Another One

  I can’t help but think that the overall expense would be less if Max had taken me up on the offer to use my apartment for this weekend.

  Eric laughs. “No offense, Max, but I suspect the models aren’t your type.”

  Max’s cheeks rise. “No offense taken. As we said, fucking isn’t the object. I’ve been known to be very debonair and besides, American women love a man with an accent. I can admire a beautiful woman as much as any one of you.” He eyes the table where we’re all slightly hung over.

  Our eyes are undoubtedly bloodshot and none of us have showered. I know that because we all dragged ourselves out of our rooms with dry, messy hair and the lingering aroma of last night’s drinks. Food and coffee were our primary objectives.

  “Better than any of you blokes, actually,” Max clarifies. “And as I said, it’s about contact. The one who gets the most intel, the one who gets the closest wins. He then gets to spend the rest of the weekend at the expense of the other two.”

  We all look at one another and shrug. “I’m game,” Matt says first.

  “If I’m only the judge,” Eric says, “I’m in.”

  They all look my direction. I narrow my gaze at Matt and Max. “You two were planning this. You know I suck at coming on to women. I should just throw my credit card on the table and call it a day. Hell, Max will pick up a model before I do.”

  The truth is that I have been on a rather dry spell. First, I’m not a lady’s man. One-night stands aren’t my thing. With my job that takes me from place to place for months or even years at a time, I find making commitments difficult. And then there is this one woman.

  The unexpected surprise is that Eric’s impending wedding has put her in the forefront of my mind. I met her at a wedding, well, the night before. It was my brother’s wedding, and I’d gotten into town late. I told myself I’d have one drink in the hotel bar to wind down from the flight and let my body adjust to the time difference. With a beer in hand, I made my way out of the loud piano bar and outside to a patio.

  There she was.

  Was she beautiful?

  Without question.

  Was I attracted?

  No doubt.

  Did I do something about it?

  For one of the first times in my life, I did.

  I could blame my brother, but he wasn’t there. The thing is that I’d spent the entire flight from Washington to Indiana thinking about my brother’s wedding. I was and am happy for him. My sister-in-law, Kimbra, is a great lady. I’d gotten to know her before my job moved me across the country. It’s just that there is this brotherly competition.

  It started innocently enough when as kids we wrestled for the controller to our favorite game or the remote to the television. He was always good at football, so I excelled in wrestling. He made good grades. I made better.

  I can’t blame our parents. They didn’t pick favorites or make either of us feel less than the other. It’s simply part of brothers’ DNA, an inherent need to one-up the other.

  One place I always fell short was on the dating front. I’m not saying I’m not as good-looking. Hell, I know that isn’t true. I’m way better looking than him!

  Okay, granted, attractiveness is subjective.

  If I were to truly analyze it, I believe deep down it’s a confidence thing. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t go to his wedding stag. I had everything all planned out—that’s what I do. As a matter of fact, it was Eric’s fiancée, Cynthia, who joined me as my pretend date.

  And yet when I walked onto that bar’s patio that night in Indianapolis, Indiana, I regretted all my planning. There on the patio of the piano bar was a vision. With long blonde hair and big blue eyes, she should have screamed untouchable to me. She’s the type of beauty that honestly scares the shit out of me, but she didn’t.

  I don’t know why.

  I didn’t question.

  There was just something about her—an aura. Hell, I don’t know. I just know that throwing caution to the wind, I approached her. We spoke.

  It’s not like I’m the guy on the TV show with the smart friends who becomes mute around women. I can talk. It’s that when it’s not about work or a project, the conversation feels forced. Nothing about communicating with this woman was forced.

  We talked and drank.

  It was later that night when we were coerced into partaking in celebratory shots inside the bar that things got out of hand.

  I’ll never forget her standing there, laughing. She was wearing this blue dress that hugged all the right places and heels that accentuated her shapely legs. She was laughing, and then all at once, her expression changed and well, the shots didn’t stay down.

  Yes, that’s not an attractive scene, but what followed was better.

  She was so embarrassed by what she’d done that she made us flee the scene.

  Not leave through the door. No...that would have been too easy. She looked at the mess, looked at me, and yelled, “Run!”

  We ran.

  Scaled a fence, wandered through a parking garage, and finally snuck through tunnels.

  It was the most fun I’d had in years.

  It was as if instead of an engineer who planned everything in his life, I was spontaneous and free. She did that to me. With her hand in mine, I was someone else. Helping her escape while keeping her safe were my only thoughts.

  From that moment on, I wanted her, all of her, but that night she wasn’t exactly in a position to consent to more than my assistance. It wasn’t that she fought me off, but then again, she wasn’t coming on to me either. She isn’t that type of woman. Her purse and room key were MIA after our little excursion. The hotel refused to provide another key without identification. Taking her to my room was all I could think to do. Once there, she fell sound asleep. Like Sleeping Beauty from the fairy tale, it wasn’t until morning when I kissed her forehead that she finally awoke.

  I’m a thirty-three-year-old man who admittedly still has fantasies. Perhaps with the time I travel and read, you’d think I’d have daydreams—and night dreams—about a model or an actress, maybe my high school sweetheart or college crush.

  No.

  Shana Price, the beauty who made me feel alive, who woke a part of my soul I didn’t know existed, who was within my grasp only to disappear...

  She’s the recurring star in my imagination.

  She’s the one who got away.

  Even though we never did more than sleep—yes, the slumber type—kiss, and perhaps a bit of heavy petting, in my mind as I recall our short secret time, I imagine more. I’ve pictured her face on the pillow beside mine. I’ve imagined that kiss I gave her leading to more as I stand facing the shower wall, hot water streaming down and relief at hand.

  It wasn’t only our careers and distance that deterred a relationship but also our connection. She’s my sister-in-law’s best friend, her after-college roommate. Shana and I agreed not to tell Kimbra or Duncan about our secret time together.

  Now sometimes I wonder if it really happened.

  If it was real.

  Did she exist or is she an unobtainable aspiration that will forever remain in my thoughts but never again in my grasp?

  I reason that she’s real because after that night, we spoke a few times on the phone.

  Each time was harder than the last—yes, pun intended. The distance and inability to see her face-to-face became too much. With me on the West Coast and her in London, the time difference made even communication difficult. Finally, the calls ceased.

  I thought to ask Max if he knew Shana since he lives in London, but what would be the chances? London is immense. An investment banker who’s interested in men would have little reason to know or meet a Saks Fifth Avenue lead buyer for the junior line.

  “Saks?” I say, looking back at my friends. Obviously, their conversation has moved on while I’ve been reminiscing.

  “What?” Eric asks.

  “Did you say this is a Saks Fifth Avenue fashion show?”

&nb
sp; “Yeah.” Matt’s eyebrows waggle. “Lingerie line.”

  “Right.” Lingerie. Perfect for a bachelor party but not for seeing the woman I want. Shana Price oversees Saks’s junior line. Right now, she’s most likely in London dressing teenagers and deciding on next year’s best prom dresses.

  Shana

  My heart beats so rapidly that I fear it may jump clear out of my chest. I’m confident the thin layer of silk covering me is jumping with each beat. I’m not usually concerned about my appearance. When it comes to my work, I’m confident and strong, yet in this negligee and about to walk out in front of hundreds of sets of eyes, I’m as insecure as a thirteen-year-old about to go to her first dance and sure she will spend the entire time in a circle of friends who no boy will ask to dance.

  How have I been able to send other women out onto the runway without considering this side of the journey?

  It’s because those women are models. I’m not.

  I’m dressed like one for a single reason—to save this show.

  Even with my good intentions, every lie I’ve ever told myself, every thought of self-doubt, and every time I’ve compared myself—even subconsciously—to another woman...all the moments so many women can share are dancing in my head. As soon as Chantilly helped me slip into the white negligee, I saw the world of fashion from an entirely new perspective. It is one thing to be the one applying body glue. It’s quite another to have the cool liquid rolled across my skin as goose bumps prickle and Chantilly yells for nipple tape.

  I mean, nipple tape is a great accessory until it’s applied to your breasts. I don’t even want to think about removing it.

  “You can do this,” Shelly whispers as I slip my feet into shoes that could easily double as stilts.

  “I’m not even sure I can walk in these.”

  “Did you take some painkillers? I have some Advil in my bag.”

  I’m lost on her train of thought. The way my head is pounding and nerves are stretched, painkillers aren’t a bad idea. “Painkillers?”

  “Oh, honey,” she says in a stage whisper. “Every model knows the tricks. If your shoe size is seven, wear a size eight. And always take some over-the-counter painkillers two hours before the show.”

  “Two hours?” I say as a question. “Why?”

  She shakes her head. “Let me get you some. It’ll still help.”

  Before I can respond, Shelly rushes across the room and returns with a half bottle of water and two pills in the palm of her hand.

  Eyeing her offering, I wiggle my toes. Immediately, I realize I’ve already agreed to the wrong size. Reaching out, I pop the two pills into my mouth, followed by a quick drink of her water. “Thank you. This is a lot easier from over there.” I tilt my head toward Chantilly.

  Shelly smiles, reminding me of that circle of friends from the middle school dance.

  “Sometimes it’s good to get a taste of both sides. You’ve got this. You and Stephen put this show together. You made it more than what we’ve done in the past. The audience is already going wild.”

  She’s right. Since the show began, the electronic orders on every piece of lingerie shown are through the roof. The applause has been louder than I’ve ever heard at a junior’s show. If I weren’t about to ruin the entire thing, I might actually be happy about it.

  Slowly, I stand, reaching out to Shelly’s shoulder as I steady myself.

  “Take two steps, then another one. You can do this.”

  As I start to move forward, imitating the grace of a baby fawn or maybe a newborn giraffe, she says what I’ve said to models for years. “Don’t look down.”

  It makes a smile come to my lips. “Do you know how many times I’ve said that?”

  Shelly just smiles knowingly back at me.

  Taking a deep breath, I look over to Chantilly. Her grin widens as she nods her approval.

  It isn’t just the shoes and negligee. In the short time since the show began—with Stephen in my ear giving play-by-play—the backstage assistants have teased my hair and painted my face.

  “That’s it,” Stephen says through the earpiece, the roar of applause coming from behind him. “Give me three and I’ll make my announcement. Then it’s time to wow them with the finale.”

  I want to respond, but I can’t. Even with him still in my ear, my microphone is gone. And then I hear Chantilly’s voice. “We’re ready. Wait until you see Shana. She’s gorgeous.”

  My gaze shoots her direction, but she’s not looking my way.

  Could she possibly not know I’m still wearing my earpiece?

  “She can do this,” Stephen agrees.

  Before more can be said, I take out the earpiece and tuck it behind my things. I can’t listen anymore. Their support means the world. If by chance something else was said, I’d never be able to go onstage.

  “Ladies,” Chantilly yells. “Get in position. It’s finale time.”

  As Shelly’s hand lands on my shoulder, I recall Stephen’s advice from earlier. “Shelly?” I ask, “Can you see the audience? Yesterday during rehearsal, the lights were so bright...”

  She smiles. “If you try hard enough, you’ll see the first few rows. I recommend not trying.”

  “I don’t want to,” I laugh as much as say. “I want to pretend the room is empty.”

  “When I first started modeling, I imagined my family members were the only ones who could see me. And then I started modeling lingerie.”

  “I can see how that became awkward. Now who do you imagine?”

  “No one. It’s just me. It’s like practicing walking in my apartment. Just me. I count my steps. I know my spots. I hear the music and the cues, but the people are gone.”

  I nod. “Good advice. Except I haven’t practiced.”

  “Yes, you have. You know everyone’s position. And as for walking, think back. Remember those cheap plastic heels most little girls wear for dress up?”

  I do. I remember the pink sparkly heels with the stretched-out elastic band that held them to my feet. I also remember slipping my feet into my mom’s shoes and walking around the house. “I’m afraid I wasn’t too graceful.”

  She eyes me up and down as her eyebrows waggle. “But, honey...now you’re all grown up. If the no people idea for the audience doesn’t work, make it that one special person.”

  “That’s what Stephen said to do.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Stephen?” I ask.

  “No...” We’re now moving with the rest of the models like a well-oiled machine.

  My rational mind reminds me that it was Stephen and I who made them this way—who choreographed and made this show our own. But they did the hard work. They put in the hours. I owe it to them to stand tall, move about the stage, and not ruin their success.

  “That special guy,” Shelly clarifies, bringing me back to reality.

  Immediately, Trevor Willis’s image comes to my mind. “Tall, not too tall, but taller than me.”

  “Even in those shoes?”

  My grin widens, lifting my cheeks. Although, I’m suddenly afraid my makeup may crack, I think about Trevor. “Yes, even in these shoes. And his hair is light brown and a perpetual mess.”

  “Oh, sexy!”

  “Definitely. And his eyes, vibrant green.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m imagining broad shoulders and just the right amount of facial hair.”

  “That’s him.”

  “Strut your stuff for him. We’re all counting on you.”

  Those butterflies that had been dancing around my stomach grow to the size of bats as we make our way past the curtain and onto the stage. The runway before me is brightly lit as if it were a landing strip, a place to land planes instead of showcase models. The lights from above flicker with color as I move forward. Doing as Shelly said, as I’ve told others to do, I count. Though the sound of the audience is there, I hear the music. I’ve listened to this arrangement over a hundred times. I’ve counted out each model??
?s steps. I know it.

  I’m lost in my own world, my body doing as it should when my gaze lands upon the first row. It’s at that moment that I know I’ve found my Zen.

  I’m not sure how my imagination could work so well, but off to the left of the runway, I see the green gaze from my memories. His disinterested smile morphs before me.

  Appreciation.

  Shock.

  Bewilderment.

  Approval.

  My feet continue to move. I have one trip down the runway and back. Having Trevor in my mind, his are the only eyes upon me.

  I can do this.

  Trevor

  What the actual fuck?

  My mouth opens, closes, and opens again. I consciously force my lips to close, afraid if I don’t, I’ll risk calling out her name or even make a bigger fool of myself by drooling.

  Holy shit!

  She’s everything I remember and more.

  Then again, maybe I’m hallucinating.

  Maybe the vision before me is my imagination. Maybe it’s induced by the alcohol we consumed last night. I’m sure after the quantity, there’s still some coursing through my bloodstream. Maybe this is a mirage, a vision that doesn’t really exist, one I’ve concocted out of desire. After all, Shana Price has been in my thoughts daily—and especially nightly—since our one secret night.

  Whatever is happening...I approve.

  This fashion show just got a lot better!

  The rest of the models disappear as I concentrate on the blonde. She’s not as tall as most, but damn, she’s more beautiful. High heels move below the long flowing nightgown. Fuck that. It’s not a nightgown. My grandmother wears nightgowns. This one is sexy and hangs perfectly from small straps over her slender shoulders with a lace trim that barely covers her breasts. The long skirt has a slit that allows her long and determined steps as she moves in sync with the rest of the models.

  I’m certain this woman in the white negligee isn’t the same model who wore the black negligee earlier in the show. I know it was black because when we entered, we were all given tablets with information on each showcased piece. Yet my reasoning mind can’t come up with a plausible answer as to why they made the change. My heart tells me the woman of my dreams is onstage. The woman I can’t seem to forget. The woman who stars in my fantasies. The woman who broke open my shell with only her smile.