Motherfucker.
I’m doing it again.
I’m glimpsing yet another “Ryan” in yet another crowd, the same way I’ve done at least ten times this past week. On Monday morning alone, I spotted Ryan three different times—once at the gym, another time at Starbucks, and a third time sitting in the adjacent lane in traffic; and, of course, none of those “Ryans” turned out to be Ryan from The Pine Box. At Starbucks, for instance, “Ryan” turned out to be an attractive man of about forty, holding a toddler. And on Tuesday, when my pathetic brain spotted “Ryan” walking into a bank, that guy turned out to be a black man. A highly attractive one, I might add, but most definitely not the man I’m currently obsessed with. And so it went all week long—Ryans, Ryans, everywhere, and not a drop to drink or kiss or suck or lick. And, on top of all that, don’t get me started on how many times I suddenly heard “Sex on Fire” playing in banks and grocery stores. Gah!
“Miss Rodriguez?” a female voice says, drawing me out of my rambling thoughts. “Clarissa Taylor, Channel Seven News.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, shaking the woman’s hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“My pleasure. The mission statement of Climb & Conquer is inspiring.” The reporter smirks. “Plus, the Faraday brothers are what we in the industry like to call ‘easy on the eyes.’” She glances appreciatively at Josh and Jonas onstage. “They’re definitely gonna make for good TV.”
I follow the reporter’s gaze to the guys onstage. “They look like superheroes up there, don’t they?” I say. “Superman and Thor.”
The reporter chuckles. “I like that. I think I’ll make that the theme of my piece: ‘Seattle’s own Superman and Thor, climbing indoor mountains in a leap and a bound.’”
“Oh, that’s great. The guys will love it. Do you have everything you need for your story?”
“Almost. We’ve got footage of the gym and the crowd and the guys’ speeches, but I’d love to get an up-close-and-personal interview with both brothers—something where we can clearly see their pearly whites and baby blues.”
“Sounds good. Let’s wrangle them as they come offstage. Follow me.”
I lead the reporter and her cameraman toward the stage at the front of the gym, working my way along the left periphery of the crowd, weaving in and out of protruding rock-climbing walls and packed people, until we arrive at the side of the stage.
Finally, after Jonas and Josh have given their concluding remarks, posed for a flurry of photographs, and stolen a few private moments with their beloved women, all while the band plays a rousing rendition of “Shout!”, I usher the guys toward the reporter. Phew. I think my work here is done. Time to hunt down the latest “Ryan” (only to discover he’s actually an eighty-year-old man with a walker, I’m sure), and then head home to crash with a bottle of wine, a smutty book, and my battery-operated-boyfriend—the only boyfriend in the past three years who hasn’t been a real dick to me.
But, what the fuck, no! My ever-unpredictable boss isn’t following me toward the waiting reporter. To the contrary, with a cocky smile and wave to Jonas and a mischievous wink at me, Josh takes a hard left and strides with great purpose into the crowd.
Okay, now I’m pissed. I’ve worked tirelessly to get top-notch media to cover this event for Josh (and Jonas), and now, when the most popular TV reporter in Seattle wants to conduct a double interview for her Thor-and-Superman-themed story, Josh can’t be bothered? “Josh!” I yell, trying to get my rogue boss’s attention. But it’s no use. He’s gone.
Motherfucker.
For several minutes, I hang around watching Jonas gracefully answer the reporter’s questions, and when it’s obvious the reporter is putty in Jonas’ hand, I turn to leave, eager to do a quick lap of the gym in search of Ryan Number Eleven and then head out for the day.
But I’ve no sooner taken two steps away from Jonas than he politely calls my name. I turn to look at him, eyebrows raised.
“Could you please find my brother and ask him to join the interview?” Jonas asks. His tone is calm and in control, but his eyes are burning with intensity. “Make sure you tell him I saidplease?”
“Sure thing, Jonas,” I reply, my stomach knotting up. Poor Jonas. I don’t know him nearly as well as I know Josh, but it’s no secret to me the guy would rather gouge his eyes out than give any kind of speech or interview. “I’m on it.”
I spot Josh in an alcove behind one of the more challenging rock-walls, talking to a fifty-something blonde I instantly recognize as Kat’s beautiful mother. I met Mrs. Morgan at Jonas and Sarah’s wedding last month and fell in love with her after we’d struck up a conversation while waiting in line for the bathroom and then continued chatting for another twenty minutes after using the facilities. I don’t remember everything about my conversation with Mrs. Morgan that night. As I recall, we were both pretty buzzed on champagne and the band was cranking. But I most certainly remember two things about our encounter: one, I couldn’t stop giggling with Mrs. Morgan as she told me the secrets to her own happy marriage (“laughter, forgiveness, andlotsof hanky-panky”); and, two, I walked away from Mrs. Morgan thinking, “That woman is the human equivalent of chicken noodle soup.”
I stride toward Josh and Mrs. Morgan, determined to physically drag my wayward boss to his camera-shy brother if need be, but I stop short when I realize the pair seems to be enjoying an intimate moment. Specifically, it appears Josh is peeking into a ring box while Mrs. Morgan looks on excitedly.
I wait and watch as Josh slides the ring box into his pocket and kisses Mrs. Morgan on the cheek. Mrs. Morgan hugs him. Josh looks anxious. She’s obviously assuring him.
Okay, I gotta go in now—I’ve got a job to do.
I tap my boss on his broad shoulder. “Josh.”
Josh turns around, his face aglow.
“Jonas asked me to come get you,” I say, doing my best to communicate the urgency of Jonas’ request with my body language. “He wants you to join the interview. He saysplease.” I motion across the room to where Jonas is still talking to the reporter and scowl at Josh ever so slightly to let him know he’d better get his playboy-ass over there,pronto.
Josh chuckles. “Okay, Josh to the rescue.”
Josh says goodbye to his soon-to-be-mother-in-law with an exuberant hug and a kiss—a display of affection so earnest and effusive, it makes my heart melt—and, after a quick fist-bump and cocky wink at me (Jesus, that man’s a cocky bastard!), Josh lopes away like the superhero he is to save the day, leaving me standing alone with Kat’s mom.
“Hi, Mrs. Morgan,” I say, putting out my hand. “Remember me? Theresa Rodriguez? We met at Jonas and Sarah’s wedding.”
