with passersby to no avail.
Finally, someone tapped my right shoulder. I turned right, but no one was there. When I turned to my left, I jumped—it was Thor/Ben, the blond Scandinavian god/coach.
“Gotcha,” he said.
I hate that middle school trick, but I didn’t want to come off as a jerk, so I pretended to laugh as he flopped in a chair two down from me.
“Hi,” I said. “Did you get sent by the powers that be to talk to the super-awkward loner?”
He laughed. “No. I came to make sure you were going to audition tomorrow. You were funny before.”
He thought I was funny before? When? At the car? What had I even said?
“Uh, thanks. Yes. I am totally going to audition. I sent in my sketch last month.”
“Which one was it?” He settled an arm over the chair between us.
“The one about the zombies suing the creators of Walking Dead for defamation of character?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “That was you?”
I turned my body to face him. “You remember it?”
He nodded slowly. “Oh, I remember it. The part where they eat the brains of the IT guy for taking too long to set up the LCD projector?” He reached over and poked my bicep. “That was funny stuff.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
He poked me again and my stomach flipped over. “Why are you all alone . . . uh . . . I can’t remember your name?”
“Zelda. And you’re Ben.”
He laughed. “Good memory. Zelda . . .” He made a confused face. “Like the video game?”
I nodded, used to this. “And the Fitzgerald.”
He stared at me blankly.
“F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife was named Zelda.”
He shook his head.
“He wrote The Great Gatsby?”
He frowned. “With Leonardo DiCaprio?”
“The movie is with Leonardo DiCaprio. Yes. It’s also a good book. And F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife, Zelda, wrote and danced and was an amazing artist in her own right. But it was the 1920s, so she didn’t get the attention her husband did.” I could feel myself rambling. And lecturing. I tried to rein it in and shrugged. “My mom loves Zelda Fitzgerald.”
He nodded and gazed over my shoulder.
I was losing him.
Balance giving and taking.
“Who’s named Ben?” I blurted.
He quirked his head. “Huh?”
My cheeks reddened. “In your family. Is some relative named Ben? Or are you Ben for Ben Franklin?”
He laughed. “Now him I’ve heard of. No, I’m Ben because my dad liked the name Ben. But maybe I should make something up.” He folded his super-muscular arms across his chest. “I’m Ben for . . . that clock in London. Big Ben. Tall, important, great at telling time.”
Big Ben is actually the name of the bell, not the clock, but after the failed Zelda Fitzgerald history lesson, I decided another one back-to-back wasn’t going to win me any fans. Keeping it positive, I just smiled. “Those are definitely qualities you want for your child.”
He laughed again and met my eye. “Funny girl . . . You’re dangerous.”
Dangerous? Was he flirting with me? He couldn’t be flirting with me. No one flirted with me.
“Too dangerous to eat dinner with?” I asked, shocked at my own forwardness.
One corner of his mouth drew up. “I could risk it. If you promise me one thing.”
I couldn’t tell for sure if my shortness of breath was Ben or altitude-related, but I had my suspicions. “Yes?”
“Promise me—”
He kept talking, but his comment was drowned out by the squawking feedback of the PA system as a round man in his sixties with a deep tan and salt-and-pepper hair took to the microphone.
“Hello, hello, sorry about that. Okay. Got it? Do we have it?”
I looked back to Ben, but he was eyes-forward on the speaker. I really wanted to know what I was supposed to promise him, but he was all business.
“Hello, everybody. Paul DeLuca here. And this other old guy is Paul Paulsen. Welcome to the thirtieth summer of Rocky Mountain Theatre Arts!”
Everyone whooped and clapped. Paul DeLuca basked in the applause as a tall, balding Paul Paulsen climbed on stage to join him. Paul Paulsen clutched a clipboard in one arm and nodded at us, his pinched facial features attempting a smile under bushy eyebrows.
I couldn’t believe I was seeing Paul DeLuca and Paul Paulsen in person. They had started RMTA with Jane Lloyd all those years ago. The only thing better than seeing them would have been seeing Jane.
Paul DeLuca held up a hand to quiet us down. “We’re very excited for your two weeks with us in these beautiful mountains.