Tremor

by Tonya Plank

  I pulled myself out of it and looked at him, realizing he was staring at me wide-eyed. “I’m sorry. Your husband?” His sunglasses were on, as it was still light out, but I could see him eyeing my hand. I’d finally taken off the ring about six months ago. Oh, of course he was confused.

  “I mean my form– I’m widowed.” I was still uncomfortable saying it.

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry,” he said, nearly backing away from me. “I…I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” I knew people didn’t mean they were taking the blame for his death when they offered me their condolences, but the way he backed away from me—as if I were diseased—made me defensive.

  “No, I mean…” He shook his head and put his hands in his back pockets, seeming not to know what to do with them. He didn’t seem to know how to react. This was the first time since I’d met him that words evaded him. I wished I could see his eyes to better interpret what he was thinking. “I just mean, I’m sorry to hear about something like that. So tragic. I mean, so young. How’d it happen? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  I paused.

  “Only if you want to talk about it, of course.”

  “Accident.” I surprised myself by enunciating as well as I had when I’d repeated the name of my cat. “Motorcycle.”

  “Holy shit,” he said. He looked around for a few moments, then returned his gaze to me. “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-three. Same age as me. I mean, as we were back then.” It still seemed like it happened yesterday.

  “Wow,” he said after taking it in. “That’s just…that’s horrible.”

  I nodded. People always said things like that, but he genuinely seemed to take it to heart, as if it somehow personally affected him.

  “Oh, we’re here already.” My eyes followed his to the giant, festive hot air balloon that marked the entrance to the Paris.

  We walked down the long walkway to the entrance. It took a while to get there because the walkway wended along the valet area, which was quite substantial; it was one of the most popular hotels on the Strip. I’d never been inside before, but when Jett opened the door and we walked in, I had to say I was kind of smitten, feeling transported to another world. The ground-level floor housed the casino, and they’d made it up to look like it was night and you were surrounded by twinkling stars. I’d always thought so much about Vegas was cheesy, but this was actually really cool. I then noticed the base of the Eiffel Tower. My mind went back to when Willem and I took a brief trip to France. We’d won our fourth Blackpool in a row and he’d insisted we treat ourselves. So, we stayed in Europe a few extra days and took a little puddle hopper over to the Continent. It was my first time in Paris—well, my only time since I’d never been back—and I was just infatuated with everything. Our last night there, we bought ourselves a mini-picnic and camped out underneath the base of the Tower as the daylight turned to dusk. So beautiful.

  “It’s beautiful, huh?” Jett’s voice brought me sharply back to reality. I was not in Paris, I was in Vegas. I was not with Willem. I was with this…this other guy. Albeit, a rather handsome one who was, at least for now, not being a jerk. I blinked hard, willing away any tears that might be on their way, nodded, and swallowed.

  “It’s my favorite hotel on the Strip,” he continued. “The most authentic, I feel. Sometimes I just like to come here and chill out, you know?” I nodded again. I would come here to chill out as well if I lived here. “Ready to eat?” He looked at his watch—a very expensive-looking one, I might add. “The restaurant’s over here.” He extended his hand to a corner of the huge room. I don’t think I would have even noticed if it hadn’t been pointed out to me. Which, I guess, was part of the attraction.

  “Right this way, Mr. Ridley,” an elegantly-dressed young woman said. She seemed to know Jett, but her tone indicated it wasn’t in a sexual way—surprisingly. Unless she was hiding it? I don’t know why she would have, since no one else here did.

  Ever the gentleman, he pulled my chair out, giving me the seat looking out onto the restaurant, while he took the seat facing me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  One look at the menu verified that this was an extremely pricey place. I was mortified, in fact. Entrees were $50 and up, the cheapest glass of wine was $25. Even appetizers were $30 or more. This guy was a dancer. Dancers didn’t make that much. Not unless you were a famous ballet superstar who performed all over the world or a hugely in-demand ballroom dancer, like Sasha Zakharov, with whom I had a rather amusingly short-lived partnership before Drew. I wondered if Vegas dancers made a lot more. He was the star of this particular show. But, I mean, he wasn’t Britney Spears. Was he just trying to impress me and was this going to make him go broke? Or was someone else paying?

  “You okay?” he asked, his glasses now off. His chocolate brown eyes were dreamy. He looked sincere. My thoughts were getting away from me. I needed to stop worrying and making ridiculous assumptions. It wasn’t like I was marrying the guy. Why did I care how much money he spent?

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I nodded and smiled.

  The waiter brought a basket of bread so warm and fresh I could see steam coming from under the cloth napkin, poured olive oil onto a saucer, and sprinkled some kind of herb over it.

  “Do you have any questions about the menu?”

  Jett looked at me. I shook my head.

  “I know what I want,” I said.

  “To drink, still or sparkling water, Madam?” the waiter asked.

  “Just tap,” I said.

  “Well, how about Evian. If you want still, I mean?” Jett said.

  I shrugged. “Fine with me.” This guy! I thought. We can’t even have regular water!

  “Should we have a bottle of champagne to celebrate your birthday?” Jett’s face was now one excited smile. Like the proverbial boy in a candy store.

  “Ah…” I wasn’t sure what to say. Champagne seemed a little formal and festive, not to mention expensive, for someone you just met.

  “Yeah, we’ll do that,” he said, nodding. “The Veuve Clicquot.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Ridley,” the waiter said.

  I didn’t even have to look at the menu to know that was the most expensive one.

  Jett sat back in his chair, looking satisfied with himself. I gave him a polite smile. I wondered how many women he’d brought here. How many he’d ordered the Veuve Clicquot for. Clearly both the waiter and the hostess knew him.

  “Well,” Jett said, uncovering the bread. “I’m pretty hungry. I fed the dog at home but not myself.” He laughed. “Ladies first.” He motioned for me to take a thick slice. It did look delicious. I broke off a piece and dipped it in the oil mix. The bread was warm and spongey and melted in my mouth.

  “I know, it’s really good, huh?” Jett said.

  I nodded vigorously, mouth full.

  The waiter returned with an ice bucket and our champagne just as a busboy set two chilled glasses and a large bottle of Evian on the table. He popped the cork of the champagne and poured a taste for Jett.

  “Perfecto,” he pronounced.

  The waiter served the champagne in two long-stemmed glasses while we ordered. I went with a plate of gnocchi and a dandelion salad, and Jett ordered the ribeye. “Black caviar as a starter to share?” Jett asked me. “It’s superb. The best you’ll ever have, I promise.” His eyebrows shot up. Again, the boy in the candy store. Albeit, a super expensive candy store.

  “Um…” I was becoming a bit overwhelmed. How much money did this guy have, seriously? I managed to nod and smile politely.

  “Cool,” he said, giving the waiter a thumbs up. “So, here’s to a beautiful girl celebrating her first quarter of a century on this crazy planet. May there be four more equally beautiful quarters to come!” He began raising his glass. “At least. Five, even!” he added when I hesitated.

  I laughed and raised my glass.

  “Ah, fi
nally I get a little laugh out of her!”

  But the second I’d clinked his glass, it returned. My stupid tremor. Why did it have to do this to me now, while the glass was on its way to my lips? I took a breath but it only got worse. The glass was too full. I was going to spill it if my stupid hand didn’t stop shaking. And I didn’t want to do that with such expensive champagne. It was so ridiculous that I couldn’t control this. I was right-handed but I transferred the glass to my left. No such luck. That hand trembled too. And my left hand wasn’t as strong as my right, making spillage even more likely. Ridiculously, I placed both hands on the cup, then moved my head forward, over the table, and took a sip. Just like a child drinking soup, using both hands to hold the bowl. I immediately set the glass down, so thankful it was out of my hands that I couldn’t enjoy the contents at all.

  The tremor was so obvious. Jett totally noticed. There was no way he couldn’t. He looked right at my hands, then into my eyes, a worried look.

  I laughed nervously, but felt like crying. I was such a mess. I really hoped he wouldn’t make me explain. I so didn’t want to go into my problems now.

  “So, I wasn’t clear on what type of dance you do? Ballroom or ballet-style showdances, or both?” He put his glass down as well. Oh good, he was going to ignore my obvious issue.

  “Ballroom. Latin ballroom. Rumba, Cha Cha, Samba, Paso Doble, and Jive,” I added when he looked confused.

  “Oh wow.” He raised his eyebrows. “Sexy.” His lips curved up into a devilish grin that, for some ridiculous reason, sent blood shooting straight to my lower belly. I squirmed. “I just assumed you did, like, the Waltz and all that.”

  I nodded. “I did that before. That’s what I started with when I began teaching. It kind of has the same look as ballet, the same straight frame and all.”

  “Right.” He went to pick up his champagne glass again, then decided to leave it. I wanted to tell him not to avoid drinking because I couldn’t handle picking up my blasted glass. But I didn’t know how to say that.

  “Then I saw some showdancers perform at the studio I was teaching at and knew I needed to do that. It brought me back…well, I’d loved ballet, so it made sense.”

  “Why’d you stop ballet? Boring?”

  “What? No!” How could anyone find ballet boring? I thought. “I just…” But I didn’t want to go into my mother dying of cancer and all. “Do you find it boring?”

  He frowned, then shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mean, there was just so much emphasis on perfection of technique and classical dance with what I felt was a limited vocabulary, there just wasn’t… I don’t know… I felt like there just wasn’t that much to it. I felt like we were never going to really learn how to perform, how to wow an audience.” He certainly excelled at that now. “I wanted to learn more, do more, branch out.”

  But his words “limited vocabulary” kind of sent my back up. “Limited? It’s the basis of all dance.”

  “Well, I mean, not all dance. Not hip hop or popping and locking, and I mean, the dances you now do. Ballet is French. Swing originated out of African dance and Samba is from Afro-Cuban—” We locked eyes. Mine must have been sending daggers because he looked away momentarily and adjusted his posture, along with his line of reasoning.

  “I mean, ballet is extremely helpful for developing solid dance technique, for, you know, the kind of dance that’s performed on a proscenium stage. Don’t get me wrong.”

  “You’ve certainly used your ballet background. Your form was excellent,” I nearly yelled, the anger spiking my tone humorously at odds with my words.

  “Well, thank you for noticing.” He laughed. And now that sly, cocky smile was back. That damn smile! Another wave of electricity went down my spine and ended in the same place as last time. What the hell was that about? I squirmed again.

  The waiter arrived with our salads and the little bowl of caviar, which came with a plate of golden crackers topped with a smidgeon of cream.

  “Mmm.” He moaned, the wicked smile still on his lips. He motioned for me to take a cracker. I took one, and, with the small porcelain spoon, topped it with a tiny bit of the black pearls. Of course the second my fingers touched the spoon, the stupid tremor was back. I made sure I didn’t take much caviar, so as not to spill any. Way, way too expensive. Again, I had to eat two-handed, placing one hand under my fingers clutching the cracker, bringing both to my mouth. Again, I had to lean my head over the table so I wouldn’t spill. Not that I’d ever spilt anything before; it was more the fear of doing so. Particularly now, when everything was so expensive.

  Again, he looked worried but didn’t say anything.

  “So, seems like you loved it so much. What made you leave it?”

  By now I was so consumed with the effort it was taking me not to spill anything, I had to think back to what we’d been talking about.

  “Ballet.” He read my mind and reminded me. “What made you leave ballet?”

  “Oh, right. Um…” I suddenly realized I’d never actually talked about this before. About myself, or my past. I never really dated, if that’s what this even was. And it wasn’t! Willem and I pretty much grew up together from classes onward, so we never had that period of explaining ourselves to each other.

  “I mean, we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. No worries,” he said, apparently sensing my apprehension.

  But I was being ridiculous. “No, it’s okay. I just…well, I’d gotten a scholarship to the School of American Ballet in New York—”

  “Wow. Prestigious,” he said.

  I nodded. He definitely knew the ballet world. But it also made me sad. That had been my dream, and I did have a prestigious start. And then …it slipped away. “Then my mom got sick,” I continued. “I really missed her and didn’t want to be away from her.”

  “Where did she live?”

  “San Pedro, in Southern California.”

  He nodded. “I know it. That’s where you’re from?”

  I nodded. “It was obviously really far away. And, well, I just didn’t want to be that far from her.”

  “Totally understandable. Who would, when you’re so young. I hope your mom is okay?” He said the last part with hesitation.

  I shook my head. “She had a form of fast-growing cancer, so…so, she passed before I could even make a decision to return. Before I really could think.”

  “Jeez. Shit.” He shook his head. His lips were twisted into a grimace. “You’ve lost two people and you’re only twenty-five. Man.” I knew he was trying to be sensitive, understanding, express shock. But somehow he was making me feel I was tainted.

  “Yeah, well… what can you do?” I shrugged. “Life hands you what it hands you, you know?”

  “I guess.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I tried eating another bite of caviar. Now that it was so obvious I was having a problem, I was hyper-conscious of the tremor. I barely got it to my mouth this time.

  “So, did you end up going back to California?”

  “No. I stayed in New York. That’s where Willem was. And he’d helped me through things. He was my family by then.”

  “Willem?”

  “My husband. My…”

  He nodded. “Wow. So you met him in ballet school.” It looked like he was counting years in his head.

  “Yeah, I kind of grew up with him.”

  I took a few bites of salad. My hand shook a bit, but the tremor was far less pronounced than with the caviar spoon and champagne glass. Maybe it was easier because I was using a fork, or maybe because I wasn’t as worried about spilling something expensive. I was happy I could do something without it being an ordeal.

  “Anyway, so what about you?” I said, wanting badly to change the subject. Don’t most guys like talking about themselves anyway?

  “Me. Oh, I came out here three years ago.”

  “From where?”

  “New York.”

  “Oh, you were in New York too. What were you doin
g there?”

  “I was an apprentice with the American Ballet Theatre.”

  Now I did drop my fork. But not because of the tremor. He’d just named the top ballet company in the United States. Arguably in the world. Holy crap! My eyes revealed my obvious shock, because he laughed.

  “Yep, believe it or not. ABT.”

  “What happened?” I picked up my fork again. Fortunately, it had only fallen on my plate. My tremor was gone.

  “Beauty in Motion—the company I’m with now—was on tour out there and I was totally impressed. I auditioned, and…well, the rest is history.” He extended his arms out.

  “So, you left ABT to come here?”

  “Yep,” he said, smugly.

  I truly couldn’t understand how someone could do that. “But, I mean, that’s the most prestigious company in the world—or at least, in the U.S.”

  He shook his head. “I was just bored. It was all classical ballet, as I said. And I was an apprentice, not even on their payroll. No indication I ever would be. They offered me the starring role here. And this stuff was fun!” He looked at me like I was off my nut.

  “But—”

  “And, I told you. I just wanted more out of life, out of a dance life, than ballet,” he snapped. The way he said the word ballet was so derogatory. “And now I have it.” Again, smug.

  He excused himself to go to the restroom. I took the opportunity to down a few more crackers, along with the rest of my glass of champagne. The champagne truly was splendid, so smooth and rich, like liquid gold. Okay, I was secretly glad he’d spent this much on me. I poured myself another glass, then spooned a huge dollop of caviar over a cracker. My hand shook, but less so. I wasn’t as worried about spilling because without Jett there, I could just look like an ass and spoon it all from the tablecloth. I could cover up any spilled champagne with my plate. Mmmm! It felt like the ocean exploding in my mouth. By the time Jett returned to the table, I’d downed my half of the bowl. Scrumptious. And I never did spill.

  “So, you do like the caviar!” Another full-face dimpled grin. He was giddy, like a schoolboy who’d just showed an uber-cool secret hideout to his bestie.