I sat on a bench in the Commons with Bryan, sun heating my back. Picnickers crowded the park and children dashed back and forth between spread out blankets. Bostonians were out in droves enjoying the atypically warm January day. I stared at Bryan. His shades were pointed in the direction of a young girl with braids being chased in circles by a couple of boys.
“I remember when you used to have braids like that,” he mused. “Before your insanely annoying Brittany Spears phase.” He shifted, angling his long jean clad legs toward me.
He was so exceptionally handsome with his light brown hair peeking out from under the top of his black knit cap. Unfortunately the mirrored aviators he wore, though sexy, shielded his dark eyebrows and his gorgeous grey green eyes from view. My eyes traced the strong line of his stubble covered jaw and lingered on the sensual lips that I still fantasized about kissing.
I cleared my throat. “We used to be inseparable, you and Dizzy and me. Always pretending to be rock stars. Do you remember the time we built that stage in front of the House? How we got the other kids to pay fifty cents each just to see us perform?”
Giving me a bemused smile, he nodded. “Sheet for a curtain. Glass bottles for microphones. You had a stuffed snake for a prop.”
“You wore a top hat like Slash’s.” My lips tilted up as I remembered. “Where on earth did you find that ratty thing?”
“A dumpster behind the Tuxedo Warehouse.” He reached over and gently removed a strand of hair that the soft breeze had blown across my lips.
I pulled the edges of my worn pea coat together, pretending that my shiver was caused by the cold and not be the feel of his rough fingers against my mouth. “We had some good times.”
“Some, yeah.” The little girl zipped by again, giggling. His head turned to follow. “My mom asked about you last night. She wondered why you and War didn’t go out with all the rest of us.”
“Tell her I’m sorry.” I swallowed. I couldn’t tell him the truth, that what we’d been doing his mother wouldn’t approve of. That I wasn’t the good little girl his mom remembered. That I didn’t deserve to be around them. I gave him a near truth instead. “Tell her War and I had some stuff to do. Tell her I’ll try to drop by to visit the next time I’m in Seattle.”
I could feel his eyes back on me. Boring into my soul from behind those dark lenses. I kept my own straight ahead. I didn’t move. My throat was tight.
Don’t push me, I thought, please.
He didn’t. “Ok,” he said softly. “I’ll tell her.” He was quiet for a moment as if he’d heard my silent plea, and I concentrated on breathing, needing every bit of that moment to compose myself. “I remember you used to go from sweet one minute to all-out sass the next.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.” His teasing tone lightened the mood considerably.
“I still do.” I managed to look at him and his lips curved up. “It’s a woman’s prerogative.”
“You’re unpredictable, Lace. That’s what makes you impossible to resist.” I could imagine the mischievous twinkle in his eyes behind those shades.
“Yeah, right.” I looked away. I couldn’t hold onto his gaze. My gravelly voiced response was a dead giveaway how desperately I wanted to believe he meant those words. But he didn’t. He was just being Bryan, flattering and flirty, the guy I’d known and crushed on most of my life.
I regretted making that suggestive quip earlier in the mezzanine. I couldn’t deal with this, the playful banter we’d used to do so well. The memories it brought back hurt too much. There was no room for flirting between us anymore.
“I’m hungry.” I slapped my hands against my thighs and jumped abruptly to my feet. “I need popcorn. I saw a vendor on the way in. It smelled delicious.”
“Still an addict, huh?” he asked falling into step beside me.
I winced at his choice of words and glanced at him but his easy expression gave no indication that he’d meant anything deeper.
I’m addicted to a lot of things that aren’t good for me.
After we each got a bag, we strolled toward Beacon Hill where there were supposed to be some unique shops and restaurants.
“Do you think there might be a vintage store around here?” I asked with enthusiasm I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Bryan groaned. “Warning you now, I’m not up to one of your marathon shopping sprees.” He studied me for a moment. “Sixties fashion still your favorite?”
“Yeah. Anything from then. The short skirts, the platform shoes, the hair and makeup, the music.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I nodded, swallowing another blissful mouthful of salty buttery goodness. “How about you? You still a big Moto fan?”
“I still ride whenever I get the chance.” He shrugged. “Not much time anymore though.”
“Yeah, I can imagine…” I stopped as we turned the corner. An enchanting narrow cobblestone street lined with Federal Style row houses with red brick facades, black shuttered windows, and wrought iron gates stretched out in front of us. “Nice.”
“One of the roadies is from around here.” Bryan threw his half eaten popcorn bag in the trash. “When he described the area, I thought it sounded like a cool place.”
“Definitely,” I agreed.
“You ever take any of those classes in fashion design?”
I shook my head, regret pulling my lips down into a frown.
“Why not?” he pressed while sliding out a crumpled cigarette pack from his jeans.
I watched him tap out a cigarette and light up before responding. “It was just a dream.” I sighed, one among many that were never going to come true. No address of my own. No credit record. I could go on and on. But why? Excuses wouldn’t change reality.
I crushed the empty popcorn bag, wiped my greasy hands on a napkin, and tossed everything into a trash can. The window display in the shop behind us had a mannequin wearing a fringed jacket and bell bottom jeans. “I’m going in here,” I informed him.
A bell rang as I entered the tiny shop jam packed with racks and racks of colorful vintage clothing, hats and accessories hanging from pegs on the wall. Heavy incense saturated the musty air. By the time Bryan wandered in minutes later, cigarette extinguished, cap off, and sunglasses up on his head, I already had several things laid over my arm.
“Is there someplace to sit?” he asked with an exaggerated sigh.
“Sure,” the shop girl with blue dyed hair answered. “Over there.” She pointed to a small velvet tufted chair against the back wall.
Bryan dropped down into the chair and scrubbed a quick hand through his already messy hair. The disarrayed look worked for him. I pulled a couple more dresses off the rack and when my eyes went back to him I saw that he was typing into his cell.
“Dressing room?” I asked the shop girl.
“Yeah.” She pointed to the velvet curtain behind Bryan’s chair.
“Thanks,” I murmured and swept past Bryan and into the small two by two foot space. While changing, I heard her complimenting Bryan on his ink. He must have taken off his hoodie. I bet that’s not all she’s admiring, I thought as I shimmied into a lemon colored dress. I frowned when I realized how loose my usual size had become.
“Hey, wait a minute,” the girl said to Bryan just as I stepped out. “Aren’t you the guitarist from Tempest?”
Bryan nodded.
“You’re playing at the Orpheum tonight.”
“Yeah.” He tossed a sheepish look my way.
“The show was sold out before I could get tickets. Could I get an autograph and picture with you?”
“Sure.” Bryan posed with her while I took their picture with the girl’s cell. “What’s your name?” he asked as he signed a blank piece of cash register receipt.