Exposure_A Love Story

by Tracy Ewens

  Time Off was less than a mile from the foundation, so she walked. She circled back twice before realizing that what looked like a storage room was the café. The name was punched into a small metal sign above the single red door. A brass bell tinkled as Meg entered and took in the aroma of coffee and cinnamon. The hostess with a long blonde braid and a necklace that read Happiness waited for Meg to hang her coat on the hooks by the door and then sat her at a table right off the entryway of the small café.

  Westin Drake was now almost fifteen minutes late and Meg checked to make sure she had the right address. This certainly didn’t seem like a place he would frequent, but she reminded herself he was practically a stranger, outside of a Google search that proved endless. Content to take in her surroundings, she ordered a tea and tried to make out the song playing faintly overhead. The place wasn’t big and the tables around her were close, even by city standards.

  Meg noticed the man and woman sitting directly to her left were speaking in sign language. She tried not to stare, but sign language was fascinating and somehow the silence among the clattering of dishes and the zip of the milk frother was comforting. It had taken Meg a few weeks to acclimate to the noise of the city when she returned. The televisions that seemed to be in every corner, the clicking of heels as she made her way through crowds and intersections, even the whistle of a tea kettle had all mixed together like a rock concert at first. The sounds had recently dulled into the new background of her life, but sometimes she missed absolute silence. Trying not to be obvious, she glanced over at the couple again and relished the peace of their conversation.

  Meg barely noticed the front door open, but she was immediately aware that the buzz of conversation amplified and the energy in the room changed. She glanced up and wondered if Westin Drake ever had peace. He probably didn’t want it, she thought. Some people thrived in noise.

  Removing his sunglasses, West quickly found her and made a direct line for the table. He put his sunglasses back on. The hostess was close behind him with a luckiest-girl-in-the-world grin on her face.

  “Do you mind if we move?” he asked in a low voice that felt as intimate as morning sheets.

  Meg’s pulse jumped and the harmony she’d been enjoying was gone, replaced by a feeling that something was coming and West was there to quietly warn her. Meg glanced at the couple next to her as she stood and grabbed her bag off the back of the chair. They were both staring at her now, the woman pointing at West. Meg turned to follow, something she rarely did and never without explanation, and dropped her phone.

  “Is everything okay?” West circled back and bent to get her phone.

  “I… yes, I’m fine.” She took the phone from him and noticed the line of his arm, the corded muscles, and the deep rich gold of his skin. That was southern California skin, and Meg wondered why a Hollywood actor would be in San Francisco. Her eyes were fixed on his arm and West cleared his throat. She looked away quickly as they both quietly followed the blushing blonde around back to a table in the corner.

  “You’re late,” Meg said, trying to balance the sense of power as they took their new seats.

  West looked surprised, but before he had a chance to answer, they ordered. Meg wasn’t sure if he was going to respond. He grinned. Was that an answer in his world? Downing a triple shot of espresso in a tiny ceramic cup, he quickly glanced at his phone and turned it face down on the table.

  “Sorry I was late. Why were you at the hospital so damn early? Everything all right?”

  “I was at the foundation offices, not the hospital. They asked me to do a heart for the city. Have you seen those?”

  “The big painted heart sculptures? Yeah, I have. They’re cool, but you take pictures. Do you paint too?”

  Meg shook her head. “They requested a heart with Polaroid pictures. I’m sure the opportunity is due to the latest buzz, but it seems fun. They’re letting me do anything I want.”

  “Do you have a Polaroid?”

  “I have a printer that turns my digital images into Polaroids. My mom bought it for me last year. I used to have one when I was a kid, and she is forever trying to remind me that I am the youngest.”

  “Me too.”

  “You have a Polaroid camera?”

  “No. I’m the youngest. Four boys.”

  “Huh. Four girls.”

  “Look at that, no wonder we are becoming BFFs.”

  Meg snorted but managed to swallow her sip of tea. “I don’t think so.”

  West checked his phone again and nodded as he shoveled egg whites and salsa from his plate. He looked like a kid, which was a bit unnerving. He was the most put-together kid she’d ever seen. His wallet was placed on the table next to him, phone on top, keys next to those. The clothes on his body were characters all their own. A worn T-shirt that should have looked like something from Goodwill, but on him, it came across vintage, expensive, and as if he’d simply rolled off the couch to meet her. His belt was dark and worn too. Meg wondered if he bought this stuff “distressed,” as she’d seen on a website last night when she was looking for some new clothes.

  She loved distressed and worn in when it meant something had been put to the test and worked into worn out. She wasn’t sure how she felt about buying experience and texture in a store. It seemed fake, which led her to wonder if West’s jeans were that kind of fake. This thought, in turn, caused what often happened to Meg: her mouth engaged.

  “When did you buy those jeans?”

  West, fork still in hand and eyebrow cocked, looked down at his lap as if he needed to be reminded what he was wearing.

  “Not sure. I’ve had them for a while. They’re part of my pre-stylist collection.”

  Meg moved the melting glob of butter around her French toast and realized he never seemed bothered by her questions. It was a refreshing change.

  “So you wore them in yourself?”

  “I… no. I bought them kind of lived in. Aren’t all jeans that way now? No one wants to rub around on rocks or wash them in a stream.”

  Meg met his eyes over her tea.

  “I mean most people. Have you honestly washed your jeans in a stream?”

  “Not jeans. I think that’s only for commercials. It would take forever for a pair of jeans to dry out on assignment. I wear fast-drying material.”

  “See, so not even you, Ms. Adventure, can create what clothing companies make in a factory somewhere. Ironic, isn’t it? We are probably polluting all sorts of things so we can look natural and rugged.”

  Meg nodded. “Is that the look you’re going for today?”

  “Is there a problem with my outfit? The day we met, I was wearing red pants. Believe me, jeans are a vast improvement.”

  He wiped his mouth, leaning his forearms on either side of his plate as if he was about to relay some important news. “Enough about my clothes. We are supposed to sound like we know what we’re talking about at this model smart house by the end of the week. I’ve been through it and the damn thing freaks me out. I’m hoping you have something intelligent to add because I doubt Next Generation is looking for my kind of feedback,” he said as four young girls walked by their table on the way to the bathroom. The realization of who West was spread a blush across their faces, and it occurred to Meg she’d never been a fan growing up. It must be so odd being on the receiving end of such surface adoration, she thought.

  “I Googled you last night,” she said, taking a bite of her French toast. She had not meant to, but curiosity got the better of her and before she knew it, she had to shut down her laptop before she allowed herself to read “Westin Drake’s Favorite Date Spots.” That was a real article in the Los Angeles Times. He was certainly well known. By “millions on several continents,” per her sister Annabelle during their phone call last night. Meg had telephoned to ask her what the rules were again for skirt length and heel height. She was still trying to shop online and hated the idea of heels. Millions of people knew him, but for what? Meg wondered and then opened her
Internet browser.

  “Yeah? How’d that go?” he asked as another espresso was delivered. Had he even ordered another one? Did they know his order everywhere he went? There was probably an article on Westin Drake’s breakfast routine.

  “Almost crashed my computer,” she said.

  He looked up, and Meg couldn’t help but grin.

  “Just kidding. Turns out you’ve done some movies that a few people have seen.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up a little, and somehow that eased what appeared to be tired eyes. That little bit, that tiny tilt of a grin was rich and warm. The man was definitely a professional.

  “I did notice some inconsistencies,” she said after a few moments of silent eating.

  “I’ll bet.”

  West asked for some hot water and lemon as the waitress took his plate. Meg automatically sucked her stomach in but snagged the last bite of toast anyway before her plate was whisked off the table too.

  “Your eyes are brown, but in the advertisements for your movies, they are green.”

  “I wear contacts when I’m Nick Shot.”

  She almost spit water across the table. “That’s your name, I mean your character’s name?”

  “Can’t make that stuff up, and Nick has green eyes. The producers wanted them green.”

  “Interesting. I wonder why they made that choice. Is there symbolism in the green? Does it say something about your character?”

  “It does. It says women love green eyes and most men want green eyes. It’s incredibly scientific.”

  Meg tried to hide her confusion. Where did moviemakers get this information? It made people sound so predictable, and Meg was again glad she didn’t own a television.

  “You were on the cover of Outside,” she said, changing the subject to something she understood.

  “A couple of times.” West discreetly checked his phone again and blew on his mug of water. Meg could smell the lemon.

  “This one was titled ‘The Earth Issue’ and they photoshopped a young polar bear next to you.”

  He nodded, still blowing over the mug.

  “Does that bother you?” she asked.

  “Is that the one where I’m in that jacket with the huge hood?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was a great cover and the interview was pretty legit. The guy did ask me my favorite color, but other than that, there were some valid questions about some of the organizations I endorse.” He sipped his lemon water. “No, it doesn’t bother me. The bear worked for what they were going for with the cover.”

  Meg looked down at her hands. What was there to say? They lived in different worlds, and his was a place where it was acceptable to not only alter images but also alter reality. She supposed that’s what the movies and entertainment were about, but it still jolted her when fiction was passed off as a real world she knew all too much about.

  “You think that’s wrong?” he asked.

  Meg shrugged and took a sip of her tea, which was bitter from too much steeping.

  “It’s a magazine cover and it brought awareness,” he insisted when she said nothing.

  “To whom?”

  “Readers, people, citizens of the world.” He spread his arms wide and dropped them when Meg made it clear his dazzling smile wasn’t working on her. He was messing with her bears, so even though his teeth were mesmerizingly straight, it didn’t matter to her.

  “Is that what you tell yourself? That a cover of a magazine where someone clearly blow-dried your hair and you are standing next to a polar bear who would never stand next to you in that way, nor would he look up at you like some animated critter, brings about change? Do you think that restores some of their sea ice? Helps them make it through another summer? Your pretty face gets people to understand that as a community, we need to want better and stop expecting more?”

  “Well, when you put it that way…”

  “What other way is there to put it? A person could call it manipulation, false representation. You’ve never been to the Arctic.”

  “How do you know?”

  She tilted her head in a gesture that communicated “come on” without a word.

  “Fine, but I have been to Canada and I filmed a watch commercial in Alaska last year, so I was pretty damn close. I’ve hiked the entire West Coast, Machu Picchu, Kilimanjaro. Holy shit, I’m giving you my hiking resume. Now that’s a first.”

  “True, and points for even knowing where the Arctic is—most people don’t.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “I can see that,” she said, looking around as almost every patron in the café, save the elderly man reading a newspaper in the corner, watched them and strained to hear their conversation.

  “Not what I meant. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “But you’re thinking it. Can’t blame you, especially now that you’ve Googled.”

  Meg somehow felt she’d put her foot in her mouth, but she wasn’t sure how. She’d never met anyone so at odds with himself. One minute he was defending some side she didn’t find on the Internet and the next he was knocking down a larger-than-life persona most men would kill for. Westin Drake didn’t make any sense, but she found that similar to her fascination with other species, and despite the bright lights surrounding him, she wanted a closer look.

  “I wasn’t insinuating you didn’t know the Arctic was up by Alaska.”

  “Sure you were. It’s part of the chip you have on your shoulder.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, most people could give two shits about the animals and causes you spend your life trying to capture and protect. It’s your defense.”

  Meg normally loved honesty, but the guy barely knew her.

  “Am I close?” he asked.

  “I have a lot of patience, but rarely with people.”

  “I get it.”

  And he did, there was no doubt in her mind.

  “You probably get the dumb beautiful guy thing all the time and while I’m sure that’s annoying, it only seems fair if you’re a little dense. I’m not sure how I feel about you knowing your geography too.” Meg tried for light and funny. This was their first breakfast, and things felt a touch more personal than even leaving her underwear at home.

  West took pills or vitamins from his pocket. “I’m all ears for this rationale.”

  “It would simply be too much if you look the way you do, were given fame and fortune, and you went to Yale.”

  “Stanford.” He swallowed the whole handful of colorful capsules, and Meg hoped they were vitamins or she would need to call the paramedics in a few minutes.

  “Seriously?”

  “No.” West was going to say something else, but their conversation was interrupted by a young couple. The guy already had his iPhone out and his girlfriend or wife looked to be hyperventilating. West closed his eyes for less than an instant as if he were slipping on a mask. Then he turned to the couple, smile bright.

  “We’re so sorry to bother you, but you’re Westin Drake,” the man said.

  “Guilty.” West put his napkin down and stood as if he knew the next question.

  “Would you mind if we—”

  “Not at all. Hey, thanks for asking instead of creeping around.” West stood in the middle of the couple, who were in matching flannel shirts. After offering to hold the phone since his arm was longer, they took a few shots and West handed the phone back. The woman with the ombre hair then asked if he would sign her neck. West declined, but grabbed his cloth napkin and producing a Sharpie from his back pocket, signed the napkin instead. Husband and wife, from Reno they told West, left the restaurant as giddy as two kids on a field trip.

  He sat and when the waitress came by to apologize for the intrusion, he was gracious and asked if he could have more hot water.

  “Sorry,” he said after things had settled back down at their small table in the back. He didn’t meet her eyes and it seemed he was emb
arrassed. Was that possible?

  “No need to be sorry. Do you always carry one of those?” Meg, still a little dumbstruck by the whole experience, gestured to his jeans.

  “Sharpies, yeah. I should own stock.”

  “Do you ever say ‘no’?”

  He shook his head and squeezed more lemon.

  “Never?” She tried to imagine what a life of constant interruption must be like.

  “It’s part of the job. There are two kinds of actors—serious and awarded actors, who are entitled to grumpy or introvert tendencies, and what Hannah calls ‘pretty and polite.’ Have you seen any of my movies?”

  She shook her head.

  “Huh, well we’ll have to remedy that if we are going to be friends.”

  Meg wondered how it was possible to be friends with a force like Westin Drake. Did he have a lot of friends? If he did, were they intimidated by being completely eclipsed in the presence of his celebrity? She thought the whole business sounded lonely. She loved being alone, preferably outside where it was quiet. It must be a special kind of torture to be isolated in noise, she thought.

  “When you do see one, or all of them for that matter, you’ll understand that I’m part of the latter group of actors,” West said. “It’s a lot like being one of those Disney characters that walk around the park.”

  Meg didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t familiar with the celebrity lifestyle, but it hardly seemed the plight of the aboriginals.

  “I know, boohoo, right?” West continued as if now reading her thoughts. “I’m not complaining. You asked and for some reason, I tend to share when I’m around you. That will need to stop too before we can be BFFs. I prefer to stick with surface small talk.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.”

  Their eyes met and Meg was intrigued, which was annoyingly predictable, but there was something alive behind that perfect chin.