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“How did you get yourself to look so duck-like?” she presses, blinking innocently. “Did you have to grow feathers?”
I stare back at her, fully amused at her antics. “Wait a second… haven’t you and I been on a date before? You’re starting to sound an awful lot like a bunch of women I’ve met on Match My Heart.”
A smile twitches at the corners of Stella’s mouth. “I like the RomanceNow app myself,” she coos. “Fewer weirdoes who dress up like ducks on there.”
The house goes nuts, our silly banter winning them over entirely.
“Pick Forrest, pick Forrest, pick Forrest!” they begin to chant as the emcee returns to reclaim his mic.
“Thanks, guys,” he chuckles. “Come back anytime.”
I extend a hand to Stella, helping her down from the stage. Her grip is firm yet delicate in mine, a contrast that adds an intriguing layer to my perception of her. Seeing her conquer her fear with such grace fills me with a sense of pride. Standing there, with her hand in mine, I feel a curious blend of protectiveness and newfound interest.
She steps down and snickers. “Yeah, I don’t think I want to do that again anytime soon.”
She doesn’t let go of my hand, so I intertwine my fingers with hers as we walk toward the exit and head out the front door to the waiting SUV.
“No? You were so good!” And I really mean that.
“Youwere so good. I would have floundered up there on my own.”
I shrug, letting go of her hand, and allow her to slide inside the car first, squeezing in next to her as the driver secures us in the back. “Maybe we just make a good team.”
She eyes me through her peripheral vision. “Thank you for bailing me out back there.”
“Honestly, I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” I reply, settling back against the seat as the night’s darkness blankets the interior of the car. “You did great.”
“I feel like I just need more practice. Did you ever take any classes?”
“I took a few acting classes,” I admit. “But classes can’t teach you everything. You need to draw on your own pain, your own experiences, if you ever truly want to find your voice in this realm.”
Stella shifts her whole body to turn toward me. “Pain?” she echoes. “Like, what kind of pain?”
I shift stiffly. “Everyone has pain, Stella. And we all use it in a different way. Some of us drink until we black out every night. Some become cops or guidance counselors. Then thereare ones like us who become artists and share that pain through expression and hope we resonate with others. But to do that, we need to tap into it first.”
As quickly as I start talking, the words cease, and my head drops, eyes drawn to my hands as I clench and unclench my fists. Echoes of my father’s sharp reprimands to stop fidgeting and sit up straight ring in my ears as if he’s sitting beside me.
“I’m not sure how much real pain I have,” Stella says slowly, as if she’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. “I grew up toeing the line of extreme poverty, but there was no lack of love in my house. My parents tried so hard to prove to me that love was so much more important than anything else.”
“Love or no love, living without basic necessities is pain,” I counter, a bolt of empathy rushing through me for her. Still, it must have been nice for her to know love.
“Were you rich?” she blurts out.
“No. We were middle-class. My father was in the military. We moved every couple of years, and I was home on my own a lot.”
Stella frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a very warm childhood.”
I shrug and grimace. “One man’s pain is another’s paradise, I suppose.”
Her hand slips out toward mine again, and I become distinctly aware of the camera pointed directly at us, filming our entire conversation.
I draw my hand back, and Stella stiffens, mistaking my rebuke as disinterest. We’re quiet for the remainder of the drive, both lost in our own thoughts, but as the car comes to a complete stop, Stella turns to me a final time.
“Thank you for tonight, Forrest. I had a really good time.”
My good mood is declining, but I manage to keep it together.
“Me too,” I reply. “Just a few more weeks to go, and we’ll be out of this mess, right?”
