I gazed at the windows, imagining that the view of the evening sky over the Atlantic Ocean was even more breathtaking. I thought about running upstairs to the rooftop to watch the sunset over the water but I couldn’t; customers were already filtering in for happy hour.
Even though there was an enormous influx of new people in our little town of Seaport, Rhode Island recently, my customer count oddly remained the same - probably because all of the mayhem was located at the other end of town.
It had been almost two months since the tractor-trailers loaded with expensive cameras and filming equipment first rumbled through our streets.
An extensive production crew immediately followed. They came in droves.
In the blink of an eye, police barricades blocked off selected roads, and huge, white tents were erected in the empty parking lot next to the vacant warehouse by Pier Seven. Towering lights were brought in to illuminate the entire lot and several large mechanical cranes were parked on stand-by near the new fence.
Long, white camper trailers were arranged in rows and it reminded me of the times when the carnival would come to town. The only thing missing was the Ferris wheel.
Everything, for the most part, was calm; that was until the big-named Hollywood actors arrived. With them came the news crews, photographers, and mobs of obsessed fans. It was like having wild, rabid dogs unleashed in the streets. Everyone was in a tizzy.
The biggest commotion, however, was caused by a twenty-six year-old actor turned mega-star overnight… Ryan Christensen Six foot two, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, incredible body from what I’ve seen in the magazines that Marie keeps stuffing in my face, and reportedly single again.
Oh, how they all swooned - everyone, except for me.
Marie and several of my female customers were completely flustered just from getting a quick glimpse of him on TV. I was relieved that they didn’t behave like the mob of screaming fans that was shown on the news.
I could never understand what drove women to the point of hysterics when they saw a famous singer or movie star. I remembered seeing video clips of women going out of their minds from seeing Elvis or The Beatles - screaming, crying, and passing out from getting their glimpse. I knew it was thrilling, but there has to be a limit before you lose control of your emotions and behavior. I just couldn’t relate.
Growing up, it wasn’t in my personality to hang pictures of teen heartthrobs on my walls. By the time I was in my teens, I had discovered fine art instead. My bedroom was covered in the classics with my own artwork dotted in between. That was more my style, more… realistic, tangible.
I slid a fresh pitcher of beer over to my current customer. “That’s five-fifty please.” I smiled in return, dancing slightly to the song playing off of my iPod over the pub’s sound system.
One of the firefighters from our local Seaport Fire Department, who was sitting with a group of co-workers at the large, round table in front of me, raised his empty beer pitcher in the air to get my attention.
“Phil really likes you,” Marie whispered.
“Who’s Phil?” I asked, pulling my long blond hair back to remove the few strands that annoyingly stuck to the corner of my mouth.
Marie rolled her eyes at me. “Taryn!” she scolded.
“Sorry, but I don’t know who you’re talking about!” I honestly had no clue who Phil was.
“Fire Department?” She motioned the direction with her eyes. “The cute guy smiling at you? The one who is recently divorced and now on the open market?”
“Him?” I pointed with a tilt of my head. “I thought his name was Todd.”
“No, it’s Phil,” Marie corrected, laughing at my confused expression. “He’s been asking about you.”
I opened a new bottle of vodka, wondering where I ever got the name Todd.
“Well?” Marie asked impatiently, waiting for my response.
“Not interested,” I muttered while I prepared a Dirty Martini. Sandy had asked for three olives in this one.
Marie put her fist on her hip, just like she always does when she feels the need to lecture me. I started laughing at her stance; it reminded me of when we were teenagers, leaning on our school lockers and talking about boys.
I was thankful that she at least kept her voice down this time to reprimand me so all the people sitting at the bar wouldn’t hear her every word.
“Taryn, what’s wrong with him? He is freaking good-looking!” Marie whispered.
I sighed. “Nothing is wrong with him.” I quickly hurried down the long bar to deliver the martini. It didn’t matter how handsome he was; I did not want to be any man’s second choice for a wife.
“What about Dan over there?” Marie suggested. “That poor guy asks you out at least once a week. He’s adorable too. Or Jeff, or Kevin, or Andy?” She pointed inconspicuously around the pub.
I glanced around at the faces of the men that she was referring to. All of them had asked me to go on a date at one time or another and I had lied to each and every one of them, telling them I already had a boyfriend.
“You need to give a few of these assholes a chance… you just might find one that fits!” Marie teased me. “Besides, if I had a body like yours, I’d be putting it to good use every day!”
She didn’t need to shake her butt for me to grasp her innuendo.
I rolled my eyes. “No you wouldn’t! And you’ve known me long enough to know I’m not like that either.”
“Tar, it’s been like eight months. This existence you’re in is not healthy.”
“Healthy in comparison to what?” I asked. My chest still had a lingering, dull pain from the last man who shattered my heart into a million pieces.
I didn’t need to explain further; Marie knew exactly what I meant. “Besides, I like my existence,” I informed her with an exaggerated grin. It was safe – predictable – painless.
“I just want to see you happy again,” Marie uttered in defeat.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Actually I had grown quite accustomed to lying to her, too. Little did she know, I had another stupid dream, or should I say nightmare, about Thomas again this morning.
“I don’t need some divorced guy on the rebound to make me happy,” I said to her in passing.
“Ehem, Taryn?” I heard a man’s voice call my name. Phil the fireman was standing at the bar.
Instinctively my shoulders hunched from the fear of having been overheard. I hoped like hell that he didn’t just hear my comment; I would feel awful if he did.