Pleased, she regards me with continued curiosity. “I’m Al. Nice to meet you…”
“Nax.”
“With an ’N’?”
“Yep.”
“Interesting.”
“So is a woman named Al.”
“It’s short for Alstroemeria. My parents named me and my sisters after flowers, since our mother’s name is Lily. I got the long end of the stick so I shortened it.” She pauses, black eyes narrowing. “What do you do for a living, Nax?”
“Mom!”
Al cuts a glance to her daughter but doesn’t linger, returning to me as she asks, “What? It’s a normal question.”
Zia mutters, “It’s an invasive question.”
“Aren’t all questions invasive?”
Zia knows what I know — Al asked not to be friendly, but to see if I’m good enough for her daughter.
Amused, I answer, “I’m a movie producer.”
Switching her empty wine glass to her other hand, I notice she has short, unpolished nails where Zia’s are long and fire engine red. “Anything I’ve seen?”
I tick off a few big name projects, and instantly win her admiration. “I’ve seen all of those!”
“I work hard. You have to in Hollywood. They’re always looking for the next best thing, so you’ve gotta keep up to stay relevant.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
Motioning to my so-called ‘California casual’ wardrobe, I grin, “Can’t ya tell? My friend Josh was just saying that I need to work on my fashion game. From the looks of you two ladies, he’s probably right. You’re from New York?”
She nods like fashion is not important — even though both are dressed with more style than ninety-five percent of the population. “How long have you been in New York, Nax?”
“About a month.”
Al’s eyebrows rise. “Just moved here then?”
“I went to NYU.”
“Oh?”
“But left about eight years ago. I’m only visiting.”
Her gaze darkens with lost hope. “I see.” Turning to her daughter, a silent disappointment is conveyed along with a hard ‘no.’
“Mom,” Zia reaches for her glass, “Let me get you more wine,” and takes it without a reply, throwing me a quick glance that I’m coming with her, and as we walk away, she whispers, “Sorry about that.”
“About what?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Completely in the dark,” I smile, lying my ass off. “Enlighten me.”
Zia whispers, “I know you could see right through her.”
Guiding us around an argument about which is better — Thai or Chinese food — I shrug, “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Zia.”
She smiles, “Fine, if you want to play dumb…” and changes the subject. “What do you like most about your job?”
“Loved movies since I was a boy, and now I get to make fictional worlds come to life for a living.” We stop a few feet from the crowded beverage table, turning to face each other, and it feels really good to have her interested, listening to me with her full attention like this, so I really get into the story. “I remember being in the theaters losing myself in those films. It felt like I was those characters, living in places I’d never been to before, experiencing things I’d never experienced and probably never would. There I was living a sheltered life in this suburb outside of San Diego, yet every weekend I’d ride my bike to the theater and travel all over the world through film. I never wanted to leave. I’d usually sneak inside another theater afterward, make it a double feature.” Zia is hanging on my every word, her expression dreamy. My gaze drops to full, parted lips then travels back up to lock with these gorgeous eyes of hers. “Producing is amazing. It’s overseeing the whole project. That’s mind-blowingly incredible to me. You see, I don’t have a director’s eye. I’m not creative in that way. My strengths are different. I can organize. I can bring the right people together. I can put out fires when personalities flare under pressure. I’m good at making people laugh and feel better, and let go of the problems they think are insurmountable. And best of all? Producing enables me to work on more than one film at a time.” At her lifting eyebrows, I explain, “You see, directors focus on one until it’s done. It’s their creative baby. But I’m the business side. I juggle several movies in various stages of post and pre-production while I’m overseeing the filming of one. I’m a glutton for punishment when it comes to my dream. What about, Zia? Do you love your job as much as I love mine?”
Like in a trance she whispers, “Mmhmm,” eyes dropping to my lips. “I’m even going back to school to become a scientist.”
“You are?”
“I’d love to see for myself through a microscope what thousands of years have created.”
“You are striking, you know that? I can’t stop looking at you.”
Her gaze locks with mine. “I have to get that wine for Mom.”
“Sure.”
She squeezes her way in, pushing past loiterers, and I take the opportunity to see what my son is up to, scanning until I see Joe and his friends crowding a heat lamp. Craning my neck to see if they’re cold, I spy them playing with the flames, attempting to touch them without touching them. I grin, “Boys will be boys,” and turn back to greet Zia.
Scanning head after head, I cock mine. Where’d she go?
It takes me a second to understand what I’m seeing — Zia off to the side of the party moving fast away from me, head down as if to hide, with a wine bottle in one hand and their two glasses in the other.
Wait.
Did she just ditch me?!
I take a step back like somebody punched my nose without warning and, dazed, walk to my buddies, mentally replaying what happened to see if I offended her in some way. Bored her? Nah, she looked really interested. Unless she’s just a really good faker. I’m not that obtuse, am I?
Damn! Did I just talk a beautiful woman’s ear off while she was waiting to ditch me as soon as she had a chance?!
Josh matches my frown with one of his own.
