by Julie Cross
“I know how it goes,” Braden says, stubborn as ever. “And besides, I can do it different if I want.”
“Definitely,” I tell him. I play through the right-hand portion of the song and ask Braden to do the left for me. It’s the part that’s giving him the most trouble. He does much better with just the left hand, but when he messes up toward the end, he bangs hard on the keys. Enough to get Sam wheeling into the room from the kitchen.
“Hey, take it easy. That piano’s older than me,” he jokes.
I still Braden’s hand. “Try saying the notes out loud. That helps me when I’m learning a new song.”
He releases a frustrated breath and then concedes to trying again, mumbling the notes out loud. When he gets through it without a mistake—left hand only—he has a huge grin on his face. I look over at Connor and see that he’s also pleased with this.
I clap him on the back. “Nice job.”
“Okay,” Sam says. “You guys better stop practicing before the neighbors accuse me of forcing you into music. Ask Fin if she’ll take you to the park.”
Both of them quickly abandon their activities and head to the doorway where Finley is now standing.
“I can take them,” I offer.
Sam shakes his head. “Let Fin do it.”
She looks as surprised as me by this. I sit up straighter and swallow. Okay, I think this is the part where he tells me what he really thinks of my current situation. While she’s helping the boys find their shoes, Finley gives me a couple glances, a question in her eyes. All I can do is sit there waiting for them to go and listening to my heart race.
When the front door finally closes behind them, I turn to Sam and lean on one elbow. The piano keys respond loudly and obviously, offended by my misuse. I jump a mile, my neck heating up. Then I carefully close the lid and resume my position.
“So…” Sam says, pivoting his chair to face me. It’s incredible how much he and his kids match—the blue eyes, light-blond hair, tanned skin from hours by the pool. “Fin told me that you might need to use me as a reference or support for your case.”
“Yeah, but I totally get it if you don’t want to be involved.” I run a hand through my hair. This is going great so far. Not. “I mean, it’s a train wreck. Or it will be—”
He lifts a hand to stop me. “First of all, I think what you’re doing is admirable. Of course I’m going to help you if you call me up and ask for parenting advice or anything really. So offering myself as your ‘support system’ is an easy decision for me.”
My mouth falls open. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t expect such a positive response from him. “Really? You mean it? I don’t want to need help, but I guess it’s important. For the case.” I hesitate and then add, “Plus, I probably will need help.”
“You shouldn’t hesitate to ask me,” he says with a tone that is both warm and free of judgment. However, I catch the emphasis on “me.”
I clear my throat. “I’m guessing there’s a but in here somewhere.”
“Not exactly,” he says, his gaze flitting to the front door and then back to me. “But I have to be honest—my daughter…this is not what I want for her. I’m not saying I won’t accept her choices. She’s free to do whatever she likes, and I will always support her. But this isn’t her child. She’s not a pregnant teen—no offense to you and your situation—but it doesn’t seem fair she might have to be tied down like you are.”
“I never asked her to do anything—” I protest.
“I know that, Eddie. Of course I know that. But this is Fin we’re talking about. Do you think she would ever walk away from you, now that you’re planning on raising a child on your own? She doesn’t know how not to be selfless.” He lifts his eyebrow. “My guess is you already know that about her.”
I almost tell him that I’m not taking advantage of her because of this, but I don’t think he meant it like that. I lean further on my elbow, the weight of this hitting me hard. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, looking as stressed as I feel. “Maybe nothing. It’s just hard for me to see her doing this again… I mean, she helped raise her brothers when she was still a kid herself. That’s not your fault, and it’s not completely mine either, but that doesn’t make it any easier to see her in the same position all over again. God, she’s not even twenty.”
“I won’t make her responsible for my kid,” I tell him, hoping he’ll believe me.
“No, you probably won’t,” he agrees. “But she will. Just watch, she’ll give up things she wants so she can play house with you. A good-looking guy who loves her brothers and wants to raise a baby on his own—might as well be crack to Fin. And this business plan—”
I straighten up again, alarmed. “What business plan?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Did she really think I wouldn’t find out she’s trying to buy a studio in the neighborhood? The real estate agent is one of my best friends.”
“You told her you know about it, then?” I ask. This could be a good thing. He doesn’t seem angry. She’s been worried he’d be angry.
“Nah.” He waves a hand. “I’ll let her take it as far as she wants first. She definitely surprised me though. I really thought getting her to move to New York would help…” He hesitates before adding, “I thought she’d go back to dancing. She’s so talented.”
I scratch the back of my head, not sure if it’s my place to tell him that she’s been dancing. A lot. She’s takes a class nearly every night at Iris’s studio. And I can see her changing physically from all the training. She’s always stretching now too. Every time she’s sitting down or hanging out, I look over, and she’s got her legs out to the side, stomach flat on the floor. Sometimes, I can’t even watch her when she’s like that. It looks too painful.
I decide to tell Sam a small portion of Fin’s secrets.
“She showed me the studio,” I say. “I saw her dancing. She asked me to play a piece from Don Quixote for her. She’s amazing.”
“Yes, she’s incredible.” He scoops up a red ball in the way of one of his wheels and tosses it in the air. “But I’ve known since the day she refused to continue dance anywhere else but her family’s studio that loyalty would be her biggest curse.”
“I kind of like that about her. Loyalty is pretty much obsolete in my family.” I take a breath, hoping it will clear my head. It doesn’t. “That’s not all I like about her. There are so many things. I think…” Sam looks up at me, waiting. “I think I’m in love with her.”
He stares at me—not with disappointment, luckily. “I figured.”
“So yeah.” My neck heats up even more. I hadn’t planned on saying that out loud. Especially not to Finley’s dad. Before telling her. “That makes it a little difficult to…you know, tell her to get lost.”
“Yeah.” Now he looks disappointed. “I know that too.”
“But I’ll try…” I drop my gaze to the piano, tracing a finger over the cracked wood. “I owe you that much.”
He gives me this look that clearly says bullshit, then he grips my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Well, at least you’re a millionaire. She can marry rich. That was my other dream for her.”
I release a short laugh. He definitely passed on some of his odd, honest sense of humor to Finley. “Glad I could help out with that.”
Sam seems to have some resolve about his concerns. Me, on the other hand… I’m having trouble shaking them.
CHAPTER 42
Finley
“Hips! Move those hips!” Iris shouts, beating her sneaker against the dance floor in time to the music.
Hip-hop has never been a strength for me, but I’m definitely getting better.
Iris watches me for a few seconds and then quirks an eyebrow. “Is that an unpointed foot? And loose knees? Look who’s learning how to ruin her ballet technique
.” She addresses the class of twenty or so dancers. “Everyone applaud Miss Finley Belton for pulling that ballerina stick out of her ass.”
I start laughing and lose my place, getting behind the music by a few counts. Iris resumes banging her sneaker on the floor while a giant bag of ice rests over her left knee. I refocus and get back into the number we’ve learned today. But over the course of this class—forty-five minutes so far—the middle-aged woman beside me keeps glancing my way. I can see her gaze roaming to the left through mirrors. She did this during the contemporary dance class before hip-hop as well. I did a good job ignoring her during the last class, but now it’s getting to me.
I swiftly swap spots with the dude behind me and then another woman behind him until I’m nearly in the back of the room. I push myself to go full out for the remainder of the class, even though I’m exhausted after a long catalog shoot this morning, standing the whole time and a million outfit changes, plus I took three classes last night. I think I’m addicted. Today, I finally broke down and bought the punch card Iris’s been pushing for weeks now. It seemed like too big a commitment, buying fifty classes. Like holding that punch card meant officially declaring my return to dance. But now, instead of twenty dollars per class, I’m paying ten. Money is money, and the last thing I want to do is drain my savings.
We finish class with the usual cooldown stretches. I head straight for my bag in the lobby, grabbing my towel and attempting to dry off my sweat-soaked tank top. I’ve got the towel over my face, blocking my view, but I can feel someone behind me, standing and waiting. I drop the towel and spin to face the middle-aged woman who had been eyeing me all evening.
She sticks out a hand. “I’m Lenore Jacobs. Founder of a modern dance company in Manhattan.”
Uh…
I stand there, holding the towel to my chest and not moving.
Lenore laughs and withdraws her hand. “Iris said you would be a tough sell.”
“Tough sell for what?” I crumple the sweaty towel and drop it on top of my bag.
“Auditioning. For my company,” she says. “You’re an incredible dancer. Lots of heart, but no guts. Yet. Which is something I love. I want credit for helping my dancers grow and find that emotional connection to their dancing.”
“Auditioning,” I repeat. “For a company.”
“For my company,” she corrects. “That means I’m in charge. And you’ve already impressed me…”
When I don’t respond—my tongue is literally tied, my brain pulling in multiple directions—she goes on to explain details about the company studio in midtown that they share with a reputable ballet school, the pay, the other dancers, the housing they have if I need it. My head is spinning, but I do catch the part where she says they spend about half the year traveling around the world, performing.
“Touring will be the easiest part. I work my dancers to the ground when we’re not on tour. We rehearse four to six hours a day and spend another hour or two collaborating on choreography and concepts. We’re world famous because of our artistic visions and how we use dance to show aspects of humanity that reach a very wide audience.”
“Don’t let her scare you off with that artistic mumbo jumbo,” Iris says, walking up beside me. “She wants well-trained dancers with the right body type just as much as any company.”
“True,” Lenore says. “But my definition of right body type is a bit broader than the New York City Ballet’s. We want healthy dancers, so we don’t have the same strict rules other companies have. It’s very much a collaborative environment built on trust. If you tell me you need a break, I won’t ever tell you no.”
I can’t quite explain the feeling of both dread and excitement building in me. It’s something unfamiliar, wanting this big thing all for myself. “It sounds amazing,” I finally say to Lenore. “But I’m working on reopening my parents’ studio, and my boyfriend needs help with…”
My voice trails off when Lenore starts shaking her head. “Don’t answer me now.” She hands me a card—the same one Iris gave me after my first class here—and says, “All I’m asking is for you to come and meet my dancers, talk with them, rehearse with them. One day. That’s it.”
Lenore turns to leave before I can tell her no thanks—on purpose, I’m sure. Iris is still standing there looking at me, along with a couple dancers still straggling behind after class. My face heats up.
“What will it hurt to meet her crew?” Iris asks. “Are you afraid you’ll like it too much?”
She leaves me too, abruptly like Lenore. My head is such a jumbled mess when I turn around to exit the building that, at first, I don’t even notice Eddie standing right in front of me. I jump after seeing him. Had he been standing behind me the whole time?
“Hey…” I fumble with the strap of my bag, not looking him in the eye. I called him my boyfriend out loud, didn’t I? Is that okay? I said he needed me. Maybe that was too much. Maybe he didn’t hear me. “What are you doing here?”
“Figured we could walk home together.” He takes the bag from my shoulder and puts it on his. He sounds like his normal self. “Are you hungry? Want to pick up some dinner?”
“I was planning to eat leftover casserole. There’s probably enough for both of us.” I look at him. “But it’s super healthy. Just a warning. Green stuff, lentils, the works.”
Eddie smiles at me. “Free dinner is free dinner.”
By the time we get to my apartment, I’m nearly convinced that he didn’t catch any of that conversation. He seems way too cool and relaxed.
I should be relieved. I can tuck it all away as something cool that happened to me once. But I can’t seem to shake Iris’s accusations that maybe I’m afraid I’ll like it too much. I have daydreamed about performing on a live stage again. But I’ve also fantasized about a studio full of little dancers lined up in front of the mirrors at Belton Academy, bellies sticking out, Care Bear underwear poking out of some of their leotards. Little girls who can’t wait to put on a tutu so Grandma and Grandpa can see them dance in the recital. My parents used to put on the best recitals. We sold tickets to people who didn’t know any dancers in the show.
I shove those thoughts aside and attempt to not look so conflicted.
Summer is sprawled out on the couch, going through the mail, when we walk inside. She’s wearing her bathrobe, her nose is red, and her hair is…well, it’s not perfectly in place.
“Are you sick?” I ask her.
“Allergies,” she answers, topping it off with a sneeze all over the mail. “Eve dropped these off for you and Elana.” She holds out two gold cards with silver cursive writing on the front. “How come I didn’t get an invite to the Guggenheim?”
I glance over the invitation. It’s for a show displaying Janessa Fields’s work and launching her newest book, titled Limbs.
I glance down at the bottom of the invite and see: And featuring work by newcomer Eve Nowakowski from her series titled Hands and Feet.
Before I can figure out why I got invited to this show, my phone rings. Eve.
“Did you get the invitation?” she asks before I even say hello.
“Looking at it now.”
“I was afraid Summer would shred them,” she says. “Okay, so I know it’s all been super secretive, but I want to hang a couple of your photos in the show, and I want you there to see it. What do you think?”
“First of all, aren’t they your photos? And second, that’s amazing! Of course it’s okay—” I freeze, remembering something. “Wait…which photos? The ones with…with—”
“No clothes?” Eve supplies.
I glance around to see if Eddie or Summer heard her through the phone. Summer is now in the kitchen attempting to make tea with the kettle—a disaster waiting to happen. “Yeah. Those.”
“I was hoping to include one,” Eve says. “Or maybe two…”
I can hear the c
oncern in her voice. She’s dying to put her best shots in it, and those might involve me with no clothes. I sigh. “Okay, you have my permission. Guess I won’t be the first nude body to enter the Guggenheim.”
Eddie lifts his eyebrow but stays quiet. Eve squeals on the other end of the line. We end the conversation quickly after I promise to be there Friday night.
“I knew a girl who got desperate and did the nude modeling thing,” Summer says from the kitchen. “She ended up with pics of her and the Brazilian wax she was wearing all over the Internet. She OD’d on heroin three months later.”
“Thanks, Summer. I’ll keep that in mind.” I head into the kitchen and snatch the tea kettle from her. “Sit. Stop trying to cook things, or you’ll start another fire. We haven’t replaced the fire extinguisher from last time.”
She flashes me her sweetest smile and plops down in a kitchen chair. She looks over at Eddie. “Do you have your own drawer yet?”
I turn around long enough to glare at her. I make Summer her tea and then a grilled cheese sandwich to go with it after she begs me and claims she’s too sick to make her usual protein shake. I’m impressed she’s actually going to consume solid foods. Finally, I heat up the container of leftover casserole and bring it to the couch along with a couple forks.
Eddie nods in the direction of Summer’s bedroom and says, “And I thought I was spoiled.”
“No kidding.” I stab a vegetable and blow on it. “She knows all this already though. She’s too far gone to see the error of her ways.”
“What’s the green stuff?” Eddie asks, already chewing his bite.
“I love that you eat it and then ask. Testament to your upbringing. Lots of strange green food. It’s dinosaur kale.”
Eddie leaves his fork in the container and leans his head back against the couch. “You should call that lady, Fin.”
“What lady?”
“The one with the dance company.” He turns his head to look at me, waiting for my reaction.
