3. Graham
GRAHAM
THEN
A jogger shuffled along the path dividing the sand from the park where I sat in the grass. The popular stretch of coastline between Venice Beach and the Santa Monica Pier was at its quietest before sunrise. I could visit the beach without being harassed.
Salty air filled my lungs, and I closed my eyes, letting the breaking waves lull me into a meditative state. As always, I reflected on my acting career, a burgeoning one I was privileged to have at the age of twenty-six. It wasn’t moving fast enough.
The Academy Award nominees were announced half an hour ago.
Despite the critical and public acclaim for my first dramatic role, I wasn’t listed among them.
An Oscar nomination would’ve catapulted me to the top of the A-list and opened doors to work with the best filmmakers in the industry.
While acting padded my savings account, earning an education on set had been my underlying agenda.
Someone shouted. My eyes flew open in time to catch a harrowing scene play in slow motion.
A guy on an electric scooter zipped around the curve and flew past me.
The cyclist he cut off lost control, veering off the path and toward a group of palm trees.
He bailed from the bike. The tumbling and skidding that followed snapped me to my senses.
I raced to his side, and my knees hit the grass. “Oh my god! Are you okay?”
Groaning, he rolled to his back and blinked at the sky. High-pitched, hysterical laughter burst out of him. The staccato rhythm of it shook his whole body, forcing him to clutch his stomach and curl to one side.
“I’m alive!” He gasped for air while trying to speak. “…the morning…less people…fucking scooter…I almost died!”
My heart sprinted from the terror of what I’d witnessed, but my brain couldn’t process his reaction. All I could do was gawk until he calmed down enough to hear me.
Again, I asked, “Are you okay? Are you hurting anywhere?”
His chest heaved as the laughter subsided. “I think I’m okay.”
Slow to sit up, he rubbed the kinks from his neck, but his smile remained intact. I’d never seen dimples as prominent as his, deep divots in an otherwise smooth complexion. His skin was a creamy blend of tan and pink, like the turret seashells I’d seen in Costa Rica.
You’re staring at his cheek, Graham. Stop being weird.
When our gazes met, his flared wide. I braced for the usual onslaught of questions about my movies and personal life, but it never came. Something in the grass stole his focus instead. He scrabbled for it, and my jaw hung open as he glared into a bag of candy like he was taking attendance.
I rested my butt on my heels and let out a disbelieving chuckle. All things considered, he was unharmed, but his blue beach cruiser didn’t fare as well. The chain was broken, and a smashed basket hung crooked on the handlebar.
Convinced he was minimizing his injuries, I checked him over once more.
He looked around my age, maybe a couple of years older.
His outfit was an unusual choice for a bike ride.
Beneath his navy blazer, a crisp white shirt was buttoned all the way to his neck.
Colorful socks peeked between his burgundy chinos and the brown loafers on his feet. A rip in his chinos snagged my notice.
“Are you bleeding?” I asked, reaching for his knee.
Before I made contact, he bent his leg to inspect the damage himself, and blew a sharp breath. “No blood. It’s only a scratch. I’m more upset about my pants.”
“They’re nice pants.” I pressed my lips together.
“Thanks. I made them myself,” he said as a rosy hue bloomed in his cheeks.
This man was fascinating and gorgeous, and I couldn’t look away as he stuffed a gummy worm in his mouth. When he slurped the tail end between his lips, I cleared my throat.
“You eat candy for breakfast?”
He squinted at the damaged bike while chewing. “Sometimes. Do you always wear a hoodie and lurk in empty parks at dawn?”
The reminder of why I was there knocked me back, literally. Lying in the grass, I tucked my hands beneath my head and sighed. “I’m incognito. I was waiting on some news and wanted to be alone without actually being alone.”
“Makes sense.” After a pause, he added, “I’m guessing the news wasn’t good.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
I hesitated to say more. People had real problems compared to my trivial complaints, but he was treating me like an actual person, not a character he’d seen on a movie screen. Beneath the cloak of this odd role playing between us, I unloaded a partial truth.
“I applied for a promotion at work and didn’t get it.”
“Want to talk about it? I’m great at pretending to listen,” he said.
I barked a laugh at his deadpan delivery. Rarely could someone catch me off guard. “God, no. I’d rather talk about anything else.”
The bag crinkled as he dug for more candy, sitting crisscross less than a foot away. From our relaxed positions, anyone passing by would assume we knew each other.
While sweets and the ocean held his attention, I stole another glance at his snug pants. “Do you work in fashion?”
He jerked a shoulder. “I’m an architect. Sewing is just a hobby.”
Since I had nothing else going on that day, and he wasn’t in a hurry to leave, I rolled onto my side, resting my head in a hand. “And how does one become an architect?” I asked.
As the sun continued its slow climb, ushering daylight to our sliver of the world, he rambled about college degrees and internships and how geometry was the core language of design. His intelligence level surpassed mine by a lot, and every sentence flowing from his pretty mouth captivated me.
Pretty. That was a good word to describe him. Others might’ve called him adorable, with those dimpled cheeks and rich brown eyes, but pretty suited him better.
When the one-sided conversation tapered off, a dreadful feeling stirred my gut.
I was already hooked on the many facets of this interesting man and wanted to know more, but we had reached the end of our short time together.
While he’d offered some personal tidbits about himself, I couldn’t let him go without asking the most important question.
“What’s your name?”
“Miguel”—he tossed a cautious look my way while pushing to his feet—“Espinoza.”
“Miguel.” When I pronounced it like he did, the L glided off my tongue. “I’m Graham.”
Standing over me, he maintained a neutral expression while studying my face. “You don’t look like a Graham. Maybe a Henry or an Edward.” Another laugh burst out of me, and he frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” As I peeled myself off the ground, I wondered if his reference to former British kings was meant to be a clever wink at my last name.
Toe to toe at last, we let our eyes wander, and neither of us hid our obvious interest. At six foot two, I was a few inches taller than him.
If we stood any closer, I would’ve been able to smell the product in his short, dark brown hair.
He was slender and carried himself with poise, but stiff shoulders betrayed his discomfort at our proximity.
I took a step back. “Can I help with your bike?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
He shoved the empty candy wrapper into a pocket and dusted the seat of his pants. I helped anyway, scooping the chain off the grass and tossing it in the dented basket. Once I got the bike upright, he mumbled something under his breath and took hold of the handlebars.
“I take it you enjoy playing the hero?” he asked.
“Sometimes.” My voice came out huskier than intended, and his eyebrows shot up.
“And if I prefer bad boys?”
A huge smile split my face in half. “I could easily switch roles.”
His staccato laugh returned, and I preened from earning the sound. This pretty architect with dimples pumped adrenaline into my veins. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to flirt openly with a man and had no regrets after taking the risk.
“My car is close by, if you need a ride somewhere.”
“I’m good,” he said. The bike made a grinding noise as he guided it to the pavement, where he looked back with a tender smile. “A wise woman once told me to always get up when life knocks you down. I hope you find your footing, Graham.”
As Miguel’s silhouette faded into the distance, I rubbed my fingers across my lips and replayed our encounter.
I couldn’t recall the last time I chatted up a stranger without a request for a selfie, an autograph, or details about my personal life.
If given another shot, I’d stretch those quiet, precious minutes with Miguel into hours.
I’d get to know him and learn what made him tick.
He’d smile and laugh, up close and personal and because of me.
Not the celebrity, but the guy away from the spotlight.
“Damn it,” I whispered, using the toe of my sneaker to fluff the blades of grass where he left an imprint.
It was reckless to entertain such thoughts. My hetero public image had been curated to sell movie tickets and serve my career goals. Pursuing any type of meaningful relationship with a man would’ve jeopardized my childhood dream.
I was also being foolish. The chances of seeing Miguel again were slim. In LA, the odds of us crossing paths that day were one in millions.
The ambitious part of me, however, remembered I had the resources to track him down.