Chapter 12
TWELVE
NORA
I’m getting gas after work when the notifications start popping in.
On all the social media sites.
RYAN LANE SPOTTED PLAYING PICKLEBALL IN SEASIDE, OREGON.
Unable to stop myself, I click on one of the social links, speed glancing through the photos. There’s Ryan Lane—at my pickleball court by the beach—and he appears to be in the middle of a doubles game. My eyes widen, realizing that Charles and Lydia stand opposite of him, and he’s with some woman I don’t recognize.
No. Fucking. Way.
I find another post, livestreaming his game with my friends—so I know this is going on now .
When the gas nozzle clicks to let me know that my tank is full, I replace the hose into the socket at the stall. Then, I hop in my car.
For a brief moment, I consider just ignoring this crazy news.
I had no plans to play tonight, surprisingly. It was supposed to be my rest day.
But… I can’t ignore the fact that Ryan Lane is at my pickleball court.
Ryan Lane. Who could be Bruce.
Who I’ve had sex with.
No, made love with.
Bruce. Who I haven’t heard from since we parted ways two days ago. I’ve been too anxious to text him, and there’s been radio silence on his end.
Inside my car, I pause for a moment, hands gripping the wheel. Whether Ryan Lane ends up being Bruce, I’m compelled to go there, to my pickleball court. Something tells me I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight if I don’t. Even if only for the fact that I’d like to tell Ryan someone out in the audience at the game that day felt bad for him—that I wasn’t booing him along with the rest of everyone else.
Without thinking too hard about it, I put my car in drive and head toward the pickleball courts.
Throwing caution to the wind.
Of course, I didn’t think about what I’d even say to Ryan Lane.
Parking my car by the courts, I slowly walk toward the courts, quickly scanning through potential things to say to someone who is most likely a stranger to me. Fine, Bruce had a body that screamed actor who has to stay in shape for television or possibly movie roles. And I’d probably know Bruce’s body by the feel of it. It’s just, I can’t exactly walk up to Ryan Lane and ask him if I can touch his naked body.
Maybe I would know his lips.
Or his eyes.
I’d like to believe that seeing Ryan in person will be enough to tell me instantly whether I’m right.
I just don’t know.
Then, what if Bruce is Ryan? Doesn’t that mean that he’ll be leaving soon, heading back to LA? That we can’t have a real relationship, anyway. At least, not one that isn’t long distance. What will he do when he sees Jasmine again? Forget my existence? Remember that I’m simply some pleb he randomly met in a café who isn’t actually worth his time?
You. Are. Enough. Nora.
Bruce’s words play through my mind. No, if Bruce and Ryan are one in the same, then what we have is special.
Still, anxiety consumes me as I make it to the court.
Sure enough, Charles and Lydia are there on one side, knees bent, ready to strike. Closest to me, playing opposite my two friends, stands a man and another woman whose backs are to me. A group of people are watching off to the side, a few of them holding their cameras up.
The unknown woman lobs the ball into the air. Once it crosses the net and reaches Lydia, she slams down on it. The ball zooms back across, landing right at the guy’s feet who spins around.
The ball rolls right to my feet and stops.
Ryan Lane and I lock eyes as he jogs over, clearly coming for the ball.
As he bends down, he smiles, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something.
But—
“Nora!” Charles cries, excitement edged in his voice. “Look who we’re playing with!”
“So I heard,” I say, trying to sound neutral. Jitters work through me. Ryan’s still smiling but smirking in a way that doesn’t look familiar.
Ryan tosses the ball up in the air and catches it in a slightly cocky manner.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Nora,” Ryan says, in a timber that reminds me of some of the few interviews I’ve caught with him talking about his TV show. He sounds like an actor, as expected. His voice is rich. Like someone who should be announcing sports or MCing an event.
Nothing like Bruce. Not the real, sensitive, soft voice that spoke to me the other night.
I try to find familiarity in his features, but we’re not physically close enough for me to really see him that well.
Opening my mouth, I attempt to respond, but every part of me freezes around this stranger. I’m unable to talk. To say anything, witty or otherwise. He stares at me for an extra second longer than feels comfortable before returning to the court like nothing happened.
I slink back, watching them play for the next half hour or so, not sure what I’m doing here exactly. Is it that I finally have my chance to tell Ryan about the game? Or that I’m still trying to figure out if this is Bruce? And what if Bruce is Ryan? So far, he’s not acting like it. There’s nothing in his facial expression that suggested he knew me. And if this is Bruce, then he’ll need to return to Los Angeles. I never saw myself living there, not once.
I’m watching Ryan Lane play. He’s not bad. He plays better than Bruce played. Another indication to me that this has been in my head, and that the mysterious person in my life has other reasons for masking his identity.
When the game ends, the four players tap paddles.
Ryan runs off to the sidelines, in the opposite direction of where I’m standing, and he grabs a sweat rag, using it to wipe his face.
Charles and Lydia walk toward me, Ryan in the rear, and the four of us—along with Ryan’s partner who I do not recognize—stand back and away from the court.
Now that he’s close enough, I’m staring at his eyes first—he shares the same color as Bruce, the same dazzling blue. Yet my mind’s playing tricks on me, insisting that logically, Ryan must be someone different. First, they look familiar, and then they don’t. I can’t make up my mind.
“You guys know of a café nearby we can get some water or something?” Ryan asks, the same actorly timber that sounds nothing like Bruce.
I glance back at the group of people who are still taking videos and photographs. I’d say it’s surprising that they haven’t walked up to him, but now that I’m doing a double take, I see one of the coaches standing near the crowd. There aren’t that many people. Enough that one person, the coach, can reason with them so they stay back, probably.
I open my mouth again, but all the jitters work through me. I don’t think it’s Ryan. It’s more like, I’m around someone I don’t know. It’s hard enough for me with Lydia and Charles.
“I know a place,” Charles pipes up—fortunately, thank you Charles. “Right along the beach. Y’all wanna follow me? Nora, you wanna go, too?”
“Sure,” I say meekly, face flush. Even though, yeah, this isn’t going so great for me.
Charles takes the lead, with Lydia following right behind him. Ryan’s female partner, who I learn is named Maureen, cozies up next to Ryan. I’m in the rear, listening to their conversation.
“You played so well,” Maureen says as we walk. “When did you start?”
“Oh, pretty recently,” Ryan says. “Someone special introduced me to the sport.”
“Really?” Maureen nearly squeals—I think we’re both assuming he means Jasmine.
“Not Jasmine,” Ryan adds, as if he’s read both of our minds. He’s slightly turned his face toward Maureen, who is on his right, so I catch his profile. I study his lips, and his nose. Yes, they look similar to Bruce—but I’ve never seen his full face at once.
What if I’m wrong? I can’t be wrong here. That would be so embarrassing and awful.
Besides, Ryan has done nothing to indicate he knows me.
“I’m being rude,” Ryan says as he turns back to look at me, slowing his stride so he’s walking somewhere in front of me but behind Maureen. He holds out his hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you, Nora.”
I accept his hand, staring down at it as our skin touches. A spark shoots up my arm, and every part of me wants to believe this is Bruce.
But I can’t. I’m too scared.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I push out through my nerves.
“Charles and Lydia tell me you’re incredible at pickleball,” he says.
“I wouldn’t say incredible,” I admit.
He smirks. “Modest, I see.”
I shrug, trying to think of something else to say. My mind’s racing, and there’s not one thing I can grab ahold of to say. Instead, I smile at him—probably super dumbly.
Oof .
Dammit, Nora. At least tell the man about the game.
“I… uh… you’re, uh, a Flyers fan, right?” I ask.
He grins. “A huge Flyers fan. They’re my team. You like the Flyers?”
I laugh uncomfortably. “Actually… I’m a Rangers fan.”
“Aww, Rangers,” he says, brushing against me briefly as we’re walking. He’s not more in line with me, and Maureen has sort of moved to the middle, the odd man out. “That’s okay. I can’t be mad. They’re a good team, too.”
“So are the Flyers,” I say, finding more confidence in my voice. “And… by the way…” It’s now or never. “I was at that game.”
It takes a second, but then recognition falls over his face.
His eyes widen slightly. “You were?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was so angry at how people were treating you. Who boos someone for supporting their team?”
“I know, right?” he says.
“Anyway, I’ve always wanted to tell you this,” I admit. “That you had someone in the stadium on your side.”
“Damn.” He’s smiling, showing his teeth, our arms brushing together as we walk. He adds, “Thank you.”
“For doing the right thing?” I ask. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
We reach the café. People are staring at the group of us—well, staring at Ryan, to be precise. We take a seat at an open table, and Ryan sits right next to me. He’s periodically glancing at me in between people who come over to the table, requesting selfies. Ryan obliges to each one of them, smiling as kindly with the first person as he does the fifth person.
“That must get tiring,” I say quietly to him after the last person walks away.
“It does,” he says so quietly that only I’ll hear him. Then, jokingly, he adds, “You have a mask I could borrow for an hour?”
My brows knit. Wait.
Is this Bruce trying to tell me who he is? Or a coincidental joke from a famous guy?
Gah.
I open my mouth to say something, anything. But Lydia beats me to the punch.
“So, how long are you in Seaside, Ryan?” she asks.
“Only until the middle of August,” he says. “After that, it’ll be back to LA for filming.”
My heart falls hearing him say this. I’m still not confident at all that these are the same people, but if this is Bruce, we’ll never have forever. I already knew this. But… hearing it… just hurts.
“Are you okay?” Lydia asks, staring right at me. “What’s wrong, Nora?”
“I… what?” I ask. “No. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. Actually, be right back. I’ve gotta use the bathroom.”
I hop up, nearly tripping over nothing as I do. Ryan jumps up and reaches for me, stopping me from colliding with the floor.
“Thanks,” I say. “Be right back.”
Rushing away, I slink around a few other tables, heading toward the hut where they make the food. On the other side, where the port-a-potties are, I lean up against a concrete wall. Hidden from view from the rest of humanity, I cover my hands over my eyes and try to take a deep breath.
My pulse feels like it’s speeding up. I’m breathing harder. Unable to catch my breath. My forehead’s tight. I feel sick.
My eyelids remain tightly squeezed. Blocking out everything I can.
A soft hand pulls me into a tight embrace. I’m against a man’s chest. A familiar man’s chest.
“Nora,” I hear Bruce’s soft voice say to me. “I’m right here.”
“You’re him, aren’t you?” I ask. “And you’re leaving, and then I’ll never see you again.”
“No.”
“No to which part?”
“Open your eyes.”
“I’m afraid.”
He plants his lips against mine, kissing my deeply, tenderly, stealing my breath but in an entirely different way than what I was experiencing a moment ago.
“Why didn’t you mention the game before?” he asks, planting another kiss against my lips.
“Why do you have five hundred different voices that you use?”
“I’m an actor. Some of us are kinda trained that way?”
“Fuck, touché.”
“Open your eyes, beautiful.”
“And then what?”
“And then we go from there.”
“Okay.”
Slowly, I relax my eyelids. They’re still closed, but no longer clamped shut.
Taking a deep breath, I flutter them open—cautiously, still so afraid for my heart.
Ryan Lane stares back at me. There’s a smile on his face. No, not only a smile. He’s gazing at me—like he’s a man in love. Except, my brain finally allows me to accept the truth—the facial features I know so well. The mouth, his nose, the blue eyes I recognize.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi, Bruce,” I tease.
“Look, I?—”
I lean forward and steal his mouth in mine. He hungrily kisses me back, his hands snaking up my back. We stay like that for a while, exchanging kiss after kiss.
Until, finally, he pulls away.
“We’ll make this work,” he promises, staring at me with those deep, blue eyes. The eyes I could lose myself in forever.
“I know we will,” I realize as I’m saying the words—realizing that, for the first time in my life, I’ve found the perfect person for me.
Someone who has stolen my heart.
And it only took talking to a guy in a mask in a café to find him.