by L. B. Dunbar
The man on the balcony waves toward the beach, and I feel even sillier when I think he’s waving at me. I’m the only one down here on this quiet evening, but he could be greeting a boater off in the distance. Boaters are friendly like that, waving at everyone as they pass. My attention draws to the sports hut to the side of the condo building, and I see Gee speaking with Theo. I wave to my son, and Gee tips his head. His twelve-year-old self is too big for his britches some days. The head tip is a new thing he’s learned from his older cousin. Theo is seventeen.
While I wait for Gee, I take a final look up at the man three stories up, feeling as if he’s watching me. While he can’t be Gavin, my body still hums with the possibility of Gavin Scott being in the vicinity. The buzz is a mix of trepidation and thrill. How great would it be to see him again? How awful could it be?
Very awful. The awfulest of awful moments in the history of anything awful.
It cannot happen, and I have one main reason why.
Gee runs toward me, breaking up the anxiety rising within me, and I pull my attention away from the balcony. I extend an arm for my son, motioning for him to step into my embrace.
“Hey, Mom,” he says, falling against me as I wrap my arm around him.
“Hey, handsome. Have fun today?” I press a kiss to his head.
“It was so great. Theo let me help pass out water bottles and life vests. And when it was his break, he gave me a ride on a Jet Ski.”
I smile at Gee’s excitement. He loves the attention of his older cousin, and I’m momentarily sad that he doesn’t have any siblings. It just wasn’t in heaven’s plan for Patrick and me.
“Mom, what do you call a man who surfs between France and England?” Gee begins, and I roll my eyes at the start of what will be a terrible joke.
“A channel surfer,” he states, ruining the punchline before I even attempt an answer.
I laugh despite myself.
“Mom. Watch.” Gee breaks free of me and runs forward, throwing down a wakeboard he had in his hands and skimming on the thin layer of water along the sand. Then he tumbles, catching himself before he does a full face-plant on the beach.
“I meant to do that,” he calls out, throwing his arms dramatically into the air, and I laugh again. He’s such a goof and a genuine lifesaver. I can’t imagine my life without this kid.
As Gee collects his board, I risk a glance over my shoulder, unable to shake the sensation that someone is watching me. My eyes leap to the third-story balcony and notice the man now standing at the railing, elbows casually resting on the top rail. His gaze is definitely in my direction, but I dismiss the possibility of him watching my silly son or me trying to surf the barely visible waves. Whoever he is, he’s simply enjoying the view of an early evening sun resting lower in the sky.
Turning back to Gee, I wonder once again what I’d do if I saw Gavin Scott.
It’s a conversation I’ve had often with myself.
Hey Gavin, great to see you . . . after thirteen years. Insert all the sarcasm.
No, Gavin, I don’t want to ever see you again. Provided he’d even ask if he could see me.
Then I remind myself that Gavin doesn’t know I’m here, and the chances of running into him are slim. I’ll be working uptown. He’ll be presenting a town away.
He certainly won’t be looking for me because he never did.
Take 3
Scene: The Restaurant
[Gavin]
After I arrived in town earlier today, I went to register for the festival. I should have stayed closer to the festivities, but I didn’t want to move twice in my stay. I’d rented a car for the commute between the small towns. There will be dinners and cocktail hours, private showings and panel discussions, and I should attend as much as I can. However, tonight, I’ve agreed to have dinner with my family.
My younger brother, Ethan, owns a new restaurant outside of Elk Lake City. At thirty-four, he’s finally grown up, but then again, some would argue I still haven’t at thirty-eight.
Baseball scholar. College ball. Professional team.
Toward the end of my professional career, I wasn’t aware I was already beginning something else. A team of sports enthusiasts wanted to make a film about a rising star player. The plan was to follow his career for three years, showing the ups and downs of baseball as a business. The focus was Brant Kriss, as I was considered an old man in the sport. The crew liked my relationship with the younger teammate, though. When a fluke accident took out my wrist, and I lost my range of motion, I moved from before the camera as a side character to behind it. I became a consulting director of the project and, eventually, an investor in it. I wanted this documentary to be shown.
Driving a short distance south on the highway, I quickly turn off on a road I haven’t traveled in a long, long time. Weaving along the quiet street, I take in the rows and rows of cherry trees around me until I find a gravel path now extended into an honest entrance to a modest parking lot. Our family acquired the property with its multitude of trees along with an old red barn and a fieldstone building. For as long as I can remember, the Scott family didn’t use the barn or the stone structure. At least, not for farming purposes. However, Ethan and I each had our moments in these once abandoned buildings.
Memories rush me as I park and stare at the red barn.
A summer night. A musty sleeping bag. The heat of warm bodies.
I should have thought of candles back then, but I wasn’t really romantic as a teen. Just horny. Horny for a hot little thing in miniskirts and tight shirts, and blond hair almost to her fine ass.
Jesus, I need to stop thinking of Britton.
I shake the thought and unfold from the convertible I’ve rented. It wasn’t like my car at home, but close enough, and I planned to take her out for a spin later this evening. Closing the driver’s door, I twist to face the stone building and stare.
Damn, Ethan. You really did it.
I wasn’t certain what to expect when I entered The Red Barn Table, but the interior of white shiplap and wrought-iron accent pieces is fresh and modern. The tables are light wood with an eclectic arrangement of chairs at each.
“May I help you?” a female hostess asks. Considering Ethan’s playboy history, I can’t believe he’d hire someone young and beautiful to work for him. Then again, he told me he’s in love.
“Gavin?” I turn to face a woman I hardly recognize. My mother’s shaky voice startles me but not as much as her frail frame. Holy shit. She looks awful and beautiful in the same breath. My mother is from Ireland. At one time, she had wild, tight curls, but chemotherapy has removed those locks. Even knowing she has breast cancer, I am not prepared for the reality of things. Her eyebrows are gone. Her head is wrapped in a scarf.
“Mum,” I choke. Another thin piece of my mother’s heritage was her desire for us to call her mum instead of the American elongated mom.
As my arms wrap around my mother, I’m almost afraid to hug her. She’s so thin, but she holds tight. A sob vibrates against my neck, and I accept her tears of happiness. I blink several times to clear my own eyes. Dammit. I don’t want to cry, but guilt settles in. I don’t know why I stayed away so long.
Then I look up and have my answer.
“Dad,” I mutter, releasing my mother and standing tall. He offers a hand, and we shake, but it’s awkward. There’s no affection here.
My father never understood the decisions I made. He swore he never would, so I broke our relationship. At one time, he was my hero. He gave me the confidence to stand on a mound and pitch a ball. He taught me how to hold a bat and swing for dreams. When those dreams died, and I made a life choice to do something different, he didn’t want to understand.
Once past our greeting, I’m not sure what to say next or where to even start a conversation with my parents. It’s a reason I wanted the public location versus my mother’s invitation to the house.
“Gavin?” The call of my name again turns my head toward my younger brother, Ethan. Jesus, even he
looks different. Then again, being over thirty and falling in love are bound to do things to a man. My brother and I embrace hard, slapping one another on the back. Speaking of hero worship, my brother worshipped me at one time. He was just as athletic as I was, maybe even better, but didn’t put his heart into it as I had. He didn’t want to be second best and always compared to me, so he played mediocrely. He didn’t get a scholarship because he never had the grades and he dropped out of college eventually.
He was living his dream now, though, and that’s all that mattered.
“E, you look amazing.” I hold his shoulders while I scan up and down his body. He’s taller than me by an inch or two and has filled out just as much. His hair is wild and wavy, like mine, which I keep shorter on the sides and controlled with gel on top. He even sports the same scruff. Everyone always said our eyes match, but Ethan’s are a shade lighter than mine. I have my dad’s eyes—deep, dark, puzzling.
“Gavin, meet Ella.” Ethan steps aside, and I meet a woman with vibrant red hair, lush and wavy, cascading around her shoulders. She also has a wicked scar on the right side of her face. I’d been warned, but nothing prepares me enough for the horror of it. I can’t take my eyes off the puckered, red skin, and then I do an awkward thing of looking away and back and away again.
“Don’t stare,” Ethan hisses, but Ella grins.
“It’s okay.” She holds my eyes as if she knows it’s difficult while rude, and my cheeks heat. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
“I’m Gavin,” I awkwardly restate, and she giggles. Without thinking, I cup her shoulders and lean in for a kiss on her left cheek. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Same,” she says. Her cheeks flush while she smiles. Ethan steps up to his girl, wraps a protective arm around her, and kisses her temple, right above her scar.
“Don’t fall for his charm,” he warns, keeping his lips to her head.
“And they’d differ from yours?” She laughs as she keeps her eyes on me, and I see in her expression how she’s completely enraptured with Ethan. He’s equally smitten with her.
“Let’s sit,” Ethan states, and I’m so grateful for his lead. I follow him to a table in the back corner. A fireplace, which isn’t lit, has a beautiful painting hanging over it of a man and woman dancing on a dock. It feels appropriate for a restaurant located only a few miles from a beach.
The process of ordering meals follows with casual conversation. I’m asked about the festival. I ask about the farm. My dad’s face twitches. He makes snide remarks, but my mother’s been holding his hand under the table. I’m assuming it’s like a Taser, warning him with continual squeezes not to say something he’ll regret.
Too late. Too much was said long ago.
Ethan talks about his restaurant. It’s been open since April, and I apologize again for missing the opening. I have to count back the months mentally to recall where I was last spring. The truth is, I just couldn’t bring myself to come home, but over the next two weeks, I have a purpose for being here.
Ella tells me about her new clothing line and retail store in our small town. I already know she pitched to New York design houses but then remained local. I don’t understand that decision, but it’s not my business, so to each her own.
“I designed your mother’s scarf,” Ella states, and I glance over at Mum’s head wrap. It’s pretty, but my heart squeezes as the reality of why she’s wearing it hits me again.
“That reminds me. I have something for each of you.” I mean, Mum and Dad, and realize I’m an ass for not having a gift for Ethan and his girlfriend. Excusing myself, I return to the car where I left the gift bags, and take a moment to collect a breath.
Only a little longer, Gavin. You can do this.
I hate that I need to give myself a pep talk to speak with my parents.
Returning to the table, I hand Mum and Dad each a decorative bag. Mum removes the tissue paper first to reveal a pink headscarf while Dad rummages through the bag, crumpling the tissue to the side before pulling forward his present.
“A tie?” he asks, and I note the pattern of the tie and the headscarf match. My manager picked it out. I’ve kept Zoey on a retainer, although I’m not certain why. The gifts are a huge mistake.
“Yeah,” I say, scratching at the back of my neck. Shit. What does my dad need with a pink plaid tie?
“It’s beautiful, Gavin. Thank you,” Mum states, trying to lessen the tension between us. She clears her throat and tries another topic. “So, lovie, what’s your movie about?”
My heart flutters at my mother’s endearment. She says it on the phone when I call home but hearing it in person does something to me.
“It’s a film, actually,” I clarify, clearing my throat to swallow the lump in it. I don’t bother explaining the difference between a film and a movie—how one connotates giving information while the other is more entertainment. We tried to make this film informational with a touch of entertainment, adding in the personal trials and tribulations of our young star. “A documentary about baseball.”
“Baseball,” Dad snorts.
“The crew followed a young man for a few years through the start of his career. It’s meant to showcase the ups and downs of professional sports.”
My parents will be seeing the film on Thursday, but the expression on my dad’s face says he isn’t excited.
“We can’t wait to see it,” Mum states, and she must be squeezing my dad’s hand hard under the table because his face is red, and a vein stands out on his neck. Not to mention, it’s uncharacteristic of him not to speak.
+ + +
Later that night, a cocktail party is held at a resort in Traverse City. It’s ticketed to keep out the enthusiasts, allowing filmmakers, producers, and actors to mingle among themselves before the showing of films, question and answer sessions, and presentations from various names in the industry begin the next day.
I attend in hopes of shaking off the awkward dinner with my family, which I escaped as quickly as I could. Ethan asked me to hang out longer, but he understood when I said I have a thing.
“Yeah, a big shot filmmaker can’t hang with us little people,” he mocked. He didn’t understand I didn’t feel like a big shot. I felt like a man just trying to make his way in the world and continually struggling to get it right.
Once in TC—as the locals call Traverse City—I drink a locally brewed beer, shake hands, and take photos with actors for their social media. As a has-been baseball player, I don’t have quite the same status as them. After an hour, I need air and decide to cross the byway to the downtown business district. It’s late enough the stores are closed, but the streetlamps remain on. The town is quiet as I walk the few blocks, eyes fixated on the old State Theatre, a historical landmark.
Looking up at the marquee, I stop and allow a movie from yesteryear to play out in my memory.
I’d gone to the movies. I just needed an escape. I’d most likely had a fight with my dad, and I wanted to be alone, which wasn’t possible to explain to friends as a teen. Watching a movie alone was unheard of. I slipped into the broken-down theater in Elk Lake City. With one screen, there was a matinee and an evening showing of some outdated film I can’t even remember. It wasn’t the movie that was important.
When I was in line for concessions, only one other person was ahead of me. A lithe-limbed blond with subtle curves and tan legs. For some reason, I just knew she wasn’t from the area. Her short skirt showed off those legs, and a soft voice ordered popcorn—a giant tub of it. When she turned, startled to find someone waiting behind her, the most beautiful blue eyes met mine as she fumbled with such a large container.
“Sorry,” she whispered, although I have no idea why she apologized. Maybe it was because she was just too beautiful for words.
I purchased a package of red licorice and took it to the theater after her. She’d taken a seat in the middle while I sat in the back until the opening credits began, and no one else entered the place.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked. She sat a little straighter, dropping her feet from the back of the chair in front of her. Holding the popcorn bucket on her lap, she looked over her shoulder, scanning the dim, empty space and the hundred other empty seats.
“I guess not,” she teased, squinting up at me. Despite my desire to be alone, I no longer wanted to be. I took a seat next to her. The movie began, and we remained awkwardly silent. Neither of us moved. She didn’t even reach for her popcorn.
Eventually, I cracked, making a comment about something. The lack of blood, maybe. The costumes, perhaps. She flinched when someone was shot and then giggled in her surprise. Slowly, she loosened up, returning her feet to the chairback before her. We continued watching the movie, commenting on every bit of impossibility in the film.
“Licorice?” I held up the package, offering her the ropey, red strips.
“Sure,” her soft eyes met mine as she pulled the stringy candy from the bag. I watched as she bit off a piece, suddenly struggling with my thoughts. Her sweet mouth closed around the candy, and I wanted those lips around a spot on me. Her teeth nipped the end of one long piece, and I swallowed a groan as I imagined her skimming her teeth along my dick. She slowly chewed, but when she swallowed, I’d almost lost it in my shorts. Her mouth was made for sin. I just knew it.
“Gonna offer me any?” I inquired of the popcorn on her lap, but my tone dropped, my voice deep as my eyes lowered for her thighs. I didn’t want the damn popcorn. I wondered what she’d taste like instead.
“I’m not good at sharing,” she stated, eyes still on the screen while mine were held to that thigh, tan and jiggling a little with the container on her leg.
“You just took candy from a stranger,” I reminded her.
“I did, didn’t I?” she squeaked, glancing over at me. “Shiitake.” The sound of an attempted curse word on her lips made me laugh.
