by Joey Bush
“I know what a marvelous dancer you are, but I’ve never seen you. Mel talked about you so much, really. I knew you were a great dancer even before I knew you—” He paused. “And, anyway. Perhaps you could go just as—just as my friend? I know you don’t think of me as anything else.” He scuffed his fine shoe into the grimy apartment floor.
I considered this, turning my head left to right. “Dancing as friends?”
He nodded, his eyes sparkling. He knew he had me; he knew he’d already caught me in his trap.
“I’ll go with you to the dumb benefit,” I answered him. “I’ll go with you. But you cannot assume I’m anything other than your friend.” And with that, I finally found the energy to pulse the key through the lock, to enter into my private world of tea bags and fuzzy cats. I slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. What the hell had I gotten myself into again?
But the rest of the night I laid back on the couch languidly, taking long sips of the herbal tea and dreaming non-stop about Drew’s smile—how when it was directed to me, I felt a stirring in my gut, a need in my mind. I needed his body over mine in so many ways; I needed the strength of his arms to see me through.
CHAPTER FIVE
The benefit wasn’t until Saturday, and the next day was a Wednesday—leaving me many more days of daydreaming. During the morning hours, I created a series of spreadsheets outlining the funds I would need in order to pay for the new dance studio. I further understood how much I would need to ask for in a loan. I had never asked for a loan before, not even for school. The dance program had paid for everything. But here, things were different. I couldn’t make a single false step.
I tucked my financial information into my coat pocket and fed Boomer before heading out into the world. I grabbed a cup of coffee at the local bagel and coffee shoppe, noting how adult and professional I felt with the smell of coffee emanating from my fingers, from my breath.
The bank was on the outskirts of Wicker Park, closer to downtown. I put my head down against the wind and forced myself to walk all the way there instead of taking the train. I knew it would clear my head.
No bell jangled when I pushed open the bank door. The bank felt so sanitized, much more like a hospital than anything else. All the tellers’ eyes were on me as I walked toward the front hesitantly. I hadn’t spent much time in banks before, and so often, the smell of them reminded me of being a young girl, waiting in line with my mother, hoping only for the free candy at the end.
“Can I help you?” one of the tellers asked. She was a young, rather chubby woman wearing a blue dress.
“I’d like to ask for a loan,” I murmured, sending the financial information her way across the counter.
She paused, peering down at the intricate spreadsheets. “All right,” she said hesitantly. “Everything seems in order. We’ll send you to the loan offices down the hall.” She stamped a particular piece of paper and asked me to sign it with all of my information. I nodded at her and accepted the crisp sheet, turning toward the back room and following my shaking feet.
At the loan offices I sat with my leg crossed over the other, nodding and shaking my head at questions the loan officer asked me. I felt so earnestly nervous, so certain that the loan wouldn’t go through. I tried to explain my predicament to him. “So. I found this wonderful new dance studio. I just need a bit more money to get the ball rolling. But after that, I know exactly how much to charge, how many people I need to have in order to break even, and also to make a profit. Which would be really incredible.” I nodded, tapping at the paper before me.
But this was uninteresting to the loan officer before me. He simply explained the intricacies of what would happen if I didn’t pay for the bills, if I didn’t ultimately pay back the loan. He explained how the interest racked up over the months, making it even more difficult to pay it back. My heart felt desolate in my chest as I listened to his words strumming across my brain. Why was it so difficult to do everything? Why was it so difficult to be a real person?
But I grinned. I gripped hard to my hope that everything would be okay. I signed papers that day for a loan—one that allowed me to make a down payment on the new studio. I looked down at the paper—at this beacon of hope, at this representation of my dreams—and nearly felt tears fall down my face. I looked at the loan officer as if there had been some sort of mistake. “Are you sure? Are you sure you want to approve me?”
But the loan officer simply yelled out to his secretary, a rather pudgy woman whose legs forced her body to waddle as she churned from his office to her chair, over and over again throughout the day. “NEXT.”
I scurried from the office, eager to tell someone—anyone—about the loan. I called Mel. On the other line, she seemed distracted but eager to listen. She was holding Jackson, and I could hear the way his lips bumbled together as he spoke nonsensical, one-year-old words. “That’s so great, Molly! I always knew you could do it!” I pictured her with spit-up on her shoulder, and I grinned—knowing always that this was what she wanted. This was the life she had chosen.
I hopped along to my apartment, feeling like everything was coming together. As I walked down the hall, I yearned for Drew to come bursting out of his apartment, to say sorry once more. But I knew I needed to wait to see him until Saturday. I realized that I missed simply having someone to talk to—someone around. My tireless existence in my sad-sack apartment was getting rather lonely.
CHAPTER SIX
The next few days went rather smoothly. I made the appropriate calls to the woman, Carol, who owned the studio above The Goat Pub. I couldn’t wait to get into the studio and get my hands dirty, make it what it needed to be. It was October, and with the loan money I had received I assumed I wouldn’t have to rush into anything. I could wait until the end of the holiday season to begin having dance classes again, if I wanted to. Start at a good time, a good place. A new year. I hummed as I worked over the spreadsheets, thinking about all the new routines I could show the girls. Maybe I could even introduce a hip hop class? A tap class? Burst beyond the realms of ballet, of old-fashioned Tchaikovsky?
The morning of the benefit, I woke early and went running by the lake. I had felt my muscles begin to tone up during the previous few weeks. I assumed it was my serious distraction. I hadn’t been eating as much; I’d been so focused on my future, on making my life work. I looked at myself naked in the mirror, admiring the feminine way my body arched, my waist cinched. I admired my still-large breasts as they sat, pearly-white, atop my chest.
I parsed through my outfits, attempting to find the perfect dress for the evening. I felt the fabrics; I tried on several in front of the mirror, noting the way my slim shoulders arced in all the right ways as I turned this way, then that. I was going to look good out on that dance floor that evening, I knew. I was going to look fabulous.
Finally, I decided upon a dark maroon dress—one I hadn’t worn in years, one I had hardly ever worn. The neckline lurched down over my breasts, and the back was lace, allowing my taut back muscles to be seen. I stepped into high heels, attempting to practice dancing in them a bit over my sad wooden floor. Boomer looked at me with vague curiosity. What the hell was I doing?
I prepared my make-up perfectly, smearing rouge over my face, and giving myself a bit of lipstick—just enough to make me look sophisticated, fit for a benefit. I imagined the types of people who attended benefits; old women and men with millions, their sons and daughters with millions in equal measure. I had to look like them, to seem like them. I would never be like them, of course; I had too much passion, too much love for art, for dance, to ever sell my soul to any sort of money god.
Five minutes before he was meant to, Drew knocked on my door. I was staring at myself in the mirror, and I watched as my face took on a sort of stressed expression. I sighed deeply, attempting to release my anxiety. It was going to be fine, I told myself. Drew and I were simply going as friends, and certainly he would respect that. He had to. I wouldn’t let him acce
pt anything else.
I walked toward the door and flung it open, revealing my glorious dress and curly hair. My posture was perfect, holding my breasts high into the air.
Drew looked stunning as well. He was wearing a tuxedo, and his hair was glossed over to the side to reveal a perfect, far-left part. He smirked at me, eyeing my dress, my body. He brought out his elbow, offering it to me to take. “My lady. My friend. May I escort you to the ball?”
I wanted to play his games; it was all I wanted, in that moment. I swung my hand back and grasped my handbag. I dipped my arm into his elbow, nodding in a sophisticated manner. “Oh, darling. My dear. I shan’t go anywhere without you.” I laughed in spite of myself. I couldn’t help it.
Drew cackled for a moment before leading us to the stairwell, where we necessarily had to part and waft our way down, my heels clacking and echoing.
Outside the apartment building sat the Porsche—the stunning car that had taken us to Mel’s place all those evenings before. Before I had known so much. I turned my neck gracefully toward Drew, eyeing his movements. He sent his arm languidly through the air, grasping the handle of the door and pulling at it. “My lady,” he sighed, bowing to me.
I settled into the seat and waited for him on the other side. He fell into the driver’s seat and revved the engine, speeding off into the Saturday Night Chicago World. My head flung back on the seat, and my eyes scanned the horizon and the flashing lights. It had been so long since I’d felt the world rush around me like this. I kept my lips together and simply allowed the feeling to fall over me.
The benefit was downtown at the McCormick Place. The glass of the beautiful building sparkled in the stunning nightlights. As we pulled up to the convention center, a valet driver approached the car. He opened my door and offered me his hand, escorting me from the illustrious Porsche. I watched as the valet’s eyes lurked over the car with fits of jealousy. “My lady. You are looking very beautiful tonight,” he murmured toward me, his eyes still on the car.
Drew pushed himself from the car and tossed the keys to the valet. “Be safe with her,” he spewed, handing the valet a tip casually beneath the waist.
The valet accepted and leaped into the car, whisking it away to some unforeseen location. I looked up at Drew with a sense of wonder. All around us, the most beautiful people in the world were walking toward the convention center where the benefit was held. Women in long dresses; men wearing tuxedos. Everyone was a different age, a different size. They all were sparkling with diamonds and pearls. Their smiles were fake and bright, and their skin was perfectly botoxed and tight. I shuddered, looking at the deep wealth that flitted around me.
As we entered the convention center, I heard the whir of string instruments and the lilting of a piano. I clutched Drew’s hand with the passion of it. He laughed. “I knew you’d like the music. Chicago Orchestra.” He nodded toward them, all hundred of them, in their position off to the side of the large dance floor.
My heart began to race. We stepped toward the bar, eyeing the beautiful people as they spun, as they clutched each other’s hands and danced to the electrifying music that emanated through the beautiful hall. “Have you ever seen anything more extraordinary,” I whispered to Drew like a child. He handed me a glass of champagne, and the bubbles wafted over the top.
We clinked our glasses together, and I steadied myself from my excitement.
“To being friends,” Drew murmured, eyeing me deeply. I could tell from his eyes, that he longed to be much more than friends. Much more than friends, indeed.
But I agreed with him, reminding myself that the man before me had nearly ruined my life, taken the only good thing about my life. I scratched the side of my face casually, feeling the cakes of make-up I had applied. I blinked. “I don’t suppose you want to dance, do you?” I asked him. I felt assured he wouldn’t agree to it. Certainly, he had a strong, supple body—and I knew he knew how to use it, at least in the bedroom. But, in my experience, men like him didn’t dance. They didn’t make it their mission to dance. He was a corporate man with corporate money. Music and dancing and the liveliness of it all weren’t exactly in his repertoire.
But he surprised me.
“You know. I’d love to dance.” His eyes didn’t disconnect with mine. We held a tight connection as we tipped our heads back, absorbing the comfortable drunk of the bubbles.
When we finished our drinks, he held out his hand and I accepted it, feeling the tiny vibrations between us. He whirred me out onto the dance floor and tucked his hand behind my back, low, against my ass. I felt his fingers tighten for a short moment against my skin, and my heart raced.
The strings began once more—a rather fast piece. He began spinning me around, dancing with tight, specific steps. I looked down at his feet as I followed his lead, shocked. “Wow. You know what you’re doing!” I laughed. My eyes were bright, happy.
He nodded, laughing along with me. He spun me in a circle, forcing everyone to look our way. On the dance floor I realized, we were the only dancers who knew what we were doing. It had been so long since I had been watched as I danced, as I used my body to formulate a sort of song alongside the music. I grinned. During a great crescendo, Drew picked me up in the air, and I allowed my body to lengthen, to stride out into a beautiful, romantic pose above everyone’s heads. I felt Drew’s fingers beneath me, holding me steady. The entire crowd burst into a sea of applause.
After a few moments, Drew spun me back down and I looked at him—nearly flustered. “What the hell?” I asked him, so curious.
“My mother had me take dance lessons, actually. You thought you were the only dancer here, didn’t you?” Drew smirked at me once more. A small tuft of his hair had come undone from all the dancing, all the energy. I didn’t want to fix it. I wanted proof that it had happened.
“Well. You’re quite good,” I replied. The song had descended into a slow, romantic song. We began to weave back and forth, holding each other’s eyes. “Have you considered picking it back up again?”
He shook his head. “Men in my line of work don’t tend to take dance too seriously. Of course, I do. I grew up with Mel, as you know.”
“Your aunt,” I teased him. “Who is younger than you.”
He threw his head back. “We have a crazy family, it’s true,” he murmured. He allowed me to spin out and back into his body. I felt the heat emanating from his strong, muscled chest. “A crazy family of dancing, of laughter, of love. It’s quite beautiful. I wish you could meet all of them.”
I beamed my head this way, then that. “You wouldn’t want to meet my family.” I thought of my mother, honed with such anger, such resentment back in her Indianapolis home. She was waiting for my failure, for my phone call demanding money—anything. But I wouldn’t give it to her.
Sensing a bit of sadness in me, Drew led me from the dance floor and ordered us more drinks. He spent the rest of the evening distracting me; from my money problems, from my loan. He made jokes and sang songs; he spun me in circles in the spotlight, making everyone notice. “Who is that stunning man and woman out on the floor, dancing so beautifully?” so many people wondered.
I had never been such a Cinderella; I had never been so envied, so hated by the most beautiful, richest people of Chicago. Feeling their eyes trace my slim frame, my strong arms, I felt electric—like the rush of the strings from the orchestra. I felt like nothing was impossible.
We stayed deep into the night. Before we left, I noted that Drew had to make a donation. I watched as he wrote the check, but I couldn’t quite make out how much he had donated. Quite a bit, I was sure. I watched as the elderly woman he handed the check to nod at it with approval, bringing her white, stark eyebrow high over her eagle eye.
Drew placed his hand on my lower back, leading me away from the dying party. I could still hear the strings playing, but the fingers, the arms of the musicians were tired, lackluster. My feet ached. As we flung ourselves into the front seat of the Porsche, I removed the
shoes, feeling the way my feet throbbed in their freedom. I leaned my head back against the seat, loving the rushing street lamps, hearing the city as it went to sleep.
Drew helped me up the steps to our separate apartments, taking me step by step. I could feel the champagne coursing in my veins, and the drunkenness was putting me to sleep. When we reached our floor, I stood by my doorway, looking up at him with earnest doe-eyes. I longed to invite him in in that moment. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew the world we had just visited together was his world, and this grim apartment—this sad-sack place around us—was my world. I couldn’t enter into his permanently, and he couldn’t stay in mine forever, either.
Suddenly, he leaned his face toward mine, bringing his lips closer and closer. I lifted my fingers above my lips, halting him with a small whisper, “Don’t.”
He reared back, his eyes a bit hurt. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I apologize. I realize this was just a friendly encounter between two friends.” His eyes swept from left to right. He leaned toward me again. “But I have to say, it was one of the best nights—between friends—that I’ve ever had.”
My heart hummed with this knowledge. I slipped my key in the lock before he stopped me one final time.
“One more thing,” he murmured. “Do you want to go on another not-date with me, perhaps next weekend?”
I raised my eyebrow, feeling exhaustion take hold of me from the continuous night of play, of dance. “Next weekend?”
“A weekend trip, actually. Just one night. Not a date, of course.”
I nodded, feeling the information parse through my brain. He had taken me on so many adventures so far; the Cub’s game, bungee jumping, and dancing at the benefit. What harm would one more night do? Especially if he knew we were just friends? He could behave. And so could I. “All right. Just one more night,” I answered.
