I’m sure folks just go around figuring things out for him all the time at this point in his career.
“So Mr. Holt,” Janie says, all pink and flustered. “I loved your last documentary. I heard you’re working on a movie next. What’s it about?”
“It hasn’t been announced.” He truncates the words, his expression shut down. He looks over his shoulder like the restroom might offer an escape from this banality.
“Oh, you can tell us,” Janie cajoles.
One dark, imperious brow elevates. “But I don’t want to.”
Okayyyyy.
An awkward silence falls on the table. Seemingly oblivious, or uncaring, he picks his phone up and starts typing again.
So fine as hell, but a jerk.
My lady parts shimmy back into their shell. I don’t have time or patience for narcissists who think the sun and stars were made for them. I may find it hard to stop looking at him, but it’s increasingly easy not to like him.
“So when did you know you wanted to be on Broadway, Neevah?”
My fork is halfway to my mouth when Wright asks. I’m too hungry to forego this bite, so I take it, chew thoughtfully, and consider his question.
“You know,” I say and sip my water, “it wasn’t as much Broadway specifically, as it was that I knew I wanted to perform. That I wanted to be an actress.”
“So when was that?” Wright presses.
I shuffle through my memories to locate all the scents and sounds and sights that made the experience singular.
“I was eleven years old.” I begin, recalling everything good about that summer. “We’d have family reunions every June.”
“Us, too,” Takira pipes up. “Whoo. The Fletchers can throw a reunion, and I got a whole line of family tree T-shirts to show for it.”
“So do I.” I laugh. “My cousins lived in New York at the time, and they’d always come down to North Carolina for the family reunion. When I was eleven, they suggested we come up north for a change. We got a bus and drove. They took us all over the city, and on our last day here, we got tickets to Aida, the original cast.”
“Oh, Dame Headley,” Janie breathes reverently.
“Exactly. When Heather Headley sang ‘Easy As Life,’ I don’t think I breathed until she finished.” I shrug helplessly. “She had this monstrous talent that devoured the whole room. When she was done, I just sat there and everyone around me seemed to be as stunned as I was. That’s when I knew what I was supposed to do with my life. I was supposed to perform and make people feel the way I felt in that moment. And it didn’t go away. Not when the show was over. Not when I got back home to North Carolina. Not when my parents told me acting was a long shot and I needed a backup plan. From then on it was only ever this.”
When I look up from my plate, my gaze collides with Canon’s dark eyes fixed on me. Ever since he sat down, his glance has skidded over everyone, never settling, like a bee who can’t find a flower worthy of pollination. But he’s looking at me now, and I’ll be damned if I can look anywhere else. My breath is snatched under his scrutiny. It’s intent and discerning, his stare. I feel like something under glass he may add to his collection.
“Refill?” the server asks, snipping the chord stretching between Canon and me.
“Uh, yes.” I offer her a smile and my empty glass.
By the time I look back, Canon is on his phone again. Maybe I imagined that moment. Not that we shared a glance, but that it was somehow as intense for him as it was for me.
I shake off the effects of that exchange and demolish my meal, digging into the food with relish. It’s a good group, and our camaraderie is infectious. Wright fits in easily, telling jokes and stories that crack us up. You’d never know this man has Grammy awards and Oscar nominations and platinum records to his credit. He’s down to earth and more “normal” than most artists I know. Much less intense and off-putting than Le Directeur across the table hooking up with his phone.
But every once in a while, Canon actually does talk with John and even thaws some with Janie, who is, no two ways about it, trying too hard.
Once the plates are cleared, I reach for my bag so I can pay my portion, despite John’s offer.
“Don’t bother,” Wright says, placing his hand over mine. “Canon already got the bill.”
“Oh.”
I look at Canon, whose wide mouth curls at the corners, head inclined toward Janie’s as she tells him something I can’t hear. He doesn’t quite smile, but at least he’s not scowling.
We file outside and cluster on the sidewalk. By nature I’m a people watcher, and I find myself observing the pods of conversation going on around me. Takira’s embroiled in a passionate discussion about Dreamgirls, for some reason. John is laughing with some of the crew over a missed cue from tonight’s show. Wright chats with one of the cast members who’s working on a new album. I catch snippets of their exchange. Coltrane. Miles Davis. Genius. The cast member is a jazz enthusiast, so I can see how they’d click. Janie is still working her angle with Canon, and his expression says his longsuffering may be on its last legs. How can Janie even bring herself to keep talking with him looking at her that way? It’s actually pretty comical, and before I catch myself, I’m chuckling under my breath.
“What’s funny?”
I look up by centimeters, certain he can’t be talking to me because he hasn’t all night, but he’s looking right at me. Head turned away from Janie, who has wandered over to join Takira’s small circle.
“What?” I manage, stalling.
“You laughed. What’s funny?”
“No, I—”
“So you didn’t just laugh, standing here by yourself?” he asks, no smile in sight.
“Not laugh exactly.” I bite my lip and shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets.
His brows raise knowingly.
“Okay, so I chuckled. Maybe snorted. I snuckled.”
He tilts his head, and low and behold, those full lips twitch at the corners the slightest bit. “So what made you snuckle?”
I shake my head and hope he’ll let it go.
He doesn’t.
“Tell me,” he says, crossing his arms over his wide chest.
Incidentally, that blazer and hoodie really is a very good look for him.
“Oh, good grief,” I huff. “It was the look on your face.”
“When I was talking to . . .” He tips his head in Janie’s direction and I nod. “What was the look?”
“It wasn’t impatience exactly.”
“Are you sure?”
“And not irritation.”
“It may have been.”
“It was more this kind of . . . forced tolerance.”
His almost-smile deepens a little. “That does sound accurate.”
We stare at one another for a few seconds, the plumes of our breath mingling in the cold night air. And then we grin together. It’s the first full-fledged smile I’ve seen from him. It’s dazzling, sketching grooves into his lean cheeks, and I feel such a sense of accomplishment, winning that smile. I retract everything I thought about him not really being handsome.
Because when he smiles, he is. He so is.