Broken Halo

by Dayo Benson

  I've known Quin almost four years. In that time, I've seen lots of his other clients on his computer screen. Never has he said he can't tell me their name.

  I try to remember if I've ever asked the name of one of his other clients. I'm not sure.

  But I'm certain he's never closed an image and refused to talk about it.

  Quin soon has me distracted with talk of Monday's audition. He's even more excited for me than I am.

  He wants me to go 'in-character'. That means dressing and doing my hair and makeup the way Simona, the character I'm auditioning to play, would.

  "Guess what I heard?" he asks after we've been over the script and discussed gestures, movement and how to bring Simona to life.

  "What?" I ask.

  "They want a blond."

  "Really?"

  "Well, it's just speculation. But most of the cast is brunette. If they're bringing in a new girl, we think they'll choose someone different."

  I nod slowly. Quin always hears stuff like this that gets my hopes up, only for them to be cruelly dashed.

  "If you get there and see that the other girl is brunette, just know you'll get the role," he tells me. "But still give it your best shot."

  "Of course."

  Quin cocks his head to the side and studies me for a moment. "Wash your hair before the audition."

  I frown. "Excuse me?"

  "Wash out whatever products you've got in it that are making it straight. Since they want someone different, the more different you are, the better. Go with your hair curly."

  Quin has never advised me to do that. In fact, he's always advised the opposite because my hair has a life of its own. It totally does its own thing unless I take the time to tame it.

  He's staring at me now. It's a totally non-flirtatious, professional, assessing stare. But I feel my cheeks warming anyway.

  Confession: I used to have a crush on him.

  When we first met, I was totally bowled over by how handsome he is. But I soon got over it. I'm not about to have a hot romance with my agent. I don't mix business with pleasure. And he isn't interested in that anyway.

  Still, he has deep, dark eyes, curly, dark hair, and a smile that is to die for. He once told me his mom is from Barbados. His skin makes me think of brown sugar.

  But after almost four years, I'm totally over his looks.

  Even if I wasn't, I wouldn't go there. I've never acted on a crush. Timothy was my first boyfriend and we didn't call our relationship dating. It was 'courting'. Timothy explained to me that dating is lust-driven. Courting is, supposedly, Spirit-led. Of course, Mom and Nana loved him even more when I told them about his assertions. So, Timothy and I 'courted' for a year. And now we're engaged.

  Quin is still staring at me.

  "Hello," I say. "You're staring at me."

  "I am," he replies softly. He leans back in his executive chair. "I think you'd be a perfect fit for College Life. You definitely look the part. Just go in there with confidence and I think you'll get it."

  He's all business. Just stating things as he sees them.

  "Red lips," he says turning to his computer and typing something.

  I nod. He thinks I look good with red lipstick.

  I stand and begin to act out the script right there. Quin has printed two copies. He glances at the second one and plays my love interest, although he remains in his seat and doesn't try to dramatize his part. He's simultaneously sending emails. He's the king of multitasking.

  When we're done, he shoots me a grin. "That was your first time going through it and you did amazing. I don't need to tell you to memorize your lines until you can say them backwards in your sleep. This weekend, put yourself in bootcamp and prepare hard. I want to hear good news after your audition on Monday."

  "No pressure, right?"

  "Plenty of pressure, honey. Feel the pressure and let it spur you to do your best audition yet."

  I roll my eyes as I tuck the script into my purse. "Go home before your girl ditches you."

  He chuckles as I head toward the door.

  I pause as I'm about to leave his office. Should I ask him about the guy on his screen again?

  I glance over my shoulder. He's focused on some spreadsheet. He's busy. Besides, he already told me he can't say anything about Mr. Tawny Eyes.

  I leave Quin's building, wondering what on earth it means when you see the same handsome stranger three times in one day.

  Suddenly, a thought hits me and I freeze as I'm about to get into my car.

  I prayed before I met Mr. Tawny Eyes this afternoon. I prayed that God would send me the right man.

  I remember exactly what I said: God, I don't know if marrying Timothy is the right thing for me. If it isn't, please send me the right guy.

  Then I came across the same dude three times in completely different parts of town.

  I'm rattled to my bones as I get into my car.

  Is it an answer to my prayer?

  "I didn't see the same guy three times," I say aloud.

  The man in the knight costume might not have been him. And the man on Quin's screen may have just been someone that looks like him.

  I shake my head. The knight was him. I know it. And the dude on Quin's computer was him too.

  What does this mean?

  I shake my head again. It means nothing.

  It's all just a weird coincidence.

  Chapter 5

  On Saturday morning, I wake up bright and early to go over the script again, and find that I've already memorized it all.

  Memorizing is pretty simple for me. After almost four years of consistently working as an actor, I know that, if I study a script hard and then get a good night of sleep, the sleep seems to lock it into my brain.

  Of course, if I have a lot to memorize it'll take more than just one day of work and one night of sleep. But I don't mess with getting rested up when I'm in preparation mode for an audition or contracted work.

  I rehearse my lines before the mirror in my small room. My room is the smallest in the house. Gina's is the biggest. Her parents pay for anything and everything she wants, despite the fact that she can't stand them and she rarely goes home, even on college vacations.

  "Do you need me to be your boyfriend?" Gina yells from her bedroom as I rehearse.

  "That just sounds weird," Leah calls from her bedroom.

  I smile. Gina and Leah have helped me rehearse scripts many times, playing boyfriends, best friends, moms, dads, and everything in between.

  I know Gina is far too busy to help me right now. It's six a.m. on a Saturday morning but both my friends are awake and working away in their bedrooms.

  "I'm good," I call back. "Thanks anyway."

  I rehearse over and over for two hours and then I take a shower and leave the house. As I jump into my car, I realize I'm not wearing my engagement ring. I removed it before my shower.

  I pause, considering going to get it. Then I shrug, climb into my car, and head across town to an art gallery that I go to every Saturday morning. They do cool exhibitions and hold all kinds of events that I find really inspiring.

  I should probably stay home and keep rehearsing, but I already know all the lines. I guess I could visualize success and do other 'success rituals' that Quin has trained me in, but these Saturday morning exhibitions fire me up. I always leave feeling desperate to do something creative, so it counts as preparation for my audition.

  Last week's audition blew me away. A British poet performed pieces on what it means to be a world citizen. It sounds like a dry topic and it was way too deep for me, but he danced as he recited his poems, and he even had stage smoke, changed into different cultural attire, and made it rain on us. It was like a stage performance. As an actress, I found it mesmerizing. His passion for his message had me transfixed.

  I adore people who have found something to be passionate about. Maybe that's why I clicked with Gina and Leah from the day we met during Fresher's week.

  Gina is a blogg
er. It's a controversial Christian lifestyle blog where she airs her opinions about what it means to be a Christian. She's doing theology and politics credits, and I totally see her leading some kind of revolution someday.

  Leah is a graphic designer. She's designed book covers for hundreds of independent authors and also gets regular work from a few publishing houses.

  The three of us are paying our way through college. No loans or any outside help—except Gina who gets money from her parents.

  Thirty minutes later, I pull into the backstreet I usually leave my car in to avoid paying for parking outside the art gallery. I check their website as I walk over. Usually, they list their events, but nothing is listed for today. There's just a link to another website.

  When I get to the art gallery, the handful of cars in the parking lot is surprising. Usually, it's full. However, the doors to the gallery are open. I walk inside and wander around. There is only a few people in the lobby café. Elderly folk drinking tea. It's shocking. There are always crowds of people here for the Saturday morning events.

  I make my way into the actual gallery and wander around looking at the art and sculptures. I've never actually looked at them since I only ever come on Saturday mornings for the events.

  I feel sorely disappointed as I walk around, hoping to spot a staff member so that I can ask why there is no exhibition or event today.

  Then my gaze catches on a bloodstain on the floor. There's writing on the floor telling me to follow the bloodstain trail. I decide to obey.

  It leads me through the quiet gallery and into a darker section with less lighting.

  This had better be good.

  It leads to a glass case with a sculpture of Jesus carrying His cross. The sculpture is carved from what looks like black stone.

  A man is standing before the sculpture, looking up at it.

  All the air in my lungs freezes at the sight of him.

  This is not happening.

  It's him. Again. Mr. Tawny Eyes.

  What is going on here?

  I feel like this is either some kind of cosmic joke from the universe to see how I react, or a sign from God.

  But how can it be a sign from God? My fiancé is a pastor, for crying out loud. Wouldn't God want me to marry a pastor over this hunky man who I know nothing about? Despite picking up that tract yesterday, he might not even be a Christian.

  I settle for this being a cosmic joke.

  I realize that my heart is hammering and my hands have gone clammy. There's this weird stirring in my chest that I've never felt before. I immediately try to collect myself, uneasy at this strange physical response to seeing this guy.

  Is there something wrong with me? Why am I reacting to a stranger like this?

  I feel like I should turn and run away before he sees me, but something within me is curious. Why do I keep seeing him? Why does he affect me like this? What does it mean, and what should I do about it?

  I continue towards the glass that encases the sculpture and stand beside him. He doesn't seem to realize that someone has joined him. His gaze is still fixed on the sculpture.

  Today, he's wearing blue jeans and a black shirt that hugs his wide shoulders and enhances his athletic physique. He's holding a yellow flyer. I try to peek at it surreptitiously, but it's facing away from me.

  I want to say something to get his attention, but just like yesterday, my tongue is tied and my brain is empty of anything coherent.

  Then his gaze meets mine in the dim reflection of the glass. "Well, if it isn't my lady knight," he says softly.

  He knows it's me! He hasn't even looked at me, he's just looked at my shadowy reflection in the glass.

  His voice makes my gut twist. That is definitely the voice I heard yesterday night. He was my runaway knight.

  Mr. Tawny Eyes turns to look at me then and it hits me just how incredibly handsome he is. He's the most attractive man I've ever met. I could stare at him all day.

  His face is a neutral mask, but he has to be shocked at running into me here. This is our third coincidental meeting.

  His silence tells me he's intrigued by our constant run-ins with each other.

  It's like the stars are trying to cause some kind of collision between us. A beautiful collision of hearts.

  His silence also tells me he's terrified. If he wasn't, he would make a joke about it.

  I hold my breath as his gaze sweeps over my hair and face. What does that look mean? Is he checking me out? Does he think I'm pretty?

  I cringe internally at my ridiculous thoughts. I don't even know this guy, so why do I care about his opinion of my looks?

  I do realize that, once again, I'm standing before him not wearing my engagement ring.

  I can no longer write it off as coincidence.

  Cosmic joke, I tell myself.

  Nevertheless, I'm glad I'm not wearing it. I'm also glad I left my hair down today and that it's still nice and tame from last night's show.

  "I come here every Saturday morning," Mr. Tawny Eyes says. "Usually, it's crowded."

  "Are you kidding me? I come here every Saturday morning, too. And, yes, it's usually crowded. I don't know what's going on today."

  Mr. Tawny Eyes looks over my shoulder just then. "Excuse me," he calls.

  I turn to see a staff member passing. She looks slightly older than I am. Maybe mid-twenties. The dull, gray art gallery uniform looks good on her curvaceous frame. Her eyes light up with appreciation as she approaches Mr. Tawny Eyes and me.

  "Is there no exhibition today?" he asks her.

  "Today is the highly anticipated African art exhibition," she replies. "It's holding at our sister branch in the town center."

  "The African art exhibition isn't holding here?" Mr. Handsome asks. He sounds disappointed. "I've been looking forward to that for weeks." He glances at his watch.

  By the time we get our cars and head across town to the main gallery it will already almost be over. Especially since we'll have to park quite a distance away and walk the rest of the way.

  "We updated our website," the young staff member says still ogling Mr. Handsome.

  "There was just a link to this other website," he says.

  She smiles. "You were supposed to click on the link." Somehow, she manages to make it sound totally flirtatious.

  I look at Mr. Tawny Eyes, wondering whether he's aware that she likes him.

  He nods and flashes a small smile. "I know for next time."

  My gaze is riveted to his small smile as the staff member, thankfully, walks away and leaves us alone in this darkened area of the art gallery. Once again, I'm getting the vibe that he doesn't smile much.

  His gaze flicks to me. He looks at the sculpture of Jesus and then his gaze swings back to me again.

  I want to hold his gaze and ask why he ran away yesterday. I also want to ask what his take is on why we keep seeing each other, but I get the feeling that if I mention it, he'll run away like he did yesterday.

  I quickly drag my gaze to the sculpture.

  "If you come here every Saturday, it's strange that we've never run into each other here before," he says.

  I wonder if that means he wishes we had run into each other before.

  I doubt it. I sense he's reluctant to make my acquaintance.

  "I guess in a big crowd it would be easy to never…see everyone," he says.

  I wonder why he paused. Then I tell myself to stop wondering about every tiny thing.

  "Or, who knows?" he continues. "Maybe we have run into each other before but we just don't remember." His eyes suddenly turn all intense. I feel like if I stepped closer to him I would feel warmth emanating from them.

  "But I would remember seeing you," he says.

  There's something in his tone. I wonder if he's insinuating that he finds me attractive enough to be memorable. Then I wonder why I'm analyzing every little thing that comes out of his mouth. I've never done this with Timothy, or with any other guy. I've never cared.

&n
bsp; But it's not possible that I care about this guy any more than anyone else. I don't even know him.

  His eyes begin to crackle with heat. I have no idea what it going on here, but something within me is telling me to be careful. I'm engaged. Still, I say nothing.

  It's scary, but if he tried with me what Dumbo tried last night, my response might be very different.

  That itself is a warning to me to not mess with this guy.

  He's watching my face. Probably waiting for me to say something—like a normal person would.

  "Uh, were you, by any chance, by the Olympia Theater last night, wearing a knight costume?" I ask.

  His brows lift slightly. "That's an odd question."

  My cheeks burn. It is indeed. "You weren't?"

  "I wasn't."

  I would have sworn in a court of law that it was him. Maybe I conjured his voice in my mind because I wanted it to be him. Maybe he has a twin. Or maybe there are just lots of men in Washington D.C. who have sexy deep voices. I've lived here for four years and have never run into them. But there must be plenty out there.

  Or maybe he's lying.

  I have no idea why he would lie about it, though.

  "Did you enjoy last week's exhibition?" I ask him to change the subject.

  "The British poet? He was incredible."

  "I thought so, too."

  I wonder what Timothy would have thought of him. I doubt he would have enjoyed it.

  "I've been attending these exhibitions for the past four years," Mr. Tawny Eyes tells me. "My favorite is the silhouette artists that came two years ago."

  I remember that exhibition. The gallery was in darkness and dramatic music flowed around us while the artists told a story from behind a screen. They didn't say a single word. They used their bodies to form words and then they acted out scenes. I don't remember the story, but I do know it was some kind of tragic romance.

  "That was a good one," I tell him. "I enjoyed it."

  I can't believe we started attending these exhibitions around the same time and have been coming here for almost four years but have never run into each other yet.

  I wonder why we've both made the same mistake of coming here today, after meeting each other yesterday.