulness they had.

  Jake climbed into his side, wasting no time putting the truck into gear and backing up.

  “Wait, my prince! You forgot your royal harness,” Gabby had reminded him, stretching her own seatbelt away from her chest, then letting
it fall back into place.

  “We're not going far enough to need it,” Jake answered, glancing over at her with a smile.

  And they hadn't gone far, not even far enough to need a vehicle. He had pulled straight into the front yard and backed his truck as close as he could get to their big oak tree.

  “What are you doing, Jake?”

  “Just wait right there... five minutes, Gabby. Don't move—and don't peek!” Jake reached over and turned up the radio before hopping out of the truck, leaving her to listen to the beginning of one of his favorite CDs, an unusual collection of love songs by long-haired rock bands.

  Gabby remembered the torture of not giving in to the impulse to turn around and see what Jake was doing as she felt the weight of him stepping into the bed of the truck, then jumping down again. But she'd promised, and she'd never want to spoil his surprise.

  The second song had just finished as he'd come around to her door, opening it and gallantly extending his hand again to help her out.

  “Are we not going—”

  “Shh. Just come with me.”

  Gabby had let him lead her behind the truck, where she found he'd spread out a red-checkered blanket scattered with throw pillows. He’d placed a wicker basket on the corner of the blanket, a few feet from her swing. Around the gingham blanket, he'd also placed over a dozen mason jars, half of which were filled with brightly burning candles, welcoming the twilight that was quickly unfolding, serving as the perfect romantic backdrop.

  “Jake, this looks beautiful! Where did you get this stuff?”

  “Well, Mama helped a little. You keep sayin' you’re happier stayin' home... So we'll just have our date here—your favorite place. Is it okay?”

  Gabby remembered feeling a lump in her throat, not being able to answer him. Instead, she'd thrown her arms around him and kissed him.

  Jake had always been that way, easily finding the simplest and quickest way to make her happy—making her feel as if his entire world revolved around her—but upon closer inspection, she saw it wasn't as simple as she'd first thought. Beside every Mason jar lit by a candle was a matching Mason jar holding a picture, the picture magnified by the thick glass—seven jars reflecting Gabby and Jake. Pictures snapped by someone else, capturing the faces of two kids growing into adults together, through the years. Two kids who only had eyes for each other. Casual shots, unexpected and natural, one for each year they'd been together.

  She remembered, as she'd held each jar one by one, trying to recollect the exact moment the picture must have been taken, she’d thought again how lucky she was to have a man who had stood beside her through everything. She'd gotten to the last jar, but it was empty. No candle... No picture...

  “Jake, you forgot one,” she'd said to him.

  “Naw, I didn't forget it. See, that jar is bigger than the rest. I thought we'd save it until we had three faces to put in it. Wanna skip dinner and start tryin' right now?”

  He'd winked at her and then swiftly pulled her close. Before Gabby had known what he was going to do, he’d gently pushed her down onto the blanket, where she'd put on an exaggerated effort of getting him off of her, only to make his win even sweeter. They'd made love under the big oak, with the stars peeping through the branches.

  “I love you, Gabby,” Jake had whispered into her ear, afterward.

  “I love you more,” she'd whispered back, looking from his eyes to gaze up at the stars. “Look, Jake. Look how beautiful it is.”

  He'd held her a few minutes more, pressing his face against hers before rolling over to stare at the stars with her. The moment was broken by a long, gurgling growl.

  Jake had laughed, never embarrassed with her, and helped her sit up before they both had hungrily dug into the basket his mama had rushed to prepare, having had it ready for him to scoop up on his way home.

  They'd eaten their dinner, playfully spork-fighting over the last of the shared Styrofoam containers of slaw and mashed potatoes, their fingers greasy from fried chicken, and wrestling over the last flimsy paper napkin.

  Gabby had teased Jake, calling him an animal when his napkin had nearly disintegrated from repeatedly trying to wipe his hand. He’d grunted and pushed her down on her back, with his chest to hers, and then sat up and straddled her on the blanket, threatening to wipe his big paws on her shirt. She had giggled at his empty threats. She'd known he wouldn't do it; he was all gentleman and fluff under that country boy gruff. He'd followed his threats with a long kiss. Gabby had felt the grease on her face as he tenderly ran his fingers over her cheeks, lost in their kiss, and she hadn't minded one bit.

  “Gabby!” Dr. White said again, startling her from her thoughts of Jake.

  “I'm sorry. What did you say?” Gabby asked, flustered to see Dr. White leaning forward in his chair, looking worriedly at her, and embarrassed to have gotten lost in her memory of the last time her husband had made love to her. She turned away, hoping he couldn't read her face.

  “I thought you'd fallen asleep. Your eyes were closed and you wouldn't answer me. Where did you go? Talk to me.”

  Gabby looked up again, meeting his eyes. She could see he hadn't a clue where her mind had been, and she was relieved. “I... I was... just thinking about Jake.”

  Dr. White leaned even farther, nearly on the very edge of his chair, and anxiously asked, “What, Gabby? What were you thinking about exactly?”

  Gabby swallowed back a lump. “I was just thinking what a great guy I had.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Emma tucked her hair behind her ear and fidgeted in her seat, looking everywhere except at Dusty. Now that she was here, on an actual date, she felt prickly in her own skin. Why am I so friggin socially awkward? Dammit! She willed her body to relax and think of some positives: I’m freshly showered. Okay, there’s one. She’d hurried, having to leave Dusty sitting in the reception area while she’d used the studio locker/shower room. She was ready by their agreed upon time of seven, and Dusty had seemed surprised to see her back so soon.

  She’d felt confident when she’d walked out to greet him again, clean and wearing strappy sandals and her best Miss Me blue jeans with a sheer top, allowing a peek at the lacy tank top underneath, only to find Dusty looking uneasy, and silly, his frame too big for the colorful, decorative chairs in their lobby. She rescued him just as Rick stepped out of the elevator on his own way out. She’d been lucky to see him coming; she didn’t want these two face to face again.

  “Can I start you with some margaritas?” the waitress asked, helping to break the clumsy silence Emma felt trapped in.

  “I’ll have a sweet tea,” answered Emma.

  “Make that two,” Dusty said.

  The waitress smiled and told them she’d return in a few moments to take their order after they’d had a chance to look at the menu.

  “Dusty, I hope you don’t feel like you can’t have a beer—or whatever—just because I’m not drinking,” Emma said.

  “Nope. I’m driving,” Dusty answered with a smile. “I can have a beer at home if I want one. I never drink at restaurants.” He looked down at his menu.

  Emma mentally kicked herself for bringing it up. Now what if that opened up a conversation about her pending charge of driving under the influence or drinking in general? She normally liked to avoid that subject. Bonehead, she thought to herself. She, too, focused her attention on the menu, finding what she wanted right away, and put it down. She looked up at Dusty, and caught him staring at her before quickly looking back down at the menu again; his face looked as blank as her mind felt.

  Get it out in the open so you can stop worrying about it, she silently reprimanded herself.

  “I don’t normally drink,” Emma blurted out. “The other night, when you arrested me, that’s not who I really am anymore. I actually quit drinking a long time ago. But it’s never a problem if people drink around me.”

  “That’s cool,” Dusty answered. He shrugged his shoulders.

  Now how stupid do I sound?
I quit drinking a long time ago, but he caught me drinking and driving. Idiot.

  Awkward silence again.

  “Okay, I didn’t explain that right, and it’s probably TMI, but I need you to understand. This is going to sound ridiculous. About once a year or so, I have a few drinks. Usually it’s just two and then I leave. I do this to confront it when I’m feeling weak. See, alcohol used to have a hold on me, and the typical “program” doesn’t work very long. So I figured out what works for me, and I do that. I can’t have a simple drink with dinner, or a few with friends. That would be like me throwing out a welcome mat and inviting that problem back into my life. I’m not like other people. If I let it in, it would take over everything—take over my life—and leave me with nothing. The fear of it hangs over my head constantly. So I confront it head-on and alone. I don’t make it a social thing. It’s just me and the drink. I throw back a few, and tell it to stay out of my life. Then I walk away—just to show it I can. To show I’m still free from it. That keeps me in control. That’s my program.”

  Dusty shrugged his shoulders again and his mouth squeezed together in a firm line. Then he raised his eyebrows and asked, “How’d that program work out for you the other night?”

  Another blush heated her cheeks, but he sounded genuine, not sarcastic at all.

  “It didn’t. This time there was more to it than that. I wasn’t focused, and I made a mistake. But I won’t make another. My program works when I work it.”