I push a cold, damp cloth against my chest as my coffee assailant wraps the remaining one over her hand.
“I really am very sorry, I didn’t realize you were standing so close behind me. Are you okay?” There’s genuine concern in her voice. I look up from dabbing at my hot raw skin. My suit is completely ruined and I’m doing a mental inventory to determine if I have a full change of clothes back in my office. I know I have a couple of shirts and ties. It’s the first time I actually take the whole of her in, and not just her huge almond-shaped eyes, or the tussled mounds of long dark chocolate hair framing her sad face. Jesus, she’s pretty. Not in an overtly sexual way either, even though she has those pouty rose-colored lips and a hint of a blush staining her cheeks. She’s just so—I can’t think of a better word—appealing.
“I’m good. My clothes on the other hand— completely ruined!” I smile, but it fades the moment the words escape my mouth and her face crumples.
“I’ll pay for your dry cleaning,”
“Wait, no, that’s not what I meant. I wasn’t trying to insinuate that you should…”
“It was my fault.” Her voice is soft, quiet, a little dejected even, as her eyes slip down to her sneakers. I swallow hard, feeling like I’ve somehow upset her. My comment was on the sarcastic side, sure—but I’d meant to make her laugh. The silence has gone beyond socially acceptable and is quickly veering into awkwardness. I either need to break it or bow out of this strange standoff. She’s not lifting her head, and I’m assessing her pale skinny jeans and an oversized white t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. There’s no way I’m letting this woman pay for my dry cleaning. Hell, I’ll just toss the shirt away when I get back to the office.
The one thing I do want from her, though, is her number. I smile in an attempt to project a little more friendliness in my tone and tell her, “That’s really not necessary. Plus, yours is ruined, too.” I point at her shirt, and she looks down at the stain and shrugs as though she couldn’t care less. “How about you let me buy you another drink, and we’ll call it even?” I ask, suddenly wanting to prolong our encounter.
“How’s that even? I spill my drink on you, ruin your clothes and you buy me another?”
Her head cocks to one side as she bites down on the corner of her bottom lip while looking me over. I watch closely as her eyes roam over me from head to toe, and I swear I feel her gaze touch every part of my body. The word ‘pretty’ suddenly feels arbitrary and doesn’t fit anymore. This girl’s not pretty, not even close; she’s stunning. I stand transfixed as a small smile tugs at her mouth. I resist the urge to grin at my apparent success in passing her laughably unsubtle inspection, and the thought excites me...a lot.
“I’d love to stay and have coffee with you, but I’m already late for my audition.”
She bends and picks up a backpack I hadn’t noticed from the table, slipping it over one shoulder as she takes a step back from me.
“Audition? Let me guess, pretty girl in the Big Apple.” I run my hand over my jaw and pause briefly. “I’m going with actress?” She smirks and it makes me forget that I’m covered in scalding hot coffee. I can’t help but return it. “I’m right?”
“Yeah, um—no. I couldn’t act if my life depended on it. I’m a dancer.”
“Dancer,” I repeat with an appreciative nod, having no idea what else to say. My mind is firmly in the gutter about how flexible dancers are, and what I could do to her—the positions I could take her in if she’d only let me. My trousers are tightening at the thought. It’s an unacceptable and somewhat embarrassing response given the situation and our current surroundings. I’ve regressed to my college self without a single drop of Patron.
“I’m Cole.” I clear my throat and stand taller, thrusting out my hand for her to shake.
“Robyn,” she says, shifting on her feet and looking at her watch. “I don’t mean to be rude, Cole, but I really do have to get going.”
Instantly I’m far too disappointed than I should be. I want her to stay but that’s not in the cards, and honestly, I don’t have time to sit here with her anyway. She’s still watching me, and I’m staring back at her vacantly as I imagine what her body looks like under that loose-fitting shirt before realizing she can’t get past me.
I slap myself mentally. “Sorry, here.” My shoes squeak against the sodden floor tiles as I sidestep out of her path and watch her quickly weave her way through the maze of tables towards the exit.
“Nice to meet you, Robyn—painful—but nice!” I shout just as she reaches the door. She lets out a little laugh, scrunching her nose and mouthing ‘sorry’ before turning and walking away.
Damn it.
I push my way to the front of the line, ignoring the disgruntled comments about waiting my turn and lean over the counter. I ask the server who was flirting with her if Robyn’s a regular. Once I’ve established that she’s in here at least a couple of times a week I leave and head back to work—coffeeless, burned, wet and wearing a huge shit-eating grin for the first time in months.
“I’M SORRY, HONEY, but the spots have already been assigned. We only needed three girls. Sixty showed up. We sent half of them home without even auditioning them. The client’s already made up his mind.”
I pull my headshot and resume from the choreographer’s outstretched pristinely-manicured hand; he didn’t even glance at them. I take a deep breath in a futile attempt to steel my resolve. I wanted to land this job so badly; no—I needed to land this job. I’m broke and don’t have a single contingency plan. I have no clue what to do. It’s been a week. 161 hours since Mr. Carter banged on my door. Each morning, my first thought is that I miss Daniel. My second is that I wonder if this is the day Carter will decide to try again. My third is that I hate Daniel. It’s surprising how exhausting the apprehension is.
I spin on my heel, quickly making my way out into the corridor and head towards the bulletin board. I can only pray something new has been posted that I’ve somehow managed to miss. Lacing my way past people stretching, kit bags, water bottles strewn across the floor, I stumble—it’s like an assault course in these halls.
“Robyn! Hey, wait up.”
I turn to see Lucy, an old friend, make her way towards me. Her long Amazonian-like body moves gracefully through the obstacles in her way, effortlessly commanding people’s attention as she strides purposefully. I’m enveloped in a tight hug against her caramel skin as soon as I’m within her reach; she hugs me so fiercely I think she must know it was just what I needed.
“How are you? I haven’t seen you since we danced for the Tragic Lovers’ music video last year. How’s that hella hot guy of yours?” she drawls in her thick Boston accent, pushing me back to see my face. It’s the final nail in my coffin. The proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back. Before I can stop myself, I’m having a full-blown meltdown in the middle of the hall. Heated tears are spilling rapidly over my cheeks in a torrent, and I can feel snot begin to bubble from my nose as I hiccup.
“Holy shit, that good, huh?” Before I can reply she’s maneuvering me into an empty studio and closing the door behind us. “What’s going on, Robz?”
“I don’t even know where to start,” I sob, dropping my bag onto the floor as I sit down, Indian-style, on the cool hard wood. “Danny couldn’t catch a break. Nobody wanted to sign him and you know how passionate he is—was— about his music. He had so much interest, but would he give a little? Bend to anyone’s suggestions? No! He kept saying that he wasn’t going to sell out and jeopardize his music by being a puppet for some big label. He’d racked up so many loans, credit cards, he even had me borrow money, and like a fucking lovesick puppy—I did.”