Page 117 of Mr. Picture Perfect
Music blasts from the speakers over our heads.
That’s the cue.
Dean sets the example by heading confidently onto the stage, smiling broadly and waving at the crowd with grace. After a brief and unintended game of tug-of-war using my wrist as a rope with a seriously-freaked-out Anthony, both of us end up stumbling out onto the stage together behind the calm, poised, and studly Dean. Anthony straightens up next to me when he realizes he doesn’t have a choice anymore, then proceeds to stiffly walk on ahead, waving rigidly at the crowd like a rusted tin man, eyes wide with terror. I follow behind them and put a casual smile on my face as I wave at the crowd.
Honestly, it isn’t as terrifying as it seemed from backstage. I hit my mark and stand in my spotlight, waving at everyone. The stage lights are so bright that I can’t hope to make out a single face in the vague semidarkness of the audience, broken only here and there by a flickering candle among the table centerpieces.
I also realize it was never coming out onto the stage that had me feeling any sort of way. It’s Noah. Wondering about his state of mind. Hoping he’s okay. Wanting him by my side or else out there in the audience somewhere to cheer me on.
A sudden thought occurs to me: what if heisout there?
“Dean King!” cries out Frankie after making an introduction, to the tune of cheers, whistles, and rampant applause. Dean gives a handsome smile and bows at the audience, bringing his hands together to show his appreciation. “Anthony Myers!” The crowd continues to roar while Anthony, a literal lead pipe in the shape of a human being, stares out at the blurry nothingness where all the cheering comes from, and does absolutely nothing at all. “And last but certainly not least: Cole Harding!”
The applause and whistling rages on with the strength of a hurricane. Malcolm was right; I really can’t see much of anything past the front row of tables, and even then, all I notice are evening gowns, jeans, knees, and a ton of feet in fancy shoes and heels.
“Oh, I’m just blessed to be here,” says Dean to the audience, answering a question Frankie asks him. “Truly blessed. And I must thank all of you for making it out here tonight to watch the three of us strut our stuff up here and make happy fools out of ourselves for your entertainment.”
Everyone laughs and applauds his answer, with a few specific and intentional whistling and hollering from somewhere in the crowd. If I had to guess, it’s his nephew Tyrone, Omar, and their daughter Kelsey all cheering him on.
Frankie approaches Anthony next. “How about you,amigo? Our unpredictable yet reliable Mr. Bad Boy … You can be found all around town at all hours, day and night, doing all sorts of jobs for Spruce. By the way, I think I can count about thirty ladies in this audience who’ve suddenly got leaky faucets that need looking at.” His joke sends a ripple of laughter through the crowd, plus one or two whistles. “So what would you like to say to the crowd? Hmm?”
Anthony stares blankly ahead. The sound seems to get sucked right out of the pavilion like someone opened a drain, everything drawing quiet, nearly into a vacuum.
Then he grunts: “Fuckin’ forgot what I was supposed to say.”
The echoes of his words scatter throughout the pavilion like drums—Fuckin’ forgot what I was supposed to say … say … say …
Somehow, I have to assume the audience takes that to be his “bad boy” way of addressing them, because at once they explode into roars of laughter and celebration for him. Anthony takes it in, stunned, then appears amused by the reaction. “Really,” he says, “I fuckin’ forgot. Mind’s totally blank. Honestly, I’m just tryin’ not to throw up the bacon carbonara I ate earlier.”
The audience roars again.
Anthony’s posture straightens as he gains confidence.
Frankie, however, whips the microphone away. “Whoa, whoa, sorry for the language, folks. Anyone bring their kids? Well, if ya did, it’s past your bedtime, and what in thehellare you doing here at an event like this, anyway? Go home and watch cartoons!” he shouts with comical sass, inspiring more laughter and cheers.
I find myself lost in the warmth of the audience, for a moment forgetting my worries. They’re really with us. This is a good crowd that wants us to succeed. They want to love us. They’re forgiving and happy to be here. Yet again, Malcolm was right with his ample reassurances and foresight.
“And that brings us to Cole Harding,” says Frankie as he struts up to my side. “My, my. You had this whole town abuzz when you came to the rescue and saved someone’s life just a few weeks ago at the Spruce Spring Crafts Festival. How does it feel to be a local hero, Mr. Harding?”
I don’t know if Noah is out there, but it helps to imagine he is.
I wish I knew whether he’s truly okay.
“I don’t see myself as a hero,” I admit. “I was just doing what I thought was right in protecting someone I care very much about.”
“Is that how it is?” teases Frankie, giving a private wink at the audience. “Sounds like there’s more to this story …”
“Maybe there is,” I say right back.
Frankie gasps demonstratively. “Well, well. I think we’ll have to circle back around to that …laterin our evening. Thank you three for being ourhunkybachelors! Now can we please give these handsome men a round of your biggest applause?”
As our ears drown in another relentless wave of screams and whistling, I lead the way off of the stage the same way we came on. Anthony has apparently warmed up quickly to the idea of so many people cheering for him, as he lingers onstage to playfully blow kisses at the crowd and cockily flex his guns. Dean takes the more classy approach of waving simply and graciously as he saunters offstage with us.
While the audience is treated to a song from a local country singer with more twang and sass in her voice than twenty Nadines combined, backstage becomes a storm of clothes flying all over the place. Privacy becomes a fleeting dream as we change into our eveningwear amid the crew rushing around us. Despite the chaos, Tamika makes everything feel organized and under control as she guides and directs. While changing, I hear Anthony go on about how “flippin’ amazing” he felt out there and how he can’t wait to do his talent. Dean seems surprisingly amused by him, telling him to take his time and bathe in the attention, because they sure won’t be getting any of this after the night ends. “Make all of your moments count, son, each and every one of them.”
I find it adorable, how their whole dynamic has changed from Anthony spitefully calling Dean “old man” to Dean endearingly calling Anthony “son”.
It’s almost enough to keep my mind off of Noah for a minute.
