A jab of indignation spurred Helen. “She has another thing coming.”
There was the whole “ban on Left Hand spells” issue to navigate, but Helen wasn’t about to swallow this doppelganger’s slight like some pathetic loser. She needed a win, bad.
“There’s my Helen.” After saying her name, he trailed off.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s silly. I realized I didn’t know your middle name.”
“It’s Britney. With one “t” and an “e.””
“Helen Britney Schrader. Brilliant.”
“It’s schlocky, but you’re sweet. What’s your middle name?”
He made a face like he’d eaten a lemon. “Not telling. It’s too awful.”
She pushed his arm, a gentle shove. He replied with a theatrical flop to one side, affectionate nonverbal play. “Middle names are supposed to suck. Tell me.”
“Fine. It’s Eugene.”
“Aw, that’s not so bad. Stately, in fact. Very English.”
He rolled his eyes. “Stop.”
“No way. I declare that we get to steal at least a few minutes here and there to pretend to be regular people who like each other. And that involves the usual get-to-know-you chit chat.”
He took a hand off of the wheel and stroked the half-moon of one of her cuticle beds, a tiny touch so personal as to be huge. “We may not be regular people, but in no way am I pretending to like you.”
She leaned in and rested her head against the firm muscle of his upper arm. “Ditto.”
In the temporary silence of Helen’s calm mind, a picture changed. The two of them weren’t stalled in horrid traffic, they appreciated an opportunity to slow down and reflect. An opportunity to explore more of the odd ties connecting them.
Who knew she’d end up having so much in common with this person, someone so famous, so far away, so high above her.
But in the moment, awash in traffic and darkness and touches of local color in the form of highway-flanking palm trees and hilly slopes, Helen fell into serenity. She couldn’t say which of the elements had that effect on her, or if it was the intangible woo-woo factor created by their gestalt, but the old higher power was a tease when it came to showing its enigmatic machinations.
“What are you thinking about?” Brian’s question had a dreamlike aspect, as if he’d siphoned off a drink of her contemplative elixir.
“Right this second? The imperceptible, subtle nature of causality.”
“Ah. Let me guess, you went to university and majored in philosophy.”
“Yep. Good guess. I almost got a PhD, too.” She tipped her head, looking up at the side of his face. She was baby birdlike in the exchange, smaller and younger and dwarfed by his star, and in some safe space way the power dynamic suited her.
“Why almost?” Their hands remained locked, fingers entwined in an interwoven grip.
The closeness of the hold evoked the intimacy of the sex they’d shared, yet surpassed those bedroom delights. Complexity and history thrived in the spaces between their laced fingers.
“Long story short, it was a difficult time in my life. I was working a degrading job and also reading tons of self-help books and doing yoga teacher training to try and fix my damage and better myself. Grad school fell between the cracks. Now tell me more about you.”
“What do you want to know?” He kissed her hair, right on the part.
Beside him, in the force field of his current, Helen yielded. With his small moves, Brian attuned to her needs.
“When did the band form?” The car’s atmosphere was a cozy sanctuary. No pentagrams or spells or insidious clones allowed.
“Ah, yes. We met in secondary school. A bunch of fourteen-year-old lads messing about. The school had a talent show, and a scout showed up. God, what an intense time. The New Wave of British heavy metal reigned. These executives were scouring the UK, Helen. They craved the next Iron Maiden, Zeppelin, Leppard. I could see dollar signs in the man’s eyes.”
“So you guys rang the right bells?”
“Oh, yes. The sound struck his fancy straight away. Our school uniforms triggered an AC/DC association. Bonus.”
“And the name?”
“Jonas, our drummer, is spiritual. A bit like you, actually. He’d recently read this rather strange book, Chariots of the Gods. He had this whole concept. We would be the next big thing, these rock gods who would descend upon the world and take it by storm. In our teen arrogance, we loved it. The vehicle association thrilled us, too. The label wanted an alternative spelling to push the Zep/Lep button. That’s what they called it. Sometimes I look back and it all seems preposterous.”
“I knew it.” She tugged Brian’s shirt, high on the confirmation of decades-old hunch.
His crow’s feet deepened, and laugh line parentheses popped with his dimples as a whole face smile took over.
“Knew what?” Brian urged her closer, maintaining his one-handed steering. They were like two teens in love in the car, canoodling as unstructured time flowed in circular loops.
The L-word she’d thought, though, didn’t escape the loop. It sailed down the tubes in her brain and heart, a dense pinball ricocheting against the walls. The machine inside lit up, red signs. Danger, danger. If she didn’t stomp the ball of feelings into submission, though, it got less scary. So, with managed expectations and on a trial basis, she let it be.
“I had a strong inkling you got your band name from von Daniken’s interpretation of the Krishna story in The Bhagavad Gita, the whole idea that ancient aliens visited our world and taught us how to evolve. Cosmic astronauts. I would have gone with either the Z or the Y, not both, but I digress.”
“Well, subtlety isn’t exactly the record label’s forte. I’m surprised they didn’t make us slap an umlaut over one of vowels.”
There was much to appreciate about Brian, a ton of stuff in the win column. His dry humor and versatile, sparkling mind. He was mordant, though not cynical, an entertainer with the comedian’s gift of coloring
