Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  I nod. I don’t think talking is an option.

  He places the stem in his mouth and works his mouth and teeth on it. When he’s done, he shows me his handiwork by sticking out his long tongue.

  This is what you get for saying whatever comes to mind, Tori.

  “Okay, let’s see how you do it,” he says, offering the other cherry gleefully.

  “No,” I croak. “It’s not impressive anymore.” I take a gulp of the milk. “I teach a class on Saturdays that I’m really excited about. I think of it as a come-as-you-are class.”

  “What?”

  “Carter, keep up. I’m telling you something else you don’t know about me.”

  “Changing the subject again?”

  “Advancing the subject, actually.”

  He smirks at me. “Okay, tell me about this class.”

  “I’ve been working on this concept. People of all ages and sizes and abilities, all working out together in one place and using only their bodies. I’m trying to show that exercise doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t require thousands of dollars in equipment. It can be accessible and fun.”

  “Sounds great. Maybe I’ll check it out one day. If I can handle Zumba, I should be able to handle this class, too, right? Well, unless Eva’s a co-instructor.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not at the gym. I teach it at a community center in North Philly.”

  He furrows his brows. “Why not at Hard Core?”

  I frown at the question. “Ben and Nate don’t think it’s on message.” I don’t want to talk about the class anymore, though. It’s stirring my resentment. “Tell me why you’re torturing your body for this role. Why is it so important to you?”

  Carter settles into his seat and sips his water. “Okay, let’s see. For years, I’ve gotten the same kinds of roles, most of them in made-for-TV romantic comedies. Light, fluffy portrayals that don’t demonstrate my range. I want my work to command respect. I want people to take me seriously. The role I’m vying for would get the industry to think about me differently.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with romantic comedies, though.”

  “Of course. It’s just not . . . enough. I’m thinking about my legacy.”

  The guy’s twenty-seven. Why is he thinking about his legacy already? Maybe he thinks his career will be short-lived? If he were a woman in Hollywood, I’d understand his preoccupation with making his mark at such a young age. But he’ll still get parts when he’s in his sixties—and his leading lady will be in her twenties. Sigh. “So the solution is a so-called serious movie?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The world cannot live on humorless period dramas alone, you know.”

  He smiles at me, a genuine smile that I think means he agrees with my sentiment in principle. But I’m not so sure he sees how it applies to his situation. “My father had a stroke last year,” I blurt out. “His second in five years.”

  Carter reaches across the table and covers my hand. It’s warm and distracting. “I’m sorry, Tori.”

  I was making a point. What the hell was it? Oh, right. Value. “My dad’s okay now. Well, he can no longer work as a bus driver because his peripheral vision is compromised, but he’s walking, and he’s . . . yeah, he’s fine. Anyway, he spent a few days in the hospital then, and my mother, my sister, and I took turns staying with him. I hated everything about that place. It was cold. Machines were beeping all the time. And no amount of fresh paint could hide the death happening within its walls.”

  “Life was happening, too, though?”

  “Yeah, I suppose babies were being born, but I couldn’t see anything good about the place, not with my sleeping father propped up in a sterile bed with scratchy, bleached sheets. For hours, I stared at a motivational poster that hung in his room. ‘Always forward, never backward,’ it said.”

  He raises his chin. “Ah, that’s where that came from.”

  “Yeah. And it was driving me nuts. The staring, the worrying, the everything. And Eva came in one day and dropped a set of books in my lap. Romance books. I devoured them. Couldn’t have stayed by my father’s bedside without them. And some people call those books light and fluffy. But to me, they’re books about the most complicated and universal emotion. Love. They got me through one of the worst periods of my life. They’re important, and they mean something to me. And I’ll bet your acting has meant something to a lot of people, too.”

  He studies me with an unblinking gaze, his long fingers sliding over the perspiration on the outside of his glass. “I’m glad I met you, Tori.”

  I tilt my head. “Is this the part of the evening where we talk in non sequiturs?”

  He leans forward and places his forearms on the weathered table, his gaze boring into mine. “Thank you for saying my work matters. I’ve never thought of it that way. I love hearing how you think about things.” He again covers my hand with his. “Also, I’m glad I met you.”

  Unable to decipher the meaning behind his serious expression, I drop my gaze to our hands, his on top of mine. We shouldn’t be this intimate with each other, not at all but especially not when someone could capture it on camera. Thankfully, the server arrives with Carter’s meal, which gives me an excuse to break our physical connection. I draw back and pick up my fork. “Dig into that steak, buddy. You’ve earned it.”

  Note to self: If you want to resist him, don’t eat with Carter, either.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carter

  MY BODY IS a temple—in ruins.

  When Tori’s done with me, I might very well be in the best shape of my life, but I’m seriously questioning my ability to live long enough to see the results. Everything is tender to the touch. There’s soreness in places I’d rather not think about. My ass hurts, for fuck’s sake.

  This is after week two. Week. Two.

  Today I’m going to reward myself and chill. I’ll sit on my sore butt and read the script for the first episode of Man on Third’s new season. Maybe I’ll order takeout. That’s it. A day of respite.

  But then the intercom buzzes. It never does, so I approach it as if it’s a glowing orb that might release an army of mutants when I press it. Eventually, I gather the courage to hit the push-to-talk switch. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Williamson, this is Bill, the doorman. I have a few guests who say they’re related to you. They wanted to surprise you, but I told them I couldn’t permit them to enter the building unannounced.”

  “What do I look like?” a strong voice with a dash of attitude asks in the background. “A murderer?”

  Folks, meet my mother. And if she’s here, my dad’s here, too.

  I scrub a hand down my face. “Bill, how many?”

  “Five, sir.”

  Shit. That’s most of the clan.

  “Send them up, Bill. And sorry for any abuse.”

  “No problem at all, sir.”

  A few minutes later, someone bangs against my door, because the doorbell’s apparently too much of a hassle. I open the door, and the Williamsons rush in, my mother leading the brigade like a four-star general.

  She pinches my cheeks and envelops me in a tight hug. “Randall, I told you he’s not getting enough food,” she says to my father, who grunts in response. She squeezes my upper arms and descends to my wrists. “What’s going on? Are you ill?”

  “I’m not sick. I told you I had to lose weight for a role. Hey, Dad.”

  After scanning the living room, my father plops onto the couch and commandeers the remote. “Hey, son.” Within seconds, he’s watching a baseball game on ESPN. My older sister, Kimberly, kisses me on the cheek and allows my niece and nephew to drag her to the kitchen, where they all begin rifling through the cabinets and fridge.

  “You said you had to lose weight,” my mother continues. “You didn’t say anything about looking like a crackhead.”

  I can always count on my mother to deliver her fiery brand of unfiltered honesty. I wrap my arm around her. “I’m fine, and I’m working on ga
ining it all back.”

  “Please do.” She sorts through the contents of her insulated thermos bag and places several containers on the table. “This new look does not suit you.”

  A high-pitched wail shatters the mother-son moment. Isabella, my sister’s seven-year-old daughter, howls like an ambulance siren, her voice rising and falling at regular intervals. “I’m . . . hungry . . . so hungry.” My mother hands me cartons of food, presumably so that I can put them in my fridge, and walks down the hallway as though her grandchild’s distress is nothing new.

  “Bathroom’s to the left,” I call after her.

  “Perfectly capable of finding a bathroom on my own, dear,” she calls back.

  She’s going to snoop, and my giving her directions undermines her plans.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I ask no one in particular.

  Kimberly yawns and enfolds my niece in a bear hug. “Mom woke up and decided a road trip would be a good idea. Said you were too close for us to pass up on a surprise visit, so we piled into the Range Rover and here we are. You’ll have to put up with us for one night.”

  “Did you drive?”

  Kimberly quirks an eyebrow as though the question is ridiculous. My dad is prone to sleep at the wheel, and my mother hates to drive, so she has a point.

  “You must be exhausted, then,” I tell her.

  “I am, but more than that, I’m famished. Can we order something before these kids kill each other?”

  My nephew, Donovan, puts his little sister in a headlock. I beam at him with pride. The kid’s got good big-brother genes.

  “Mom,” I call out. “You all right back there?”

  “I’m fine, Carter,” she says from somewhere at the back of the condo that is not the bathroom.

  They must go. Immediately. “I’ve got an even better idea. Let me take you somewhere for lunch.”

  Kimberly’s eyes widen in horror. “With these two?” She points at the angel-devils stamping at each other’s feet.

  Tori once described her parents’ restaurant as a very casual place. It makes sense to take them there. No ulterior motives whatsoever. Besides, I don’t know that she’ll be there anyway. She didn’t say she visits every Saturday.

  “Where’d you park the Ranger?”

  “I persuaded the doorman to let us use the building lot,” Kimberly says. “Why?”

  “We’re going to North Philly.”

  “So long as there’s food, I’m game.”

  My mother emerges from the back of the condo with a few dirty cups in her hands. “Not as bad as I thought it would be.”

  “I have a cleaning service,” I say.

  “Ah, that explains it. What’s this about heading to North Philadelphia?”

  “I want to take you to a place owned by my friend’s parents. A Puerto Rican restaurant.”

  My mother knits her brows and purses her lips in confusion. “But I have containers of food. A lovely chicken salad. Some couscous, too.”

  “The kids aren’t going to eat that, Mom,” Kimberly says.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “They need to eat what they get.”

  I suspect there’s a simple way to get her to relent. “Mom, the friend whose parents own the restaurant? She’s a woman.”

  My mother’s blank face would make the perfect photo for a gag Christmas card. She shakes her head as though she’s dislodging a pebble that’s settled in her brain. “A woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “A lot.”

  That pronouncement even gets the attention of my dad, who sits up and hits the power button on the remote.

  “Well, let’s go, then,” my mother says as she packs up her purse. “Randall, use the bathroom, please. We’re heading to North Philadelphia to eat.”

  I SPEND TWENTY minutes searching for a parking space. When we pass through Mi Casita’s threshold, Isabella’s whimpering and my father’s stomach is gurgling.

  Surveying the space over my shoulder, my father clucks his tongue. “We’re the only white people here,” he observes.

  “Hush,” my mother scolds. “That means the food will be good.”

  It’s a legitimate conclusion. A Mexican-American crew member on the set of My Life in Shambles shared a tip along these lines when I joined the show. “If you go to a Mexican restaurant and there are no Mexican Americans eating there, turn around and find another place,” he told me. My stomach deeply regrets the two times I failed to heed his advice.

  A young woman who bears a striking resemblance to Tori greets us with a warm smile. She’s shorter and rounder than Tori but just as pretty. “Good afternoon, everyone. Joining us for lunch today?”

  “We are. Do you have room for six?”

  She grabs several laminated menus. “Plenty of room. Two kids’ menus?”

  Kimberly nods. “Yes, thank you.”

  The group shuffles to our table, and when we get there, we play an inevitable game of musical chairs as we figure out where everyone should sit. Because I’m Isabella’s favorite uncle—technically, I’m her only uncle, but if she had more than one, I’d be her favorite—I sit between her and my mother.

  The woman I’m assuming is Tori’s sister explains that most of the food is prepared in advance and takes our drink orders. The kids’ meals are made-to-order, so Kimberly wastes no time in ordering chicken nuggets and fries for Isabella and Donovan.

  With a pair of reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose, my mother scans the menu. “That’s not her, I take it?”

  “That’s her sister, I think,” I reply.

  She lifts her chin. “Ah.”

  Pen and pad in hand, the young woman returns to take our orders. “Do you have any questions about the menu? Need any suggestions?”

  The menu, which is written in both Spanish and English, includes mouthwatering descriptions, and I want it all. Figuring I’m in gain-weight mode anyway, I order enough food for two people. My mother and Kimberly agree to share an order of shrimp with garlic sauce, and my father’s all over the fried pork chops with rice and beans.

  This woman who might be Tori’s sister taps her pen against the pad and stares at me. “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

  “He’s an actor on TV,” my mother says proudly. “My Life in Shambles and Man on Second.”

  She never gets that right. “Third, Mom. It’s Man on Third.”

  Our server straightens, and her eyes sparkle. “That’s right. Oh my goodness, you’re Carter Stone. It’s great to have you here. I’m Bianca. Maybe we can take your picture before you go, huh? Put it on the wall or something.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  She rushes off to the kitchen, and I glare at my mother.

  “What?” she asks, her eyes falling to the juice in her glass as she takes a sip.

  As we wait for our food, I entertain the kids with tricks. I scrunch up the paper covering my straw and let a drop of water from the tip of the straw fall onto the paper. The piece of paper unfurls like an inchworm, and the kids momentarily forget their hunger as they watch with wide eyes.

  Isabella claps vigorously, and then she throws her arms around my neck. I lift her onto my lap, and she twists her body so she can ruffle my hair. When Bianca approaches with the kids’ meals, Isabella scrambles off me and dives onto her chair. We won’t be hearing anything but humming from Isabella and Donovan for the next fifteen minutes or so.

  The bell above the door chimes, and I turn my head to see who’s coming in. Tori stands at the threshold with her mouth open. She’s wearing a top made of soft material and a matching skirt, and she’s holding a duffel bag in her left hand. I know my heart was beating before she arrived, but now it’s thumping against my chest like a bird that doesn’t want to be caged. I want to meet her at the door and give her the kind of kiss that would land us on a best-kiss list, but we’re not together—yet—and my family’s here.

  Our gazes lock, and she lifts her brows in question.<
br />
  Her sister’s voice distracts her from witnessing my sheepish smile.

  “Close the door, Tori.”

  Tori shakes her head and stumbles into the restaurant. She and her sister exchange a few words before she disappears into the kitchen.

  My mother leans toward me. “That’s her.”

  “Yeah.”

  She covers my hand with hers. “She’s lovely.”

  I take a sip of my water to alleviate the sudden dryness in my throat. She’s so much more than lovely. She’s funny, sarcastic, smart, and ambitious. And sexy. I can’t ever forget sexy.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, son, but she looks like she could kick your ass,” my mother continues.

  The remark causes me to nearly choke with laughter, and the evil woman slaps my back.

  A few minutes later, Tori emerges from the kitchen with two plates in her hands and heads to our table. Her sister intercepts her seconds before Tori gets to us. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping,” Tori says.

  “I can handle this table,” Bianca says, pointing to our group. She doesn’t wait for Tori to respond and takes the plates from her.

  “Here you go,” Bianca says with a smile. “Camarones al ajillo to share.” To my father, she says, “I’ll be right back with your chuletas guisadas.” Then she turns to me and winks. “And you, I’ll need three hands for yours.”

  “Carter,” Tori says. “This is a surprise.”

  Bianca’s gaze swings between Tori and me. “You two know each other?”

  “She’s my personal trainer,” I tell her.

  You don’t have to be a genius to know that Bianca and Tori don’t get along well. But even an idiot could intuit that fact watching Bianca’s response to my pronouncement. She purses her lips and draws a silent breath. The flared nostrils are an added touch. “Of course she is. I’ll leave you to catch up,” she says. Then she walks away without a backward glance.

  I’ve made a tactical error coming here. Tori’s perplexed by my appearance, and my presence has heightened the tension between the two sisters. She didn’t invite me to this part of her life, but I dropped in unannounced anyway. One day, I’ll learn to control my impulses, but today is not that day. In the meantime, I hope I can save the situation.