Trophy Son(48)

“I’m sorry.”

“I feel deceived.” I was proud of that statement. It was the truth. I could have said something nasty or I could have pretended it didn’t bother me. Instead I told her how I felt.

“I didn’t mean to deceive you. What you did in L.A. was sudden, I never expected that.”

“You knew I liked you, knew I had pushed for us to be doubles partners in the event.”

“Doubles partners, fine, we’re friends. I didn’t know you were going to pull me into a stairwell and kiss me.”

“Caleb never came up in conversation when I did.”

“We were interrupted by your phone call and you left in the middle of the kiss!”

I was accusing her and that wasn’t productive or fair. “Alright.”

There was a long minute of silence. I didn’t want to hang up. That felt like letting go of a helium balloon in the park, having to watch it rise away to a speck in the sky. There was going to be no good ending to the call.

She said, “I didn’t want you to hear about it in tabloids. I didn’t want you to learn about it from the invitation either. I’m sorry. You deserve much better than that.”

After another long minute I said, “If I’m near New York then, I’ll try to make it.” We hung up.

*

My masochistic streak won again. Once I had rearranged my schedule and flown to New York, it was very convenient to be there for the party. I got to the Plaza at 8:15pm. If the room was already crowded I could pick my spots and hide if I needed to.

I took an elevator to an upstairs ballroom. I wore a tailored, charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie, hair combed. It was how I looked when filming Rolex commercials. My stomach was churning, literally making loud noises in the elevator, which never happened, even before matches.

When the elevator doors opened there was a greeter. She was prepared, knew the names and faces of the guests and she said, “Mr. Stratis, welcome. The party is right this way.” She led me through double doors to a ballroom that was half filled by about a hundred people.

“Thanks.” I looked for a bar. I didn’t need a drink. I needed something to do with my hands.

The guest-to-bartender ratio was four to one. I asked for a beer and waited while a man in white jacket and black tie poured from a bottle into a tulip glass.

A man in his thirties to my left was regaling four others about the process of writing screenplays. He began four consecutive sentences with the words “You see, you have to.…” He seemed to know all there was to know. The others nodded to him, cornered in an open room.

“Anton.” Not shouted across the room. It was soft, right behind me, then a hand on my shoulder.

“Hi.”

“Thank you for coming.” Simple, said only one time, didn’t overdo it, and I knew she meant it.

I didn’t say of course. That wouldn’t have been true. “You look great.” True.

She gave me a hug. It was too much too soon. I only half hugged back. It was awkward and I’m sure looked awkward to anyone watching, and it stifled our conversation. She said, “Will you meet Caleb?”

“What the hell,” I said, then tried and failed to smile.

He had been close but a respectful few paces away with an eye on us.

“Anton, this is Caleb. Caleb, this is Anton.” Her voice was nervous. I took some pleasure in that. Small consolation, but something.

“How ya doing, Anton!” Either delighted to see me, or gloating.

“Fun party.”

“Glad you could come.” He was more than a head shorter than me, impossibly great hair and sparse, quarter-inch whiskers that made up a goatee and dirty face that was just less than a beard. Handsome movie star.

Ana was pulled from us at the worst time. Some woman tugged her elbow to introduce her to some other woman. I knew he and I both felt it because we both looked after her as though she was still one of us and hoped she’d be back to say something in time to save the situation.

Enough time passed that it was absurd to keep staring at her back. We looked at each other. Caleb smiled and said, “Really. Good of you to come.”

Translation: you’re magnanimous in defeat. “I really came to ask you how you get your hair to look so good. You blow-dry?”

“I can read people,” he said. “I know you have a romantic side.”

“What else do you know?”

He smiled. “I just hope your romantic side will help you see your way forward to being happy for us.”

Rubbing my face in it. “I’ll work on that.”

He nodded, glanced at Ana in another conversation. “I’ve been with a lot of beautiful women. The best.” Obnoxious. He kissed the tips of his fingers then spread them in the air. “Ana’s really something though.” Obnoxious and disrespectful.

I was losing my cool. I put a hand on the top of his shoulder and looked down at him. “You’re not good enough for her.”

In a room without a hundred people and security I think he’d have been scared but he acted brave here. “Maybe not. But you know the great thing?”

“What’s that?”

“I get the chance to find out.” He put his hand up to shake as a way to make us step back from each other and end the conversation. When you shake hands and connect at the base of each other’s thumb with palm over palm, you have a firm handshake. If you grab the guy farther down the hand, just over the fingers, you can crunch the hell out of his knuckles. Caleb’s hands were small to start with and I wrapped his fingers exactly there. I’ve been swinging a tennis racket for twenty years so my right forearm is about twice the size of my left. I had an easy smile while I watched his eyes bulge and he otherwise took the pain without reaction.