Unlikely
SS by Amanda

Part I

You feel drawn to her and you’re never drawn to anyone. At least not like this. Not with the sweaty palms and a nervous stomach that have been plaguing you since she walked in the room an hour ago. And she hasn’t even looked your way, less spoke a word to you.

You laugh to yourself before you take a drink of the vodka in your hand and let it slip down your throat, savoring every burning moment. Your hope is that maybe it will burn the ludicrous thoughts in your head. After all, you don’t approve of May/December romances and you certainly have never wanted one. Especially not with a woman who’s not only young enough to be your daughter, but young enough to be your second or third daughter. Hell, you were legal before she was even born and that thought alone makes you question your sanity at the moment.

You know she’s not a child. One look at the leggy blonde across the room tells you that. Children don’t look like that in dresses like that . But that doesn’t make her any less off limits. Or so you tell yourself. Over and over again.

Leaning against the bar, you wonder if anyone has noticed your distance at what could be called your own party. After all, that was your face and name placed prominently on the billboard outside and you’re sure your face will be showed two dozen too many times on all the entertainment shows tomorrow. And then they’ll show him. Your costar. The man who you’re sure invited her here tonight, though he insists they are just friends. And the more you think about it, you’re not so sure they’ll show you two dozen too many times because while you are the star of the movie, you’re certain she will be the star of the night. And you can’t really disagree with that.

Turning around abruptly, you rest your elbows back on the bar and look around the room, trying your best to at least show a remote interest in what’s going on around you. You know that there are suspicious eyes all around this place that would like nothing more than to write some piece of @#%$ report about you and your egotistical attitude at your own premiere party. Or better yet, that you couldn’t keep your eyes off your costar’s so-called date.

But then you remember your own date. The other beautiful woman who walked in here on your arm a while ago. And you suddenly realize how incredibly juvenile you are acting. You tell yourself that this is just your masculine instincts to your age. It’s only natural to want to avoid growing older by fantasizing about something younger. Something much younger. And that no matter how beautiful and intriguing she is, she likely couldn’t hold your attention for more than a day. After all, what could you two possibly have in common.

So you take one final look at the forbidden fruit and tell yourself that you prefer what you already have, even if you don’t get the sweaty palms or nervous stomach. Besides, wouldn’t you rather have the one that came with you rather than the one that hasn’t acknowledged your existence. Of course.

You search the crowd until you find the woman you’ve pushed aside and make your way to her. You slip your hand into hers and tell her you’re ready to leave, ignoring the disappointment in her eyes. She says a few words to the people around her as you wait impatiently and then begins to walk to the door without as much as a glance at you. You know she’s angry and you really don’t care, though you tell yourself you do.

You reach the exit just as that unusual feeling begins to settle back into the pit of your stomach. Stopping in your tracks, you look behind you, wanting that one final glimpse at the one you should never have. But you don’t get it, instead finding only an empty bar stool. And somehow, you are disappointed.

But before you can dwell on it, your again forgotten date squeezes your hand and asks if your ok and you feel yourself forcing a smile . . . . . and a lie. You lean forward and kiss her cheek just as the photographers outside the door notice you. And tonight they seem particularly ruthless, snapping shots as if they will never see you again.

The lights still haze your eyes as you step out fully but your movement is stopped as your body hits against another. Releasing your date’s hand, you immediately lean down, taking hold of the arm of the woman now on the ground. Cameras snap around you and you curse your luck, knowing this will be tomorrow’s headline. You can’t seem to win for losing on this night and right now you would like nothing more than to be at home, sulking in your oversized lounge chair with a glass of whiskey in your hand. But that thought is thrown far from your mind as the woman below you finally raises her head and you find yourself immersed in the most intense pair of brown eyes you’ve ever seen.

Words avoid you. Another first in your life. And as you struggle to find your composure, she seems to hold hers quite nicely, smiling softly. You find yourself searching your mind for a smile that has ever had this kind of effect on you but you don’t find it. You’re normally the suave one. You’re normally the one giving the tantalizing smiles. But not tonight.

Her cheeks seem to turn a slight shade of pink as she lowers her head. And you wonder if it’s because she’s embarrassed by your collision . . . . . . . or because she realizes her effect on you. Probably both. But even that doesn’t make the words come. Your composure . . . . . and ego non-existent at the moment.

After what seems like a lifetime to you, she stands up, with no help from you, and reaches her hand out to you. She says a gentle hello as you take her offering, holding onto her warmth a little longer than you should. Her hand is just so tiny and delicate inside yours. But before you can do anything else, your dreadful costar has arrived at her side and all too quickly begins to whisk her away.

You watch them, unable to tear yourself away, even as your date begins to try to pull you in the opposite direction. You silently wish for her to turn around, to give you one simple hint of your existence to her, even though you know that it shouldn’t matter.

And then, just before she disappears from your view, she moves her head slightly to the side. Her eyes catch yours and she smiles softly. As that knot begins to tighten in your stomach, you nod your head and return the smile.

She’s acknowledged your existence . . . . . . . . and now you know it’s going to be increasingly difficult to deny hers.


Part II

You’re tired. So tired that you don’t know how you’re functioning and you certainly don’t know how you are going to go out there and speak to all of those people. You wish you had never agreed to this. Sure it’s for a good cause, a great cause even, but you could have just as easily written a check to do your part. But for some reason, you felt compelled to do this when they asked you. Even though you’re not sure why. You’ve been asked to host charity events many times in your life and sometimes you’ve even did it, but you never agree to these things when you are working. Especially not working in another country. But you did and you jumped on a plane at 2 o’clock in the morning to get here to spend two hours schmoozing with people who only listen partially to your words and could care less that you are here.

You take a folder from the event coordinator and glance over the contents, giving the impression that you are reading though you’re really not. You allow him to lead you backstage and stop just inside the curtain that leads to the stage. He says something about ten minutes and you nod your head to pacify him. You hope he doesn’t catch onto your lack of desire to be here. After all, you do respect the cause even if you don’t respect your decision to host this.

You hear him take a deep breath and walk away and you decide to pass your time by actually looking at the things you were supposed to have already looked at. It’s easier to wing your speech if you at least have some background on what you’re doing.

You’ve read for only a few seconds when you feel someone step behind you. You figure it’s just the coordinator again so you don’t even lift your head to look at him. But then you hear a tiny voice say hello and your senses instantly perk up. You turn onto those brown eyes. The ones that are that perfect shade of milk chocolate. The ones that shine brighter than any you’ve seen in your lifetime. The same ones that have invaded many of your dreams over the past few months.

A smile forms from ear to ear as she reaches her hand out for you. Remembering your reaction the last time she did this, you are a bit reluctant to take it again. But that’s quickly pushed away and you readily engulf her hand in yours. She’s confident, or so it seems, and you like that. And when she says something about finally having a proper introduction, you find the voice that has evaded you with her before.

You wish you had read your material before you came here. If you had you would have known that she is your co-host for the event. In the back of your mind you begin to wonder if that is why you felt so drawn to do this. Though you know that is absurd. It’s likely just coincidence.

But you do begin to find it ironic when the coordinator arrives and she is once again whisked away. But again, she turns right before she disappears and gives you a warm smile. This time, however, she takes it a step forward. Stopping on what seems to be the spur of the moment and asking you if you’d like to have a cup of coffee with her after this is all over. And you know you shouldn’t. But somehow you can’t tell her no. No harm, no foul. Its just coffee.

Over the course of the next few hours, you watch her. Intently. On stage, mingling. And admittedly, you are mesmerized by this woman. Granted, you don’t live under a rock and know all of things said about her charisma and her charm. But you never really accepted it as reality until now. After all, 90% of the things you’ve heard about people through the years has been wrong. Sometimes very wrong. But surprisingly, they were right . . . . . . though as you watch her you begin to think that they truly don’t do her justice.

But then again, she’s young. A baby in your world. She shines a little brighter than those of you who’ve been around a while. She’s a little more eager to impress. She’s a little more likeable to the audience at hand as you’re positive they would much rather watch her speak for three hours than listen to you for 10 minutes. Not that you blame them. You’d likely choose her too.

The day slowly winds down and you pull yourself away from your conversation with a casual acquaintance when you see her slip backstage. When you open the curtain and step inside, she greets you with a sly smile. With one hand slightly holding the curtain back, her eyes jolt from the small opening back to you and she whispers that the media are watching her every move. She quickly takes a piece of paper from her pocket and places it in your hand, asking you to meet her there in a couple hours. When you ask how you can be sure that she will be there, she laughs and tells you that all she can give you is her word. And that’s good enough for you.

So you go back to your house. You call the airline and push back your return flight and then call the director, telling him something important has come up and you will be just a bit late. You know he’s disappointed but agrees to shoot around you.

And you wait. Drinking a little too much whiskey in an attempt to settle your unwanted nerves. But it seems the more you drink, the more nervous you get . . . . . and the more you begin doubt your decision. You rub your hand over your face, trying to figure out what kind of pull this woman has over you. Why you can’t seem to break from your fascination. After all, she’s just another beautiful woman. Just like Renee and she didn’t have this effect on you.

And then you begin to think about the media. And about her past. And you know that the second the paparazzi gets any hint of your connection to her, even as innocent as it currently is, that they will mutilate you . . . . . . and more importantly, her. You can see the headlines about your cradle robbing now. And you begin to wonder if your private life would be anywhere near private with her around you. Unfortunately, you already know the answer.

So you make a decision. Knowing you can’t blow her off, you decide to meet her as you said. And when you do, you’ll tell her that it was nice to meet her, but that’s as far as your relationship with her will go. You can’t handle being her friend and you sure as hell can’t handle being more than her friend. And it’s easier to stop things now.

So you climb back in your car, holding the directions in one hand as you try to keep your eyes on the road . . . . . . and your mind off the woman waiting for you. You walk into the small and unassuming café, avoiding the questioning stare of the lone waitress. And then you spot her, sitting all alone on the tiny deck to the back of the cafe. And you know that your plan is going to be easier said than done.

Her hair is pulled up now, placed messily on top of her head with a clip. The makeup from before is now gone, replaced by a simple lip-gloss that shines on her full lips. You feel yourself lick your own lips as you watch her.

When she sees you, her face lights up and you try not to notice the obvious sparkle in her brown eyes. And then you wonder if the same sparkle is evident in your own. You take the seat across from her and try your hardest not to actually look at her. The more you do, the more you want to. And you can’t have that.

But whereas you don’t look, you do listen. Hanging on every word that comes from her mouth. And soon, you become enthralled with her, wrapped in a conversation you never expected to have with the likes of her. And the more you listen . . . . . . and talk . . . . . . the more intrigued you are. And you soon realize that once again, she has got you. She is touching all of your senses in ways you never imagined. And as much as you try to fight it, all you want is more.

And you take it. For three hours, you allow yourself to laugh and talk to this woman, telling yourself that once this night is over, it will never happen again. There’s no harm in talking to her for one night. But the end comes all too soon. And you watch as she waits for you to make some sort of move. And inside you are screaming to do it. This woman isn’t like anyone you’ve known before and likely will ever know again. This woman is wise beyond her twenty-one years. But then you know that as much as you know this, others don’t and you know that nothing between you two will be accepted.

So you reach out your hand for her. You thank her for inviting you. And as you tell her it was nice meeting her, you see her eyes grow dark with confusion. And your heart aches slightly. She nods and lets you begin to push your chair back to leave. But then you feel her hand grab yours and you turn to watch her stand up beside you. And your breath gets stuck in your throat as you stare into those incredible eyes. And slowly, ever so slowly, you watch her move toward you.

Your heart beats in a rhythm never felt before. And then you feel her warm lips against your own. And as your hands slide around her tiny waist, you know your world is about to be turned upside down. And right now, there’s nothing you can do to stop it.


Part III

She’s like a drug to you. Addicting. Intoxicating. You’ve had a taste of her and now you can’t get her out of your system. No matter how much you think you should and how hard you’ve tried.

She knows your insecurities. She’s heard them a thousand times as she lies wrapped in your arms in the middle of the night, shielded from the world. And so far, she’s sympathetic to them. She’s taking you as you are. But part of you knows that she won’t take it much longer.

She doesn’t see the age issue. Well, she sees it, but she doesn’t understand it. You can’t help who you’re attracted to, she says. And while you agree with that, it hasn’t helped your conscious just yet.

And she’s well aware of the media issue. Hell, if anyone knows how ruthless they can be on a relationship, it is her. And while she agrees to keeping things private, you can tell that part of her aches to see you somewhere other than darkened rooms away from outside access.

But still, she comes back. Time after time. And every time you tell yourself it’s the last time. But you like the way she feels against you, inside of you too much to let her go right now. As a matter of fact, you like a lot of things about her. And sometimes that concerns you more than the age or the media.

But again you lie here. With her head resting on your chest and her legs tangled in yours. After another incredible night with this incredible woman. Another dose of the drug you’ve grown so attached to. And once again, you hate yourself. For what you’re doing to yourself. For what you’re doing to her. But you can’t let yourself acknowledge a reason why. Not now.

So you just watch her, and hold her, for hours on end. Wondering if you could wake up to her beautiful face all the time or if you would grow tired of it after a while. You pull the sheet over her body as you feel her tremble and hold her close to you. You don’t want to let her go.

But you do. Reluctantly. Placing a red rose on her pillow and a gentle kiss on her forehead. Your hand lingers a little longer than normal as you brush the hair back from her face and you begin to feel a delicate pang in your chest. For the first time in your life you’re not ready to go to the set. But you know you have to.

So you give her one final glance before you head out the door and away from her once again. And instantly, you begin to plan your next encounter.


Part IV

You don’t know how she talked you into doing this. And you don’t know why you’re so nervous about doing it. You’re never nervous about meeting anyone so you have no freaking clue why you’re so nervous about meeting them . They’re just her family. Just the people who’ve loved and protected her since she was a baby (and you were a boozing drama student, which could be part of your nervousness). You look at the content smile on her face as she leads you to the door……………. They are only the people who created and molded this beautiful woman.

She takes your hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing it gently. She tells you that everything will be fine and smiles. Somehow you believe her.

So you allow her to lead you into the massive marble foyer and take your jacket. She giggles as she throws it across the banister of the stairs instead of hanging it up. You love this side of her. The one that separates her from most celebrities you’ve met. The one that makes her incredibly real.

But as you begin to hear laughter coming from the living room, you immediately begin to tense up. You find yourself racking your mind for a reason why you should leave but find none that you actually have the nerve to tell her. Or the heart to.

But no one knows about you two. Or at least no one you know of. You’ve been extra careful to keep your image somewhat polished in the media. And that means keeping your fascination with the pretty young thing beside you quite. After all, that’s just what she is. A pretty young thing. Nothing else.

But then again, why are you here?

But somehow she managed to convince you to spend Christmas with her family. The first time you’ve ever spent it away from your own. Which should mean something to you but you refuse to admit it.

And she promised not to think this means more than it does. Even though you’re as confused as hell as to what it does mean. And you know that she’s likely to accept it as something more even if she won’t say it. Sometimes you would even swear that there is some bit of confidence in her eyes when you discuss you two. Like she knows something you don’t. And when she slips her hand back into yours, you think you see that again, shining in those brilliant brown eyes.

But she says nothing, instead leading you like a puppy down a candlelit hallway and into the living room. And you instantly begin to regret your inability to say the word no to her. Judging from the hush in the room, she had truly not told anyone about you. Now part of you wishes she had. At least they would have been prepared for your presence and you wouldn’t feel like the kid in grade school who walked into the cafeteria with toilet paper attached to his shorts.

You take a quick glance behind you, now paranoid of some sort of toilet paper fiasco. And when you turn back, you find her mother now standing in front of you. Obviously she is the donor of her daughter’s good looks and you find yourself silently laughing at the irony of this whole deal. After all, she is your age. Not the woman you’re here with.

You almost think you see her release the breath she’s been holding when her mother smiles and wraps her arms around you. You wonder what other inhibitions she is keeping hidden.

Her mother welcomes you, holding her arm out toward the buffet table and encouraging you to feel at home. And part of you wonders what it would truly feel like to be at home with the woman beside you. To be the one who walks her in here every time she comes. Thoughts that have crossed your mind far too many times for your own good.

As the night wares on, you find yourself struggling to focus on anything but her. And you begin to wonder if there is any cure for this addiction in your life. Or even if you want a cure. And the more you watch her, the more you doubt yourself and your own stance on this relationship. The more you watch her, the more you want her. Always.

You’re admiring the way she plays with the strap around her ankle when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You don’t look. You don’t have to. You’ve been waiting for this meeting all night. Or dreading, better yet.

He tells you that she is his baby, his life. That he loves her more than he ever thought he could love anyone in his life. He tells you of her younger years and how determined and talented she is. And then he tells you the words you were waiting to hear. That she’s not some playtoy for you to use and throw away. That she suffered through another relationship that was hidden from the world at first and where that got her. That she deserves someone who can love her for her and not be afraid to tell the world. And he asks you that if you aren’t that man, to have at lease enough compassion to walk away from her now before she falls anymore. You see the determination in his eyes and you know that he’s not telling you this as your peer, but rather as her father.

His words stick with you through the night. And you begin to question your motives. You’ve told your own self thousands of times that she’s just a playtoy to you but somehow when he said it, it didn’t seem right. And you’ve told yourself continually that she deserves better than you, but for the life of you, you can’t think of anyone good enough for her. And you’ve told yourself she doesn’t deserve to be hidden. And that, you know, is true. So you make your decision. You will put her back in the sunshine.

But as she snuggles close to you and you look down at her peaceful, sleeping figure, you know that tonight is not the night. Tonight, you can’t let her go.


Part V

It wasn’t supposed to go this way and you know it. She wasn’t supposed to cry. She wasn’t supposed to look like you had destroyed her life. After all, she knew what you two were. She knew it was nothing.

But you weren’t supposed to cry either. You weren’t supposed to feel like you had took a knife to your own heart. You sure as hell weren’t supposed to feel this empty. This . . . . . . lonely. Even now.

Everyone thinks this is your night. A night you’ve been looking forward to for more years than you could count. You know as well as they do that you will walk off that stage tonight with an Oscar in your hand.

And it will mean nothing. A cold and empty man can’t find happiness with a gold statuette.

You watch everyone move down the aisle with anticipation. You even shake hands and make idle chitchat with a few to at least look like you’re anywhere near interested in the outcomes of this night. And when the show starts, you even allow yourself to hold the hand of the woman beside you. A woman who gives you no sparks. Who doesn’t intrigue you. But serves the purpose for this night. You are the quintessential Hollywood star with a beautiful woman on your arm. But this one, well, this one is your age. And this one isn’t Britney Spears.

The conversation plays continuously in your head. The one from two weeks ago when you held her in your arms for the last time. She had mentioned going to the Oscars together, adding an as friends as she saw your expression change. After all, she was presenting and you were nominated. It would make sense. And that’s when your ego stepped in. And she walked out.

Her name snaps you out of your oblivion and you raise your head to watch her step from behind the curtain. She is breathtaking . . . . . stunning in her long black gown. Her hand it clasped to Colin Farrell’s as he leads her to the podium. Your stomach begins to turn and you feel sick. You lean onto your elbow, away from your date, and begin to rub you hand up and down your chin. You can only hope the cameras aren’t on you. But then again, they have no reason to be. You’ve never gave them any indication that the woman onstage means an inkling to you. So they’re likely focused on Colin as he stares down at her cleavage. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he would ever deny her. But you already know that answer.

And in an instant, her eyes find yours, like she is drawn to you, and she seems to lose track of her thoughts. She misses a word and the smile quickly disappears from her face. Your heart aches as she lowers her head. But she regroups, showing the strength that you love from her and she forces a laugh as she says something about she guesses that’s why she won a Razzie. You can’t laugh at her.

You watch her as she steps back for the newest award recipient to speak, silently hoping that she will bring those eyes back to you again. No matter how much it will hurt. After all, you are a junkie and you crave every little taste. Even when you want much, much more. But she never looks your way, deliberately keeping her eyes everywhere but near you. And before you know it, she’s gone again.

You find yourself looking for her. Row by row. But you never see her. You’re still looking when you feel a pair of arms thrown around your neck. Everyone around you stands as they clap and a camera is quickly pointed in your face.

You force a smile and walk onto the stage. As the statue is handed to you, you place it to your side and step to the microphone. You nod your head and force the normal thank you's unenthusiastically. And then your eyes catch on something to the side of the stage. When you look, it is gone. So you say a final thank you and walk away. You no longer hear the applause. And you no longer crave it.

Hours later, you find yourself staring at the statuette in your hands. This little piece of metal that is supposed to bring you so much happiness. So why isn’t it? And you realize, maybe for the first time in your life, that this isn’t what you’ve been craving. This isn’t what you’ve been wanting all this time.

And you realize that in your quest to keep the rest of the world at bay, you let it beat you. You chose everyone else over your heart. You let the world manipulate your own thoughts, your own feelings.

And you let the only woman to capture your heart, body and soul walk away. And no statuette will ever replace that.

So you put your whiskey glass down and head out the door in search of your destiny. You find her assistant at her house and she groggily tells you that Britney was at the airport, leaving for New York. When she realizes your franticness, she places her hand on your arm and tells you that you have time to catch her.

And you search for her, in the masses of people inside the airport. You ignore the questioning stares and don’t give a second thought to the group of people who begin to follow you, camera’s in tow, through the long corridor’s leading to the gates. You’re sure you’re a site, you haven’t slept in forever and you’re still dressed in the same tux you wore to the Oscars hours ago.

But nothing matters at this moment. Nothing but finding her.

You jump up on one of the benches lining the corridor, holding onto a pole as your eyes scan the area ahead of you. And only come down when a security guard, trying not to acknowledge who he obviously knows you are, asks you to come down. You tell him you’re looking for someone when he asks what you are doing. And take off before answering when he offers his help.

Because in the distance you see a familiar hat. The same one that has been thrown from her head numerous times before as she has snuck into your home or hotel room. The one you bought for her the same night you met her.

And you run, like you’re running for your life. And in essence, you are. And as you place your hand on her shoulder, you feel a tremendous fear seep through your body.

She stops in her tracks and you watch from behind as her shoulders rise and fall rapidly with each breath. And then she turns, her brown eyes laced with tears, her tiny nose red from crying. She has never looked more beautiful.

She asks you what you’re doing as her eyes shift to the hoards of people around you. She knows this is something that you never wanted before. You’re not supposed to care about her existence.

But you do. You care a lot. More than you ever imagined you ever could.

But you don’t tell her. Instead, you show her. Turning and smiling to the crowd before you slip you hand around her head and pull her to you. You kiss her as the flashes go off. And you don’t care.

And when she finally pulls away and rests her forehead against yours, you tell her the one thing you’ve known for a long time, but refused to admit. That you love her. And when she repeats the words to you, you feel something you’ve never felt before. Uninhibited love.

Undeniable love.

And when you walk out of the house the next morning and pick up the paper on your doorstep, you can only smile. On the front, your true defining moment.