Caribbean Crossroads (17 page)

Not that that would stop him. But he had to get it together and move carefully with her. She was skittish, like an injured bird. Let her give the next clear signal. Allow her to be comfortable. Take it slow and let her give some direction, show her threshold.

Bryant let out an exasperated sigh. Too much work, that’s what she was. And why for the five hundredth time did he care? In the dark quiet, with the sun barely lightening through the small porthole window, he listened for answers.

None came.

***

Megan lay in her bed, relishing the morning quiet of an empty room. Foregoing breakfast with the girls, she wanted the time to reflect on the night before and choose how to act today. According to Chalise, several of the cast members, including any who had recovered from the food poisoning, were gathering for the last excursion of the current voyage, this time to Jamaica.

Megan felt compelled to go. In general, she disliked touristy trips, but something told her Bryant might be there too. With his name came the mixed feeling of giddiness and fear. How should she be after last night? What exactly had happened?

He had walked her to her cabin afterwards. She had avoided a scene by being professional and slipping quickly into her room. Although she had tried to stay awake to savor the evening’s events, surprisingly—in a state of complete contentment—sleep had come almost immediately.

But now in the peaceful morning she relived the sweetness of the performance kiss and the slow, tender dance on the deck. A warm, liquid feeling flowed through her, like drinking hot, creamy cocoa after a cold sledding day.

Unbidden, came the gray doubt, tainting the joy. But why?

Unwelcome thoughts about Bryant randomly floated through her mind.
A Premier Performer. Looks like it means something, but it doesn’t. Just a friendly guy.
Could he be playing her? The cold grayness pushed out the warmth and she sat up. She’d been a sap before, that’s right. She had had similar feelings, though not exactly the same, and had been wrong. Dead wrong.

And last night, nothing had really been said, or exchanged. He had kissed her—as part of the performance. They had eaten—they were starving. He had waltzed with her on the deck—well, turned in a circle. He’d wanted to hold her, but wasn’t that men?

Nothing declared, You and I are a thing. And that’s what she needed now. No, required. Some evidence or proof, actual words that said, “Yes, I like you and want to date you exclusively”—in writing would be even better. Yes, that’s where she was and that’s what she needed to feel safe. Forget this wondering and guessing and soaking in euphoria. If he wasn’t going to state his intentions clearly, neither was she. Otherwise it was just a lot of stage lighting and giddy feelings, and she’d have learned nothing. 

The gray doubt felt heavy in her mind. Shaking it off, Megan dressed for the trip but vowed no matter what, not to appear overly interested in Bryant. She would be wiser this time. He would need to state his clear intentions, not just for a night, but for a relationship.

***

After an uneventful shuttle ride through a few back streets of Jamaica—both she and Bryant had sat on opposite ends—the bus dropped all eight of them at the main gathering point. Bryant hadn’t seemed particularly different—friendly to everyone, including her, but nothing distinct. That answered her question. It had been the performance, the headiness of the night. Fine.

Megan tried to behave the same as usual, ignoring the dull pain in her heart.

As the group made plans, everyone immediately opted for the beach, except Chad, who preferred to check out an electronics store. Clint had been clear about the buddy system, especially here. Megan watched the female cast members gaze openly at Bryant and Garrett. She pointed to Chad and said, “Buddy system, I’ll go with him.”

She couldn’t be sure but from her periphery Bryant seemed to frown. Well, too bad for him. Megan still didn’t know what last night meant to him and he wasn’t saying.  

As the girls excitedly chatted and clustered into taxis, Megan turned to ask Chad about the store location and, shockingly, found Bryant at her elbow.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Chad is directionally challenged. I’d better make sure you guys can find the place.” Another male crew member trotted up to them. “Taxi’s full, can I ride with you guys? I need a cover for my phone.”

Squeezing into the taxi, the two guys came in last, forcing Megan halfway onto Bryant’s lap. He gently sat her square on his legs but kept his hand around her waist for balance. It felt good, she couldn’t deny it. Those solid hands made her feel safe. But that bugged feeling came back, that feeling of falling but this time at the top of the rollercoaster, at the tipping point but fiercely holding back, knowing where this could go. But even as she thought it, Megan knew it was exhausting to try holding back. At some point, she would tire. Maybe that’s what he was counting on.

Irritated, she purposefully looked toward the taxi front, wearing a neutral expression but involuntarily worrying she was too heavy for his lap.

Why did he have to stick his broken nose into things?

At the electronics store, the two other young men were in heaven. After thirty minutes and no signs of their surfacing, Bryant took Megan’s arm and leaned in. “What do you say we make a break for it?”

 “What about the buddy system?”

 “And what am I?” He gave her a look. “Does it have to be nerds?”

 “Then I guess you’ll do.” She tried to be light but before she could suggest they wait another half hour, Bryant was already exiting the store, pulling her with him.

Stepping into the Jamaican afternoon sunshine, he hailed a taxi.

 “How’s it goin’?” Bryant spoke to the driver who wore a brightly knitted cap. “Do you know where we can get a great dinner with some good local atmosphere?” Half-turning in his seat, the driver revealed blinding white teeth that set off his charcoal black skin.

 “Call me Jahaman. And I know just da place,” he said in a deep throaty voice, assessing the two of them and chuckling under his breath. Bryant and Megan exchanged looks—hers concerned, his adventurous. To avoid giving a wrong impression, she kept close to her window. A few times Bryant gave her a perplexed look but didn’t say anything.

Megan felt her stomach gurgle. Why couldn’t she just be? All this worrying and what should she do, how should she act. But he showed no signs of anything different. Well, it was a stage kiss. Get over it. This was life, the life of Premier Performers.

The driver took them down dirty strips of land that only denoted “roads” because of the generally consistent cut path through the people and hodgepodge construction. A variety of houses appeared on the sides—half-built cinder block foundations, wooden shacks, even cardboard boxes where brightly but barely dressed children stood in front, silently watching them drive by. It made Megan quiet and thoughtful.

 “It’s odd, isn’t it, the disparity?” she said.

 “Again with the big words.” They had been mostly silent but it was comfortable when she let it be. He so reminded her of Sam. Her brother talked the same way, understood the same things. It was easy being with Sam. It was easy being with Bryant.

“But you’re right, it is,” he said. “It’s the same thing on the cruise ship.”

 “All the opulence, and indulgence. You see that too?”

 “Yeah, even us neanderthalic food hoarders.”

 “Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to infer he was clueless.

 “I see them,” he said. “Pot-bellied men staggering to the next buffet line, talking too loud, drinking too much. It makes me embarrassed to be American.”

 “You didn’t include the ladies. That was gracious.”

 “Well, I’ve been warned about assault in Jamaica—” He grinned then looked out at the passing scenery.

Megan hesitated. “That’s why I’ve wanted to help Rosa. She works hard, really hard, and wants more from life. I feel like she only needs the opportunity.”

 “Well, it’s a good desire and I commend you on it. But”— he glanced out the window—“you have to watch out for the actual opportunists. I’ve been through that before.”

She felt funny inside. In a way, it had been an attempt to connect as friends, to make things normal again, though she had no idea why since not ten minutes before she had been wishing he hadn’t come. His realistic approach dampened her optimism. She sat quietly.

“I’m not trying to burst your helping bubble,” he turned, aware of the silence.

 “That’s okay.”

He faced her full on. “No, that’s not what I meant to do.” He looked down at his hands for a minute. “On one voyage I met a man, a Slavic gentleman who waited our cast table, back when we used to sit as a group for dinner. He was a good guy, diligent in his job. But there was, I don’t know, a gloom and doom about him. He’d been an engineer in his country before the civil war, and he constantly bellyached that everything had gone south from there. ‘No opportunities, nowhere,’” Bryant said in an accent, then sat back in his seat. “So, I got in my Ghandi mode and thought, I know a guy, friend of my mother’s, who could possibly hire him. I made a ship-to-shore call, got the prelim done on it, then at dinner presented him with the idea, and the offer.” 

Bryant turned to Megan. “He looked at me kind of bored and said, ‘How much?’ I said, ‘Excuse me?’ and he repeated, ‘How much does it pay, and how many hours do I work?’ Then he rattled off a list of questions—how much vacation time, insurance, severance pay if he quit, stock options. I mean, seriously, he was looking for a better deal than my mom’s friend. He said no. Didn’t even thank me for the offer, not that I was looking for thanks. It was just very instructive. I thought I had to help this man to a better situation, but what I realized was”—he looked at her with his clear eyes—“this man was highly capable of doing it on his own.”

Megan held his gaze, and understood. He wasn’t downing her wanting to help. He was letting her know she wasn’t the only solution. That was so him. His personality constantly seemed to strip away the strategic image she tried to pursue—yes, she wanted to help, and she could, but he was right. She didn’t need to swoop in and save the day. So often being with him felt like that, always revealing herself to herself, even when she didn’t want to know. But it was a good kind of knowledge, an awakening and a growing.

A rush of feeling, of several feelings, washed over her. Safe. Wise. Calm. Real. He was all of those. Why did being with him make her soft, that all her carefully laid protective bricks suddenly crumbled with no foundation to sustain them?

Inexplicably, she took his hand. It felt right. There was no other way to be, to express the rush of emotions seemingly unconnected with conversation about working immigrants. He caressed it for a moment, watching her, then sensing this was enough of a step, didn’t push it and simply stared ahead, asking the driver how much farther.

A few minutes later they pulled up to a large pink plantation-looking building with beautifully manicured lawns. The driver put his arm over the seat rest and turned to them.

 “You go dere, right troo dat entry, and tell them Jahaman sent you. Follow da path down to da beach. Dey have the best bahbaque in town, I’m tellin’ you, man.”

Bryant pressed some bills into his hand, patted his arm, then got out and turned back to help Megan out of the taxi. He took her hand and led them through the entry, past the uniformed man, and down the winding pathway that sloped to the shore, visible in patches through the lush green foliage.

Megan breathed in the salty air and the sound of surf that beckoned below. Near the bottom they reached a short boardwalk area that led to a private looking beach. Turquoise green water, so clear you could see to the sand, washed up with foamy white waves on the shore. Except for a handful of tanning patrons—some young, mostly older—the beach was fairly empty. Gleaming white lounge chairs dotted the sand in groups, and white-uniformed men and women expertly carried silver trays with a variety of drinks.

Bryant paused and surveyed the scene, then looked down at her like a little boy who has discovered a pirate’s treasure. “Well?”

Megan smiled up at him, a swirling in her stomach. She let go just a little at the top of the rollercoaster.

***

After setting up a spot, they both grabbed some complimentary snorkel gear and swam in the clear aquamarine water. He showed her how to skin dive too, demonstrating how to take three or four deep breaths and blow it out slowly on ascending. After only two tries, she was able to hold her breath a good thirty seconds, and they explored the immediate reef. Myriad neon colored tropical fish darted from their presence. She recognized the Angel, Clown, and Dragon fish. At one point she and Bryant simply floated on the surface and watched the fish play undisturbed.

Dragging themselves from the surf a few hours later, they flopped onto the two large lounge chairs placed side by side, prepared with oversized towels, and watched the sky fade into early evening. They were close enough for arms to touch. He took her hand in his, kissed it and placed it on his chest. Megan let him, allowing herself to simply be in the moment.

They watched the beginning sunset that way, silently taking in the salmon pink and lemonade yellow sky, all gently sound-tracked by rolling surf on sand. Megan didn’t know when, but they both fell asleep. She curled up next to his shoulder, their hands and arms still entwined.

When she awoke, he was looking down at her, that half-smile again. She sat up with a slight start, and felt a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth.   

 “You were KO’d, girl,” he said.

 “It’s the sun, it does that to me.”

 “I thought it was my mesmerizing conversation.”

She tried to straighten her hair but he shook his head. “It’s a losing battle. Besides, it looks good that way.”

She grimaced.

 “I’m serious.”

Megan looked out to the ocean, fingering her hair, feeling him watching her. Though the day had been wonderful—easy, friendly, warm—and she had felt relaxed against her will, now it was evening and in a short while they would need to return to the ship.