I noted that in the file and was about to move on when he added: “And bridges.”
“You have a phobia of bridges?”
He kept his voice tight and matter-of-fact. “I do.”
“The idea of bridges or actual bridges?”
“Actual bridges.”
Huh. Okay. “How does that manifest?”
He chewed on the inside of his lip as he weighed his options, deciding how much to share. “Well, in about twenty minutes, we’re going to come to part of the highway that goes over the Brazos River. And when that happens, I’m going to pull over, stop the car, get out, and walk across the bridge on foot.”
“What about the car?”
“You’re going to drive it over the bridge and wait for me on the other side.”
“Is that how you always cross bridges?”
“It’s how I prefer to cross them.”
“But what if you’re by yourself?”
“I try not to be by myself.”
“But if you are?”
“If I am, I hold my breath and keep going. But then I have to pull off the road for a while.”
“Why do you pull off the road?”
“To throw up.”
I took that in. Then I asked, “Why are you afraid of bridges?”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“No.”
“Then let’s just say that America’s infrastructure isn’t nearly as sturdy as we’d all like to think. And leave it at that.”
* * *
WE NEVER DID finish the questions.
When we got close to the Brazos bridge, Jack really did pull over on the shoulder just before the bridge, get out of the Range Rover, and walk across on foot.
I did my part and drove to meet him on the other side.
I waited for him, leaning against the bumper of his car, rocking from the blasts of 18-wheelers zooming by, watching the tension in his face and the focus of his eyes as he made a straight line from one shore to the other.
Wow. How many people have driven past a random pedestrian walking across a highway bridge, never realizing it was megastar Jack Stapleton?
When he reached me, his face was pale and there was sweat on his forehead. “You weren’t joking,” I said.
“I never joke about bridges.”
He got back in the driver’s seat and rolled down the windows, and, with that, he shifted back into character as a relaxed, carefree guy who had it all.
“You’ve asked me a lot of questions today,” Jack said then. “I haven’t asked you even one.”
“And we should keep it that way.”
“I can’t ask you questions?”
“You can ask…” I said with a little I-don’t-make-the-rules shrug.
But the question he asked wasn’t what I was expecting.
He turned and looked me up and down. “Have you done any acting?”
Given where we were headed at that very moment and the collaboration I’d just signed up for, this was one I probably needed to answer.
A first.
I thought about it. “I’ve portrayed a few barnyard animals in a few Christmas pageants.”
“So that’s a full no.”
I tried to give him something. “There are elements of acting to my job. Sometimes I have to play a kind of role in a situation. But it’s mostly about blending into the background, or vaguely seeming like a personal assistant.”
Jack nodded, thinking.
“Never anything so … detailed, though.”
“Okay,” he said, still thinking. “I’m going to tell them that you’re my girlfriend, and that should do a lot of the heavy lifting. Once that’s established, I’ll do most of the work. I mean, who lies about having a girlfriend? All you really have to do is just be pleasant.”
“Be pleasant,” I said, like I was writing it down.
“Yeah, like, you don’t have to memorize lines, or deliver a soliloquy. This isn’t Shakespeare. Just be normal, and the context should do the rest.”
“So I don’t have to act like I’m madly in love with you?”
He gave a little sideways glance. “Not unless you want to.”
“What if they don’t believe you? That I’m your girlfriend?” I hadn’t realized how vulnerable it would feel to ask this question until I was doing it.
But Jack gave a confident nod. “They’ll believe me.”
“Why?”
“You’re totally my type.”
I couldn’t resist. “Cleaning ladies are your type?”