by Holly Rayner
***
A few minutes later, after quickly downing an espresso, Megan put down enough bills to pay for lunch for them both, waving away Rachel’s protests and insisting her friend could pay next time they got together. She wasn’t ready to leave Rachel’s company, but she had to get back to her studio for her next class. She missed her best friend desperately. They’d met when they had dance classes together in high school, and as they’d grown up and moved onto college, they had always kept in touch, seeing each other whenever they could. Rachel had moved to New York a few years before Megan, and her being here had been one of the biggest draws of choosing the city for her studio.
In the early days of Megan’s studio, Rachel had come to many of the classes there, sometimes acting as an assistant. Now she was nearing the end of her pregnancy, she’d decided to take a break from dancing for the time being, and Megan only saw her when they had lunch together. Soon, Megan thought, Rachel would have a baby and would slip into mommy world, becoming one more frantic parent running around her studio.
The worst part was, Megan wanted to be one of those parents. What Rachel had said, about her having a little girl in a pink tutu, had touched on a deep yearning that existed within her. Megan could see her daughter there, her hair tight in a bun, playing with a doll. She could see her ballet shoes coming loose and her learning her first plié.
Megan strolled down the sidewalk, casually eyeing the people she passed. All these people in New York. Was there anyone that would be right for her? And where was he?
Zaakir came to her mind. She wouldn’t mind someone like him. Handsome, classy. She didn’t particularly need the money part, though. She’d seen too much of what it did, and how it corrupted people. Having someone with less money, but stronger morals was much preferred over money and conceit. This was why none of the rich boys her parents tried to set her up with had stuck. They were more into themselves than anything else. They just wanted a prize to put on their arms and someone to sleep with when they were bored. They had everything else—money to travel and to buy whatever they wanted and to do anything they desired. There wasn’t much left for a relationship to fulfill.
Maybe those boys were different now. Maybe they’d grown into upright businessmen, running companies across the world and going home to their wives and children who they loved. But she wasn’t sorry. She still wanted no part of the society life with the dinners and the expectations and the gossip. She much preferred the skimpy vegetable diets of dancers, and the chiffon and ribbons and leotards of the dance world.
Back at the entrance to her studio, Megan unlocked the door and flipped the lights back on. She took down the “Out for Lunch” sign and headed into her office. There were still several more minutes to kill before her next class, so she got on her computer and paid a few bills, then she opened a fresh internet tab.
The logo and empty search bar sat before her, waiting. All she had to do was type. With a deep breath, Megan slowly typed the words “sperm bank New York.”
Megan stared at the photos that popped up, all happy families and smiling children. Could she really do it, though? Choose the father of her child by his height and hair color? Have a baby all on her own? Her parents would never approve. They might even disown her over it, regardless of the fact that she would be giving them a grandchild. The hassle of the gossip and controversy around her decision would outweigh any desire to know their grandchild.
The start time for her next class was approaching. Megan clicked off the website and closed her browser, staring for a moment at the image that formed the background of her computer screen: a group of small girls in their leotards, with her at the center. The first class she had ever taken. Maybe having these kids as “her children” was enough, she thought. Even if it was only for a few hours a week.
Well, Megan thought, she didn’t have to do anything about it today. Right now, all she had to do was get ready for her next class.
THREE
All afternoon as Megan taught, she tried not to think about Zaakir, the evening before, or their upcoming lesson together. Every time she thought of his smile, or how strong his arms felt around her, or how smooth his dance moves were, she had to force herself to remember that he was taken. He would be married in just two weeks. There was no point in thinking of him any differently than she thought of any other client.
But as eight o’clock drew near, the flutter in her stomach heightened. She found herself watching the door for him, even a half hour before he was due to arrive. She set up the studio, sweeping the floor, wiping down the tables, cleaning the mirrors from the plethora of tiny fingerprints. She had the music cued, the water jug full and set out a fresh towel for him in case they worked up a sweat again. She checked her hair and pulled it into a fresh bun, somewhat neater than her usual loose knot. By 7:30, everything was ready.
With a half hour to spare, Megan tried to sit down to do paperwork, but found she couldn’t concentrate. She kept watching the clock and glancing to the street outside. Finally, she got up and did the one thing she could always rely on to relieve her stress: she went into her studio, put on some gentle piano music, and warmed up in a series of stretches and slow, graceful moves.
As each muscle pulled tight, Megan relaxed further. She focused on making her pirouettes precise, her arabesque straight, and on the breath moving in and out of her lungs. When she checked the clock again, it was 8:05. She looked out into the waiting room, through the glass door, and saw Zaakir stepping out of the same black limo. She quickly wiped away her sweat, checked her hair, and pretended to be focused on stretching when he walked in.
“Hello again,” he said from the doorway.
“Hi.” She walked over and greeted him with a handshake, hoping that, if her palms felt clammy, he would assume it was due to her warm-up.
“I hope you had a lovely day.”
“I did. Full of crying toddlers and complaining ballerinas, but those are the best days,” she chuckled. “It’s what I love.”
“We should all be so lucky. Have you been dancing long?”
“Nearly twenty-five years or so. I started when I was four, like some of my students.”
“Was it one of those Mommy and Me classes?” the Sheikh asked, and Megan was again soothed by his accent; she could listen to him speak all day.
“No. My mother wouldn’t have been caught dead doing something like that. My nanny was the one who took me to class.”
“But still. It sparked a love of dance?”
“It did. I mean, when I was four I was all about the sparkly tutus and soft shoes, but as I got older, I realized that I loved the feeling of my body moving to the music. I took every type of class that was offered: ballet, tap, jazz, hip hop, lyrical. At one point, I think I was at the studio six days a week. I entered competitions, I even taught classes as an assistant when I was a teen. That was when I knew that owning my own studio was my dream. And now, here it is.” She gestured to their surroundings, smiling to think of how far she’d come.
“Your parents must be very proud.”
“Ha. I wish.” Her smile vanished, as it often did when she thought of her parents. “They’d have been much happier had I gone to law school or become a doctor. They always thought dance was just a wonderful hobby—something they could brag to their friends at the country club about, but never anything worth taking seriously. When it started affecting my grades because I spent more time dancing than studying, they made me cut back on a lot of my classes. They had much higher hopes for me, they said.”
The line was a direct quote, her father had repeated it so many times. “We wanted more for you, Megan.” “We spent a fortune on an excellent education so you would have a bright future.” “Dance is lovely, but it’s not a career, Megan.” She’d heard it all. From the time college applications were sent until a year ago when she’d opened the studio.
She sighed to herself. “What do you do, anyway?”
“I deal mostly in investment
s. Buying and selling businesses, that sort of thing,” he said coolly.
“I should have guessed,” she said with a grin. “Shall we get started?”
Megan started to walk over to the mirrors, but the Sheikh took his time following her.
“Does that disappoint you?” he asked softly.
“I’m sorry?” she said, turning back to face him.
“Are you disappointed at how I make my living?”
Zaakir slid off his jacket, revealing a tight-fitting, navy-blue shirt. The sleeves were short and, for the first time, Megan was able to see the muscles behind his strength. The roundness of his biceps, his wide chest. Clearly, he spent time at the gym.
Megan realized she was staring and moved her gaze back to his eyes. “Not disappointed, no.” She shook her head and looked down as she replied. “It just reminds me of my parents.”
“Does your family deal in investments as well?”
“Something like that. They’ve dealt in oil for years.”
“Sounds messy,” he said.
“More than you know.”
“In all seriousness, it seems like that would be an interesting upbringing. You must have had opportunities other kids your age didn’t have.”
“I’m sure you know what it’s like growing up with money: fancy schools, designer clothing, brand new car on your 16th birthday. And, most of all, the expectation that you’ll do whatever they want you to do for the rest of your life in order to pay them back for it.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I understand, somewhat. Growing up in Al-Sharrabi, things were a bit different for me, but I know where you’re coming from; being the eldest son, I certainly got my fair share of it.”
“We should all be so lucky,” Megan said, mimicking his earlier words. “My father would have been thrilled to have a son. I was a disappointment from the start, I suppose. And they never did have any other children besides me, so it’s been all on my shoulders.”
“You’re an only child?”
She nodded.
“I can’t imagine what that would be like. I have ten siblings.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”
He chuckled softly. “Hectic. But because we lived in a palace, we had plenty of space and saw less of each other than you’d expect. We had individual tutors much of the time, so aside from meal times and evenings, we were often on our own.”
“A palace?” Her mouth hung open slightly; it seemed that the sheikh thing was more than just a title, as he’d made it seem. “Why would you come to New York if you’re Al-Sharrabian royalty?”
“I’m there about half the time. I divide my time between home and the States. Sometimes it’s just nice to be treated like any other businessman.”
“I get that,” Megan said thoughtfully. “It’s why I don’t tend to mention my last name until I have to. It’s too well known, and too many assumptions are made on the back of it.”
“We have much in common, then,” Zaakir said warmly. His eyes held hers and she felt him gazing too deep.
He’s taken, Megan reminded herself for the hundredth time.
She looked back to their reflections in the mirror. “Oh? Do your parents not speak to you, either?”
“You don’t talk to your parents?”
Megan looked back at the Sheikh; his face was visibly disappointed.
“No, we haven’t spoken in almost a year. When I moved to New York and opened the studio, they refused to accept my career choice.”
“That’s quite sad.”
“It’d be nice if they would finally recognize that I’ve made it, but I did receive Christmas and birthday cards this year.”
“Well that means there’s hope, at least. I hope that one day you’ll be able to renew your relationship with them.”
“Yeah.” She took in a long breath and let it out slowly. Any excitement from earlier in the day was long gone, and now she just felt sad. This was why she generally avoided thinking about her parents; she felt the weight of their expectations, of their disappointment, pressing down on her.
With her thoughts so wrapped up in the possibility of having her own child, Megan found her relationship with her parents snapping into sharp focus. They had done so many things she’d never do to her own child. She would love him or her for whoever they wanted to be, and she’d be supportive of whatever they wanted to do. But, even as difficult as her parents were, she still longed to have a relationship with them, as Zaakir had said. Her child deserved to have grandparents. Didn’t she owe it to her child to try to repair things with her parents?
“Well,” Megan said, walking over to the stereo, “enough of this heavy talk. We’re here to tango.” She pressed play and spun around, ready to release her unease with her first dance move.
The Sheikh straightened up and readied himself, giving her a light smile. “Then let’s dance.”
She walked toward him, taking long marching steps. They held gazes as she passed him, spun around, and stalked back. When she neared him again, he took her hand and put his other hand on her back, leading her gracefully into the first step.
They practiced all the steps they’d covered the night before, and Zaakir performed each one as if he’d done it a hundred times. Megan taught him some more advanced steps and he picked them up as quickly and easily as he had the others.
“I’m starting to think you’re as much of a natural as they told me I was when I first started,” Megan said.
“I take that as a high compliment.”
They paused to drink some water. The more advanced moves were faster than the beginner moves, and they’d worked up even more of a sweat than they had the previous night.
“Have you have a chance to practice with your fiancée today?”
Zaakir broke eye contact to inspect his nails. “Do you think I need much practice?”
“No, you don’t, but I’m guessing your bride isn’t a dance instructor. Has she had any lessons?”
“Well they say it’s all in the leading, no?”
“Sure, but…” She gave him a questioning look. Was he avoiding the topic? “If your partner doesn’t know how to follow, you might end up stepping all over her.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
“How long have you known each other for?”
He seemed to weigh his answer before he spoke. “In my country, it’s traditional for there to be very little contact between bride and groom before the wedding day.”
“Oh. But you have met her?”
“Yes.” He looked away again, then took a sip of water. “Are there any more moves you wanted to show me? I’d be happy to pay for an extended session.”
“Oh! That reminds me.” Megan hurried to her office, her heels clicking on the hard floor. She opened the safe and removed the envelope from the locked box. She walked back into the studio and handed it to him. “You paid me far too much last night. And your lesson tonight is already covered, so I’d be happy to teach you a few more moves.”
He held up his hands. “Oh no, that was payment for last night only. For arranging everything so last minute, and for having you set up for 30 when it was only me.”
“It’s far too much, Zaakir.”
“It’s anything but. And while we’re on the topic…” He went to his jacket and took out another stack of bills. “This is for this evening’s class.”
Megan shook her head. “I can’t accept that.”
“Well, I was under the impression you accepted tips in this country and that when someone provides an outstanding service, you may tip them more.”
Megan’s cheeks grew warm. “Well, yes, and thank you, but this is much more than an excellent tip.”
“And you are much more than an excellent teacher,” Zaakir said, and the grin he gave her was startling in the way it made her stomach quiver. He put the money in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Please. Accept this as a symbol of my deepest gratitud
e.”
Megan blinked at him in shock, then went in a daze back to her office, placing the envelope and the new stack of cash—the same amount he’d given her the previous night—into the safe. She realized as she closed the safe that she certainly wouldn’t have to worry about covering her bills for a while—at the very least she could give him a longer lesson.
Back in the studio, Megan straightened her shoulders and addressed the Sheikh. “Are you ready to learn some serious tango?”
“Absolutely.”
They danced together for another half hour. Megan taught him some of the most advanced moves she knew, and all of them he picked up easily. In the entire evening, he made at most two missteps, both of which he quickly corrected. His skill was beyond impressive. They spun to a close as the final song ended, and she beamed at him.
“You are a fabulous student, Zaakir,” Megan said with a grin. Breathing heavily, she downed a cup of water and refilled it.
The Sheikh did the same, but he wore no smile.
As her heart rate began to settle, Megan noticed that her student seemed sad; his mouth drooped and he didn’t seem to want to look at her.
“Have I worn you out?” she chuckled.
“No.” He shook his head and downed another glass of water.
“Did you want to go over any of the moves one more time?”
He shook his head again.
“Well I think you’re more than ready for the big day. Your bride will be thoroughly impressed by your tango skills; I can guarantee that much.”
“Thank you.” He set down his empty cup and picked up his jacket.
“Is everything okay? Have I said something wrong?” She couldn’t place his sudden shift in mood. All evening, he’d been talkative and smiled easily, and right up to their last dance, he’d appeared alive and energetic. It was as if someone had flicked a switch.
“Megan.” He turned to her, staring deep into her eyes. “Will you join me for a drink?”
FOUR
Megan felt the shock of his question like a kick to the gut. She wanted more than anything to get to know him better and spend the rest of her evening gazing into the those alluring eyes. But he had a bride waiting for him. It would be highly inappropriate for her to go anywhere with him—it was maybe even inappropriate for them to be alone in her studio, dancing a dance meant for lovers, so late into the night.
“N-No,” she stuttered. “I can’t, it’s… It wouldn’t be right. You’re getting married. I’m sure your fiancée wouldn’t be happy about it.”
“Megan, you are the most wonderful dancer I’ve ever met. You move like water and music and when you teach, it’s like you’re telling my feet how to move and they obey. I have been the luckiest man to spend these nights with you, and in exchange I’ve kept you late, and you’ve missed dinner. Please, let me make up for being so inconsiderate. I assure you, we would be going just as friends.”
Megan considered this. Maybe if she saw Zaakir as just a friend, she would feel better about it. Nothing would happen between them—it couldn’t, what with his impending marriage. And since that was the case, then his intention now must be only honorable.
“As friends,” he said again. “I insist.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay.” She looked down at her leotard, chiffon skirt, and tights. “I’ll just need to change first, and I’m afraid what I have with me to go home in isn’t exactly an outfit I’d wear to go out in.”
