19. Yes, And… #2
Curious murmurs ripple through the crowd as she explains the concept a little further. She points to a woman in khaki slacks and a white button-down, then to the man in a polo shirt next to her. “Would you like to start?”
“Sure,” the woman says, with some trepidation in her voice.
It’s okay to be afraid.
I try to send that message to her.
“Great! Don’t worry about sounding perfect. You can be absurd or silly. Goofy or serious. Let’s start. You’re two suburban neighbors competing for the title of ‘Yard of the Month.’”
My brain kicks into high gear as I invent scenarios. Just try to beat my flowers, buddy.
They head to the stage. The man starts off saying his garden with its gurgling fountain is better.
She says her flowers grow the tallest. They keep going, layering onto the scenarios to the point where they’re pretending they’re splashing in the fountain with flowers, and I’m wishing for an interpretive dance when it’s my turn.
A little later, the teacher calls us up. It’s okay to be afraid.
With mischief in her smile, she steps closer to the stage, the chime of her ankle bracelet floating through the theater.
“You’re two strangers who keep running into each other on the bustling streets of the city.
Each time you meet, you start to realize there might be a deeper connection between you. ”
Can she read my mind? That was…exactly what I needed.
I look to my scene partner. Wesley gives me a reassuring smile, his eyes sparkling with encouragement. I return the smile, feeling a surge of courage at his side.
“I didn’t see you there,” Wesley begins in a playful tone.
Okay, that’s a softball. Nice and simple. What’s my yes, and? I imagine reading this scene in a book. What would the next line be?
I raise an eyebrow, playing it with some sass. “Well, maybe if you watched where you were going, we wouldn’t keep bumping into each other.”
“Then my days would be less interesting. Wouldn’t yours?” he asks, and it’s a simple question. But it’s also a lifeline—a chance for me to build on what he’s asking.
“Or perhaps you’re just following me around the city for some unknown reason.”
He’s right here with me, offering me another easy response. “Or maybe for a known reason. Like I wanted to see you.”
The next words tumble out of my mouth, saucily too. “You have a funny way of showing it. You could try, I don’t know, saying what you want.”
Wesley lifts an appreciative brow, then says dryly, “Ice cream. The answer is always ice cream.”
A quiet gasp escapes me as he takes us back to our first night together. “Maybe you should get some now. I hear there are ice cream shops all over the city.”
He nods in the direction of an imaginary shop in the distance. “Like that one right by a hotel.”
A rush of heat blasts through me. This man. He turns me on and helps me out at the same time.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, then impulsively, I take his hand and lead him to the imaginary bustling city street and toward the invisible shop and hotel.
The teacher claps, along with the class, then calls up the next pair. As we sit down, my heart still beating in my throat, I say, a little exhilarated, “We did it.”
“We did,” he says, then we watch the others till it’s our turn again a little later.
Once more, we head to the stage, and this time I feel a lot less afraid.
“You’re two lovers meeting for a clandestine tryst,” the teacher says, and I wait for more but that’s it.
It’s like she knows what we want. My face flames, but I ignore the heat in my cheeks.
“You’re here,” Wesley murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes drinking in every detail of me. My face isn’t the only part of me that’s hot.
This time, I don’t pretend I’m in a story. This time, I’m just me.
“I couldn’t stay away,” I say, my voice husky with emotion.
The air crackles with unspoken words and unfulfilled longing. Wesley brushes his fingers against my cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he confesses softly.
Is this improv or a fantasy?
My skin tingles everywhere. “I’ve missed you too,” I whisper.
I hope this yes, and never ends.
“Then maybe we should make the most of this moment,” Wesley suggests, his voice filled with a mix of desire and hope.
“And how do you propose we do that?”
His gaze darkens with a hint of mischief. “You could come over,” he suggests.
The implication. Dear god, the implication.
My knees weaken. My bones melt. I have no yes, and. I only have one thing to say. “Yes, please!”
The class laughs, and the teacher fans her face. “Well done! I had a feeling you two would be naturals with these prompts.”
Wesley looks away, so I can’t catch his reaction. But as I return to my seat I keep wondering—if it was that obvious to the teacher that we’d be naturals at romantic longing, will it be harder rather than easier to be friends?
* * *
The answer starts to come when class ends, and as we walk out, Wesley declares, “We’re taking a pic.”
I feel like a superhero. No, a dragon slayer. I’m marching through the land, having vanquished the foe of my fear. “A victory shot,” I declare.
Outside the theater, he reaches for his phone, clicks on the camera, and drapes an arm around me, drawing me closer.
Then, he curls that big hand a little tighter around me. A rush of tingles spread down my back. From that.
That’s my answer—it’ll be harder.