It started innocently enough when as kids we wrestled for the controller to our favorite game or the remote to the television. He was always good at football, so I excelled in wrestling. He made good grades. I made better.
I can’t blame our parents. They didn’t pick favorites or make either of us feel less than the other. It’s simply part of brothers’ DNA, an inherent need to one-up the other.
One place I always fell short was on the dating front. I’m not saying I’m not as good-looking. Hell, I know that isn’t true. I’m way better looking than him!
Okay, granted, attractiveness is subjective.
If I were to truly analyze it, I believe deep down it’s a confidence thing. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t go to his wedding stag. I had everything all planned out—that’s what I do. As a matter of fact, it was Eric’s fiancée, Cynthia, who joined me as my pretend date.
And yet when I walked onto that bar’s patio that night in Indianapolis, Indiana, I regretted all my planning. There on the patio of the piano bar was a vision. With long blonde hair and big blue eyes, she should have screamed untouchable to me. She’s the type of beauty that honestly scares the shit out of me, but she didn’t.
I don’t know why.
I didn’t question.
There was just something about her—an aura. Hell, I don’t know. I just know that throwing caution to the wind, I approached her. We spoke.
It’s not like I’m the guy on the TV show with the smart friends who becomes mute around women. I can talk. It’s that when it’s not about work or a project, the conversation feels forced. Nothing about communicating with this woman was forced.
We talked and drank.
It was later that night when we were coerced into partaking in celebratory shots inside the bar that things got out of hand.
I’ll never forget her standing there, laughing. She was wearing this blue dress that hugged all the right places and heels that accentuated her shapely legs. She was laughing, and then all at once, her expression changed and well, the shots didn’t stay down.
Yes, that’s not an attractive scene, but what followed was better.
She was so embarrassed by what she’d done that she made us flee the scene.
Not leave through the door. No...that would have been too easy. She looked at the mess, looked at me, and yelled, “Run!”
We ran.
Scaled a fence, wandered through a parking garage, and finally snuck through tunnels.
It was the most fun I’d had in years.
It was as if instead of an engineer who planned everything in his life, I was spontaneous and free. She did that to me. With her hand in mine, I was someone else. Helping her escape while keeping her safe were my only thoughts.
From that moment on, I wanted her, all of her, but that night she wasn’t exactly in a position to consent to more than my assistance. It wasn’t that she fought me off, but then again, she wasn’t coming on to me either. She isn’t that type of woman. Her purse and room key were MIA after our little excursion. The hotel refused to provide another key without identification. Taking her to my room was all I could think to do. Once there, she fell sound asleep. Like Sleeping Beauty from the fairy tale, it wasn’t until morning when I kissed her forehead that she finally awoke.
I’m a thirty-three-year-old man who admittedly still has fantasies. Perhaps with the time I travel and read, you’d think I’d have daydreams—and night dreams—about a model or an actress, maybe my high school sweetheart or college crush.
No.
Shana Price, the beauty who made me feel alive, who woke a part of my soul I didn’t know existed, who was within my grasp only to disappear...
She’s the recurring star in my imagination.
She’s the one who got away.
Even though we never did more than sleep—yes, the slumber type—kiss, and perhaps a bit of heavy petting, in my mind as I recall our short secret time, I imagine more. I’ve pictured her face on the pillow beside mine. I’ve imagined that kiss I gave her leading to more as I stand facing the shower wall, hot water streaming down and relief at hand.
It wasn’t only our careers and distance that deterred a relationship but also our connection. She’s my sister-in-law’s best friend, her after-college roommate. Shana and I agreed not to tell Kimbra or Duncan about our secret time together.
Now sometimes I wonder if it really happened.
If it was real.
Did she exist or is she an unobtainable aspiration that will forever remain in my thoughts but never again in my grasp?
I reason that she’s real because after that night, we spoke a few times on the phone.
Each time was harder than the last—yes, pun intended. The distance and inability to see her face-to-face became too much. With me on the West Coast and her in London, the time difference made even communication difficult. Finally, the calls ceased.
I thought to ask Max if he knew Shana since he lives in London, but what would be the chances? London is immense. An investment banker who’s interested in men would have little reason to know or meet a Saks Fifth Avenue lead buyer for the junior line.
“Saks?” I say, looking back at my friends. Obviously, their conversation has moved on while I’ve been reminiscing.
“What?” Eric asks.
“Did you say this is a Saks Fifth Avenue fashion show?”
“Yeah.” Matt’s eyebrows waggle. “Lingerie line.”
“Right.” Lingerie. Perfect for a bachelor party but not for seeing the woman I want. Shana Price oversees Saks’s junior line. Right now, she’s most likely in London dressing teenagers and deciding on next year’s best prom dresses.
Chapter Five
Shana
My heart beats so rapidly that I fear it may jump clear out of my chest. I’m confident the thin layer of silk covering me is jumping with each beat. I’m not usually concerned about my appearance. When it comes to my work, I’m confident and strong, yet in this negligee and about to walk out in front of hundreds of sets of eyes, I’m as insecure as a thirteen-year-old about to go to her first dance and sure she will spend the entire time in a circle of friends who no boy will ask to dance.
How have I been able to send other women out onto the runway without considering this side of the journey?
It’s because those women are models. I’m not.
I’m dressed like one for a single reason—to save this show.
Even with my good intentions, every lie I’ve ever told myself, every thought of self-doubt, and every time I’ve compared myself—even subconsciously—to another woman...all the moments so many women can share are dancing in my head. As soon as Chantilly helped me slip into the white negligee, I saw the world of fashion from an entirely new perspective. It is one thing to be the one applying body glue. It’s quite another to have the cool liquid rolled across my skin as goose bumps prickle and Chantilly yells for nipple tape.
I mean, nipple tape is a great accessory until it’s applied to your breasts. I don’t even want to think about removing it.
“You can do this,” Shelly whispers as I slip my feet into shoes that could easily double as stilts.
“I’m not even sure I can walk in these.”