One Last Dance

by Angela Stephens

  “Okay,” she murmured into the quiet apartment. “Okay.” She pulled herself to her feet and yanked open her closet doors. She didn’t even really look at the clothes, she just snatched things off hangers and tossed them toward the suitcase. She dragged open her dresser drawers and began lobbing balled up socks onto the bed.

  She turned back to the bed and froze. The suitcase, still closed, was heaped with clothing. Several of the socks had bounced off onto her night stand. She hiccuped a small sob. Her brain was so scattered she couldn’t even pack right! Think. She had to think. Whirling, she left the ransacked room and hurried to the living room. Where was her purse?

  Sophie found it on the kitchen table, tipped on its side, spilling tissues and change. She stuck her hand inside and tugged her cell phone free of the other detritus. She strode back into the bedroom as Darren picked up. “Hey, Soph. Need more fashion advice for your next media date with Mr. Medina?”

  Henry’s name was a knife to the heart. “You need to open the studio in the morning.”

  “Oh. Kay. Are you going to be late?” Darren’s words were faltering. Her voice had come out harsher than she’d intended, but her throat was raw from holding in sobs.

  “I’m... I’m going away for a few days. But we have to re-open. We can’t afford to stay closed any longer.”

  Sophie rubbed at her forehead. She could feel Darren frowning at her over the phone.

  “What do you mean you’re ‘going away’? This is not a good time, Soph. We’ve had more cancellations—”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’ll die down. We have to open. And I need to be... somewhere else.” Somewhere far enough from Henry Medina that she could get her head on straight. Figure out her next move.

  “That’s just it. I had two calls last night from professionals. They both said they heard rumors the ‘relationship’ thing is a cover up. It’s not going away. We might need to scale back on some—”

  “Fine. We will. If that’s what you think then... We’ll talk about it when I get back.” She strode into her room and popped the heavy suitcase open, tossing the clothes haphazardly inside.

  Darren sighed. “Where are you going? Sophie, talk to me. What’s going on?”

  The suitcase wouldn’t latch over the mound of unfolded clothing. Sophie shoved at it, grunting in frustration. Why did everything have to be difficult right now? “I didn’t expect him to tell everything,” she blurted. “Not everything. But she’s his ex. That seems pretty relevant to me. To hear it from her... And he told her! I just... I can’t even deal with that.”

  She was babbling. She tried to reign in her tongue but it was running away from her. On the other end of the line, Darren’s chair scraped across the floor.

  “Is this about Henry? What happened?” His voice was sharper than she could ever remember it being. She scrubbed at her tear-stained cheeks. Ridiculous. Darren couldn’t see her.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. I’m just...” Inspiration struck. “I’m just going to visit my parents for a day or two. That’s all.” The lid of the suitcase finally came down far enough for her to twist the clasp into place. She felt a spurt of triumph at the small victory.

  “Soph, honey. You need to talk to me. We can wait on discussing cutting back on classes, if you want. But if something else is going on here, you can tell me.” Darren’s voice was laced with a tinge of genuine anxiety. Sophie’s heart ached with the sound. He was such a good friend. But she just couldn’t talk about it. Not yet. Maybe in a few days.

  Henry’s warm voice murmuring “Dolce amore, Dio, che me si bruciano!” echoed through her head. She had no idea what it meant, but the passionate syllables had seared themselves into her brain. Sophie’s heart twanged. Maybe more than a few days.

  “It’s fine, Dar. I swear, everything’s fine. We’ll figure this whole thing out in a few days. I promise. I just need to go... now.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. She had to get off the phone quick or she’d burst into tears again and Darren would be over here in the blink of an eye. His gaze would be sympathetic, but the “I told you so” would be lurking in the back of it. And even if it wasn’t, she just couldn’t handle any of it right now.

  “Okay, Soph.” It was anything but okay. The words were resigned but heavy with dread. “Call me when you get in.”

  “Promise,” she murmured again, and hung up before he could say anything else. She was out the apartment door a minute later with barely a backward glance.

  ***

  The drive was slightly less than three hours long. It was nearly six in the evening when she pulled up to her parent’s house, the sky that purplish-blue it got just before true dark. The sight of the yellow clapboard made Sophie feel both anxious and comforted at the same time. The white trim was peeling a little, she saw as she climbed from the car and stretched her legs. There were no other cars in the driveway. Her parents were both out.

  Sophie knew her dad would still be at work. In the spring and summer he worked until last light, and then he had to clean up his tools before heading home. Her mother could be at any number of places. Teresa Becker had taken early retirement the year before, but she was unable to just sit around the house. She volunteered with half a dozen local groups. She was almost busier now than when she’d been at the bank, according to Sophie’s father.

  She was actually glad no one was home. It gave her a little time to prepare. Sophie had made the decision so hastily, and followed it with such a rapid departure, that she hadn’t really considered what her parents were going to think when she just showed up on their doorstep out of the blue. Not that they wouldn’t be happy to see her. She knew they would be. But there would be questions, and she’d left the city to avoid answering them.

  “Home, sweet home,” she murmured, hauling her suitcase from the back seat. Sophie wasn’t surprised to find the front door unlocked.

  “What’s the point?” her mother always said, with a shrug. “No one is coming out this far to rob us, and if they did, a twist lock is hardly going to hold them.” And in all the years they’d lived in the house, since Sophie was five, they’d never had a break-in. It had taken some getting used to when she moved to the city and had to remember to lock up everything.

  But now she was glad her parents didn’t. She pushed open the front door and trudged up the stairs to the second floor, the big, ugly suitcase bumping against her shins as she climbed the stairs. Her room was farthest from the top of the stairs, under the eaves, and still looked almost exactly as it had the day she’d moved out to go to college. Her posters had come down, and the little knick-knacks, ribbons, jewelry and other scraps of things that indicated a room was inhabited were gone. But the wallpaper, a pale cream decorated with curling green vines and tiny pink roses, was still the same. Her single bed with the rose covered comforter was still under the window.

  The dresser top was covered in picture frames. There was one of Sophie at age nine at her birthday party, a pile of brightly wrapped presents on the floor in front of her. She was holding up a pair of ballet slippers and beaming, missing front tooth and all. Another showed her and a girl named Gabrielle, who’d been her best friend in grade school before she’d moved to Oregon, with their arms around each other. It had been taken at the school talent show, Sophie remembered. They wore poodle skirts and saddle shoes and grinned at the camera.

  They’d done a medley of dances from the 1960’s, the Twist, the Madison, the Watusi. It had been so much fun, even though they’d come in third. Sophie set her suitcase against the dresser, kicked off her sneakers, and collapsed onto the bed. For several long minutes, she just lay there, breathing in the slightly floral smell of the detergent her mother used to wash the sheets, and the soft scent of dust and old wood. She felt a small ball of warmth in her stomach, easing some of the anxiety coiled there.

  Whatever else was going on in the world, here, she belonged. She was safe and loved. Sophie exhaled a long breath. She pushed herself up from the bed and headed back downs
tairs. She’d raid the kitchen and see about starting dinner for her mother and father. Though she still wasn’t entirely sure what she was going to tell them, everything went better with a home cooked meal.

  It was the pictures on the stairway wall that caught her up. She should have just kept going, but one drew her eye and then she couldn’t look away. It was a shot of her and Christian, from the first competition they’d won. One of the photographers covering the event had snapped it, and she’d gotten a copy and sent it to her parents, glowing with pride over her first win.

  She raised trembling fingers to the frame and traced the graceful curve of her back. The dress was shocking red, all spandex and sequins, clinging to every slim line of her arms and torso and then flaring dramatically out just below her hips. Her dark hair was slicked back in a shining bun, red paste jewels glittering there and on her cheeks. Christian bent low over her, his blond hair gleaming in the spotlight, his sleekly muscled body cradling hers, one arm swept high in a dramatic arc. Their eyes were locked on each other.

  They hadn’t been together yet at that point, but the heat had been there already. She could recall the vibrating tension in Christian’s frame every time they’d touched, the way they’d end every dance panting with exertion and speechless. There had been so many times she’d wanted to throw herself onto him. But she hadn’t, because she’d known what Christian Navarro was like. She’d watched him work his way through almost every female in their company before they’d left for competitions.

  “He got to you eventually though, didn’t he?” she asked her younger self softly. He’d worn down her resistance and she’d finally given in. She’d let him into her heart and he’d strode over it like a stepping stone and moved on. The worst part was, she couldn’t even really be surprised.

  It’s not as if that had been the first time Christian had ignored her needs for his own. He had often been dismissive of her feelings, or even downright cruel. Any time she gained even a pound, he was quick to point it out and take her to task. She’d always brushed it off as him caring about their career as dancers, but the comments were cutting.

  He’d stayed with her longer, but in the end he’d left her just like he left all the women before her... weeping and broken-hearted. Sophie squeezed her eyes closed, blocking out the glossy images of her and Christian on the dance floor, her and Christian at a banquet. Christian had abandoned her. And what had she done?

  She’d run home. Wounded in both body and heart, she’d slunk here to lick her wounds in private. This was getting to be a pattern. Meet a man who swept her off her feet on the dance floor, let herself be vulnerable to him, have her heart trampled, flee home. A mirthless chuckle trickled out of Sophie’s throat. Fresh tears stung her eyes.

  Sophie quickly palmed her eyes, swiping at the tears before they could fall, as the front door swung open. Her father strode in, wide grin splitting his beard in half. It was more salt than pepper these days, but the ever present facial scruff had been part of her father since she was a little girl. The sight made her trembling heart ease a little.

  “There’s my girl!” he cried, eyes crinkling at the corners as he spotted her on the stairs. They were grey, just like hers. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw the Toyota out there. What you doing up here, sweet pea?”

  She flew into her father’s arms, pressing her slender frame against his bulky body. For a moment she just reveled in the warmth and familiarity of him. He smelled the way he always did. Like sawdust and paint thinner and a light sweat. “Hi, daddy,” she murmured against his shoulder. “I uh...” Damn it, she’d forgotten to come up with a cover story! “We had a gas leak! At the studio. It’s okay, they’re fixing it. But we had to close down for a couple days. So... I figured I’d come visit my favorite parents.” She forced her lips to curve upward as she pulled back from his tight embrace.

  “A gas leak? You make sure they check--”

  “Dad,” she drawled, chuckling. “I’ve got it under control.” She hardly needed to send him into an occupational rant. He’d probably end up talking himself into going down to the City to check it out himself if she wasn’t careful. Still, just being in her father’s presence eased some of the tension coiling within her.

  He pressed a kiss to her head. “Sure you do, pumpkin. Sorry. Force of habit.” He patted her shoulder. “Why don’t you let your old man get washed up and then we’ll see about getting dinner started. Your mom’s at the library tonight until seven thirty.”

  “Sounds good, dad. Sounds real good.” She gave him another brief squeeze before stepping out of his way. He climbed the stairs halfway before pausing. Sophie bit her lip as she realized she’d knocked the picture of her and Christian slightly askew. Her dad set it right.

  “Geez, remember that, sweet pea? You were what? Eighteen? Your mom and I were so proud of you.”

  Sophie pressed her fingers to her lips to hold in the sob that bubbled up in her throat. Luckily, her dad didn’t seem to require a response. He tromped up the stairs to get his shower, leaving her to squeeze her eyes shut against the dagger of pain in her chest. Tears leaked out from beneath her lids, despite her best attempts to keep them back. She spun on her heel and strode into the kitchen, desperate to get away from the reminders of her past.

  But they were here too, arranged on a little wooden shelf above the counter. Shot glasses. She’d gotten one at every airport she’d flown into or out of. Any one that had a gift shop, anyway. Keepsakes for her parents, more permanent that postcards. And something of a joke, since neither of her parents drank so much as beer.

  “Get yourself together, Becker. They’re just shot glasses.” The muttered admonishment didn’t do much to calm her, but the clank of the pipes as her dad turned off the shower did. She wiped her face free of tears again and pulled open the freezer. Her parents could usually be counted on to have a Ziploc bag of frozen homemade spaghetti sauce in there.

  Sure enough, crammed between a carton of Breyer’s vanilla bean and a bag of peas, she found the frozen sauce. She had it in a pan on the stove and was chopping an onion when her dad came downstairs. Now, at least, she had an excuse for the tears.

  “Mom had some meat defrosted,” she said without glancing up. “Figured we could do spaghetti and meatballs.”

  Her dad rubbed her shoulder. “Sounds like just the thing, sweet pea.” He puttered over to the fridge, his hair still damp and mussed, and began rummaging around inside.

  “So,” Sophie began, sliding the diced onions into a bowl on the counter. “How’s work?” If there was one surefire way to keep her father from asking anything about her and why she was here, it was to ask him about work. Construction in upstate New York was fraught with issues, weather being one of the biggest. Especially in the spring, when it could go from eighty degrees and sunny one day to snow within the week.

  “Oh, well, Fred’s got this notion that we can somehow get around building code on the window he wants to put in.” Her father poured himself a glass of juice and leaned against the kitchen doorway as he continued to regale her with tales of his current client, who apparently thought that laws were secondary to his aesthetics.

  Sophie made the meatballs and listened to his stories, laughing in all the right places. It felt good to be home. Safe and warm. Perhaps it was pathetic that she still needed to run to Mommy and Daddy when something bad happened, but shouldn’t she feel blessed that she had a home she could run to? She’d think of it that way, instead.

  “Well, goodness,” her mother said from the doorway. “If I’d have known we were having company, I would have shooed out that Grant kid earlier. He was just looking at the anatomical drawings in the medical texts, the little pervert.”

  “Hey, don’t judge, Rennie. He might be a doctor someday.” Her father leaned over to brush a kiss on her mother’s cheek.

  Rennie Becker squeezed her husband’s arm. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” She set her purse on the table and crossed the kitchen in two long legged strides
. When it came to the gene pool, Sophie had been lucky to get her mother’s legs. Her father’s side of the family was all stocky and graceless. He’d be the first to say so. Her mom was willowy and elegant.

  “Hey baby,” Rennie said now, wrapping an arm around Sophie’s shoulders and giving her a light hug.

  “What’re you doing home?” Sophie leaned into her mother’s side as she kneaded the meat and spices to make meatballs.

  “Oh, um. Gas leak at the studio. It’s going to take a few days to fix.”

  Her mother studied her face with calm shrewdness, one dark brow quirked slightly upward. Sophie’s heart dipped a little. Had her mother seen the news? Maybe one of the town busybodies had said something. Sophie’s fingers tightened in the goopy meat mixture. But after a long moment, her mother nodded. “Well, I’m glad to see you.” She brushed a quick kiss on Sophie’s cheek and turned back to her husband.

  “Come on and help me set the table, Jim. It’ll go quicker with two sets of hands.”

  “Slave driver.” The grumble was good natured. He pushed away from the wall and began rummaging in the drawer, pulling out utensils.

  Sophie tried to relax into warm, happy atmosphere her parents created wherever they went. She listened to her mother joke about the old ladies on the library board and their weeks long debate about the suitability of carrying the Harry Potter novels while she boiled the pasta and stirred the sauce. She watched her father’s facial expressions while he talked about the new kid on his crew while she browned the meatballs.

  She felt as if she’d retreated into a shell, like a turtle. Things inside were pleasant and warm and comfortable. But she knew just outside the thin crust of protective layering, the world was cold and brutal. She caught her mother watching her while they ate, but as long as the conversation remained focused on them, Sophie was able to laugh and joke. She hardly thought about Henry at all.