by Dayo Benson
"It's got everything to do with acting. I get to stare at him on a big screen for a hundred minutes."
Colby chuckles. "So he's your type, huh?"
"I don't have a type. My taste in men is eclectic."
Colby gives me a weirded-out look.
"I have a lot of appreciation for a handsome face," I continue, "no matter the shade of the skin, eye color, hair color. I can appreciate handsomeness in all its forms."
"I knew you were weird."
I chortle. I remember how he made me laugh on Saturday at the art gallery. I realize that I've never laughed this much around any other guy.
"I should never introduce you to my brother," Colby says. "You would probably love him."
"You're telling me you have a brother who looks like Will Smith?"
"Not exactly. He has that type of swagger though. You would probably have a crush on him. I'm never letting you meet him."
"Is this the brother that went to jail for something he didn't do?" I ask. I remember he mentioned that on Saturday.
"No. It's my older brother who went to jail. My younger brother is the one who could possibly remind you of Will Smith."
"What's his name?"
"Levi."
"Levi," I say slowly. "I'm crushing on him already."
Colby rolls his eyes, and I find it endearing that he's jealous of his younger brother who has more swag than he has.
"Since you're into acting and movies," Colby says, "it might impress you to know that I have a weekly column with an online movie review website."
"Really?" I ask. "Which one?"
"Box Office Blitz."
"Are you kidding? I always check their reviews. I've even added comments on reviews I don't agree with."
"I should have known you would be the kind of opinionated person to do that."
"Don't tell me your pen name is 'Genre Hopper'," I say. "I always disagree with Genre Hopper's reviews."
Colby shakes his head. "My pen name is…" He glances at me.
"Is it a cheesy name?" I ask.
"It's an awesome name."
"Go on."
"King of the Rings."
"King of the Rings," I repeat slowly.
Colby glances at me.
"That is shockingly bad," I tell him.
"If I had written that story it would be called King of the Rings. Why 'Lord'?"
"I guess the angels who inspire people to be creative did us all a favor when they passed over you and gave Tolkien the idea for Lord of the Rings."
Colby chuckles and then silence wraps around us again.
This time I don't have to search too hard for something to say. "You told me you write screenplays. Is that your big dream? To sell a screenplay?"
"I guess. But what I really want is to write and direct my own movies. I basically want to be James Cameron."
"That's awesome. But don't take ten years to make one movie like he did with Avatar."
"He's a visionary," Colby replies. "He waited because he knew the technology he needed wasn't available yet. I admire that. I want to make epic movies like Avatar and The Titanic. Movies that resonate with people and pass across a message."
"And that top the list of biggest selling movies of all time and make you a billionaire?"
Colby gives his trademark faint smile. "That, too."
"You should show me one of your scripts sometime."
Colby glances at me. The look in his eyes tells me he's never shared his scripts with anyone—except Quin, maybe. But I don't dare ask. I don't want to get into trouble with Quin again.
"I might just do that," Colby says. "Someday. Maybe."
He sounds unsure as to whether we'll keep seeing each other. That's fine. I'm unsure too.
I fiddle with the petal of my white rose. I'm sitting in a cool car, discussing dreams with a handsome man. Heart-to-hearts about dreams and life goals are how connections are forged. I can feel it.
"It's nice to talk to somebody who gets it," I tell him. "My family just doesn't understand."
"But at least they're supportive. Right?"
I shake my head. "They're really controlling."
I consider whether to tell him that they want me to stop acting. That they told me not to attend the College Life audition yesterday. I decide to keep that to myself. Colby would be incredulous.
"I understand," he says. "My dad was always very controlling."
He takes a turn and we pull up outside a building with lots of cars around it.
"Ever been here before?" Colby asks.
"No. Where are we?"
"The Contemporary Art Center."
So this is not a traditional dinner date. Maybe we're attending an art exhibition.
Colby crawls around looking for a parking space. We squeeze into a spot between a limo and a Rolls-Royce. I wonder just what kind of event this is.
Colby gets out of the car and comes to open my door for me, but I'm already out.
"Do you want to leave your rose on the seat?" he asks.
I nod. That'd be better than carrying it around all evening. I lay it on the seat and then shut the car door.
Colby is staring down at me. And he's crowding me.
"How old are you again?" he asks. "I don't think you told me on Saturday when I told you my age.
"Eighteen." I grin. "I started college only this month."
Colby seems to freeze.
"Is that an issue?" I ask him.
"Yes!" A stressed look enters his caramel-gold eyes. He takes a step away from me, frowning. "I should take you home."
"Why?"
"I'm twenty-eight. That's too much of an age gap." He shakes his head. "We can't do this. I should take you home."
"I'm legal. I'm over eighteen."
Colby is frowning darkly. "Chloe, you're too young. I can't believe this."
I burst into laughter. "Chill out. I'm twenty-two."
Colby looks like he's not sure whether to believe me.
"I've already told you that I've lived in D.C. for four years. I'm in my final year of college."
"Show me your ID."
"You want to see ID? What are you? The police?"
Colby still looks uncertain.
I roll my eyes and dig into my purse. I open my wallet and show him my driver's license.
He visibly relaxes. "Don't make jokes like that, Chloe."
I roll my eyes.
He takes me by the shoulders and looks me square in the eyes. "You understand? I don't like jokes like that."
"Okay," I say slowly.
He releases my shoulders and I cast him a questioning look. It was just a joke. Why is he so worked-up about it? I might as well be eighteen where he's concerned. In fact, I feel like a ten-year-old child around this guy.
Colby is just standing there looking at me, a tense look on his face.
I'm not sure what's going on.
Eventually, he pushes a button on his car keys and locks the car. "Are you scared?" he asks.
"Of what?"
"This date."
"It isn't a real date. Remember?"
Colby looks through the passenger's window at the white rose on the seat. I'll bet we're both thinking the same thing. It's not a real date but we're dressed in our nicest clothes and he's given me a flower.
Colby fixes his gaze on me. "I'm still scared anyway."
"Why?"
"Women scare me. Y'all are beautiful and sexy, but you can be so heartless and mean." He gives me a wry smile. "Every girl I've been with has been heartless."
"That doesn't mean all women are heartless. It just means you're choosing the wrong type of women."
His gaze locks on me and he stares at me for a moment like I've said something profound. Then he stuffs his keys into his pocket. "I've never been lucky in love. Things have always gone…badly."
"Is that why you have a 'no serious relationships' rule?"
"Yes. So this is not going to get serious."
"Then why
did you give me a rose? You could have chosen any flower but you chose a rose."
"A white rose. Not a red one."
"That's your excuse?"
Colby glowers at me.
"Why do you have a 'no serious relationships' rule when you desperately want a serious relationship?"
He gives me an amused look. "I wouldn't say I 'desperately' want a serious relationship."
"You do, Colby."
"How would you know?"
I consider it. Why else would he make a deal with God about a woman whose name begins with a 'C' asking him if he's okay? Why not a man? Why not leave the gender unspecified?
I give him a knowing smile. "I looked into the windows of your soul."
He smiles and then nods towards the Contemporary Art Center. "Let's get in there before all the nice appetizers are gone."
Chapter 13
At the door to the Contemporary Art Center, Colby gives his name, and a man dressed in a crisp white shirt, slacks, and a bowtie allows us to enter. We're then ushered into a medium-sized ballroom.
"What's the function?" I ask.
"Stanley B. Rowland is speaking here tonight."
"Stanley B. Rowland?" I ask. He's an old Hollywood director. His movies were late twentieth century favorites. "Are you kidding?"
"No. "
"How did you get on the guest list at such short notice?"
"I already had a ticket. I just had to bribe them to let me bring a plus one."
I can only imagine how much he must have paid. Tears spring into my eyes. It's silly that I'm so moved, but I can't believe he's taken such pains to arrange a date that I'll enjoy rather than just a typical date in a restaurant. A typical date would have been enough. This is too much.
"Thank you," I whisper."
"Don't mention it."
Colby offers his arm and I take it. He leads me to the crowded bar. There's no hope of getting served anytime soon so we help ourselves to canapés and hors d'oeuvres from the tray of a passing waiter.
Colby and I get talking about our favorite Stanley B. Rowland movies. We don't agree on favorites, but I'm bowled over by our common love for film.
About ten minutes later, I spot a girl I was in a stage play with earlier this year. Her name is Sophie, and the play was about two sisters who are separated at birth and then meet later in life. We starred together as the sisters.
She turns around just then and sees me. She waves and begins to head over
Colby is ordering our drinks when she gets to us.
Sophie and I squeal as we hug each other. Then we talk about what we've been up to since that play.
Colby hands me my mocktail and then stands back as I talk to Sophie. Over the next few minutes, I see more people I know. It seems they're all members of an Art and Culture club that sends them notifications about events like this.
I take out my cell phone, wanting to sign up there and then. Then I remember that I'm avoiding calls from Timothy. I slip my cell phone back into my clutch purse and make a mental note to sign up when I get home. I cannot be missing out on events like this.
I see a guy from one of the first stage plays I did when I moved to D.C. He was the star while I had just a small role, but he remembers me and comes to say hi. He tells me he's been doing more modeling than acting recently. Modeling is always an option, but I tend to turn down most modeling offers. I want to stay focused on my main goal.
Eventually, they all drift away to talk to other people and I smile at Colby. I can't read the expression on his face.
"I heard your accent just then when you got all excited," he says. "Where in Africa did you live?"
"You heard no accent," I reply.
"I did. If I didn't know you've lived in another country, I wouldn't have noticed. But because I know, it's now obvious to me."
"I was born in Botswana. It's near South Africa. That's where Mom and her parents were missionaries. When I was old enough for school, we all moved to Johannesburg, South Africa. I attended elementary school there. It was a private American school."
"How long did you live there?" he asks.
"Until I was fourteen. We moved back to America so that I could attend high school and college here."
"So you're pretty much Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls?"
I smile. "Nana and granddad were missionaries in Botswana. Granddad died out there. Mom grew up there. She got pregnant when she was eighteen. He was half South African and half American—a missionary kid too."
"So one of your grandparents on your dad's side is South African?"
I nod. "Black South African. But I've never met my dad or any of his family."
"Ah." Colby nods. "I thought you were just tanned."
"Everyone says that."
He looks at my hair. "I should have known from the hair."
I toss my curls and give him a pout.
A muscle works in his jaw. "Stop it."
I stop immediately. Seriously, I'm just fooling around.
Colby looks away from me.
Awkward silence wraps around us.
I immediately start talking to fill it. "Mom is Nana's robot. I don't want that kind of life. Ever since she got pregnant with me, she can't live her own life. At forty years old, Nana still tells her what to do and controls her."
"Because she made a mistake?" Colby asks. "That's sad."
He looks at me now and I figure we're cool.
"It is," I agree.
I realize that I'm being exactly like Mom with this engagement to Timothy. I'm doing what she wants, letting her dictate such a big decision. Maybe because all my life I've watched her allow her own mom to make decisions for her.
"I've been to Johannesburg before," Colby tells me. "It's beautiful."
"Did you go for vacation?"
"No…" Colby's gaze flicks away from me. "It was a business trip."
"You have property in Jo-burg? Where? I might know it."
He looks down into his glass of Coke. "I don't have any property there. I was just considering some options."
Just then, it's announced over the loudspeaker that everyone should make their way to their table. Colby and I enter the part of the hall in which the tables have been set and find our seats.
Waiters move around the room serving dinner. We're served entrees and the main, and then Stanley B. Rowland is introduced to give his speech. The room breaks out in deafening applause. I can hardly believe I'm in the same room as the man.
He talks for close to two hours about his experiences as a young, struggling writer and how he got his big break, and then became one of Hollywood's most influential writers and directors.
The time flies by like it's just a few seconds. Colby and I, and indeed the rest of the room, are transfixed. Stanley is an engaging speaker. And everything he's saying resonates with me. I understand that drive to accomplish an inexplicable dream. One that nobody around me understands, but that burns in my heart anyway.
After Stanley's speech, dessert is served and Colby and I talk about our favorite parts of the speech.
Afterward, there's a cocktail reception. It's already ten p.m. and I told Leah and Gina that I'd be just two hours. But I don't want to leave yet.
I assure Colby that I'm fine to stay longer when he asks if I want to go home. We get drinks from the bar again. Colby orders a tonic water.
He turns to me. "What would you like?"
I choose another mocktail from the drink menu.
"You don't drink?" he asks.
"No. I never have." I've only been legal for a year anyway.
"Neither do I," he says.
I'm surprised to hear that. I assumed that an older, more experienced, worldly guy like Colby would drink. I noticed that he didn't drink any of the wine on the table during dinner, but I assumed it was because he's driving.
We try to talk by the bar, but it's too loud. Eventually, we head out onto the balcony. It's a little cold, so I remove a wrap from my clutch and pull it around m
y shoulders.
Colby sips his drink and looks down on the gardens below the balcony. I look down too.
Then I feel his finger on my chin. At his touch, fire flashes across my skin.
He turns my face toward him.
"I usually come to these events alone," he murmurs. His hand falls away from my chin. "It's been nice having someone to share it with."
"Thanks for inviting me." I sound slightly breathless. I hope he doesn't notice.
"I…really like you." Colby clamps his mouth shut. He seems surprised by the admission himself.
I don't respond. I don't dare say anything. He's so close I can smell not only his cologne but the soap on his skin.
His dark hair is fluttering in the slight breeze. He's looking down at me with those beautiful eyes of his.
I sense something shift in the air between us.
I quickly sip my drink.
Colby looks down into his glass and then takes a long swig
We set our empty glasses on the tray of a passing waiter.
Colby starts talking about Stanley B. Rowland's speech again.
I nod as he talks, but I find that my focus is on him, rather than what he's saying. Instead of listening, I'm hearing just the rumbly quality of his voice, watching his lips form each word.
Colby stops speaking abruptly. "Chloe?"
"Huh?"
"Stop looking at me like that if you don't want me to kiss you."
I look down at the garden again. When we first came out here, I was cold. Now, I'm roasting like it's summer in Jo-burg.
I remove my wrap and tuck it back into my clutch.
I can feel Colby's gaze on me.
He touches my shoulder and trails a finger down my arm.
His touch burns a trail across my skin.
I need to say something to cut through the magic wrapping around us.
"What other events have you been to through this art and culture organization," I ask.
Colby starts telling me about other events. We talk about that for a while. The wind blows a little stronger and I'm glad. It's nice and cold. I let it catch my hair, and then I toss my hair over my shoulders.
I hear Colby's sharp intake of breath. He stops talking.
If he tells me to stop it again I'm going to tell him to take a hike. I can toss my hair if I want. I wasn't flirting. I was just giving the wind access to my neck. I'm roasting.
