This Is 35

by Stacey Wiedower

  Evangeline wore an emerald green blouse and black, tapered pants, not the Dirty Dancing-esque flowy dress Erin might have expected. Her shoes, though, were metallic bronze, strappy, with thin, graceful heels that made Erin's bridesmaid castoffs look even clunkier. She felt another pang of longing for Sherri's fashion expertise. She wished she'd called her days ago to get advice.

  "It's nice to meet you," Erin said. "I, um, I hate to say this, but my husband, Ben, isn't going to make it tonight. I'm afraid we may need to reschedule the lesson." She'd never attempted ballroom dancing, but she was pretty sure a male lead was an integral part of the experience. After talking to Ben, she'd figured she'd be dancing with the teacher.

  "Oh," Evangeline exclaimed, her full lips forming around the word. "Well…" She glanced around as if a spare dance partner might be loitering in the studio.

  Erin was surprised to hear new footsteps, and a short, muscled guy with gelled blond hair appeared around the doorframe, like he'd been beamed in for the purpose.

  "I've set up in that back right corner," he said, directing his words at Leo. "Oh, sorry," he continued, noticing the two women. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

  "No problem," Leo replied. "You've got a crew coming, right?"

  The man nodded. "Should have been here by now, but they texted and said they were running late."

  "Well," Evangeline said again. "Should we tell them not to come?"

  Blond guy's eyes widened as Leo said, "Not necessary. I'll fill in."

  Erin had watched all of this play out as if she weren't involved. But at Leo's words she glanced up in shock. "You will not fill in."

  He shrugged. "You don't have much choice if you want this in the show."

  "Sure, I have a choice. I can reschedule the lesson." She turned to Evangeline and blond guy. "I'm really sorry for the inconvenience, but I'll need to do this when my husband can be here."

  Leo guffawed. "Which might be never."

  Erin turned to glare at him, but he continued unfazed. "What's the big deal? I'll be your dance partner. I took lessons when I was living in Brazil. I'm no whiz at the fox-trot, but I can tango like nobody's business."

  She huffed out a laugh. "Of course you did." She shook her head firmly. "No."

  Even as she said it, she felt herself giving in a little. It wasn't like it'd be easy to coordinate the empty studio, the instructor, Leo's crew, and Ben's work schedule for a second attempt. If Leo didn't dance with her, who would? Blond camera guy? His sound guy who wasn't even there yet? She was in a tough spot, and Leo knew it.

  "No," she repeated, but her voice wavered.

  Leo's eyes glimmered with triumph as Erin grasped at straws.

  "Why do you want to do this? It's not in your job description to fill in. You're not even supposed to go on camera."

  "You need a partner. I'm just saying I'm here, and I'm a perfectly capable dance partner."

  Erin shot him a look like he was missing something obvious. "You're producing the segment. How do you propose working behind the camera and in front of it?"

  He gestured to blond guy. "Jeff's bringing extra crew," he said.

  Jeff. Blond Guy Jeff now seemed like a coconspirator.

  Dread pitted in Erin's stomach. She'd liked Leo when they'd started working together, but ever since the night outside the cooking school, his presence had made her tense. She couldn't even pinpoint why since she was sure she'd misconstrued what he'd said about Ben and the climb.

  Erin shook her head slowly. "I want to wait for Ben." She glanced at Evangeline for support. "I'd originally scheduled another class for Tuesday night. We won't be able to shoot that one because we're on a tight time frame, but do you think we can reschedule tonight's lesson for sometime this weekend? I'll need to check with my husband, but I can be free to do it whenever you have an opening."

  Evangeline started to speak, but Leo cut her off.

  "I'm leaving for Boston in the morning," he said. "My schedule's zipped up for the rest of the shoot. I don't think I can get back here before filming wraps at the end of the month."

  Erin's jaw went slack. "In the morning? I thought you were here through Monday."

  He shook his head, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Things worked out too tight for me to stay more than a day."

  Erin's eyes wheeled to Evangeline again. "I'm sorry we don't have this together."

  Evangeline shrugged. "It's no problem for me. We could set it up for another night. I'm booked for the rest of the weekend, but we have three other instructors, or I'm sure I could reschedule a lesson to fit in another private class." She looked at Leo, her dark eyes questioning. "Or, if you must film the lesson tonight, he does look like he'd make a fine partner."

  Had Erin imagined it, or did that last sentence contain a double entendre? Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at Leo. She felt none of the attraction Evangeline and pretty much every other woman she'd seen near him seemed to feel for him. All she felt was annoyance.

  He's really not all that. Erin's gaze swept him from head to toe, taking in his close-cropped dark hair, laughing blue eyes, ever-present stubble, and muscular chest fitted into a snug black polo shirt, continuing down to dark wash, straight-leg jeans and matte black dress shoes. He looked as if he was dressed for…a dance lesson.

  Dress shoes? Erin's eyes narrowed. She'd never seen him in anything but sneakers.

  "I guess I have no choice," she said, her voice dull.

  Both Leo and Evangeline laughed.

  Erin frowned but followed Evangeline's clicking heels into the cavernous ballroom, which seemed vastly out of place in the bland, glass-fronted strip center. Leo and Jeff got to work setting up equipment and discussing angles, and meanwhile Jeff's crew arrived—a camera operator whose name Erin didn't catch, a slight, dark-skinned sound guy named Gustavo, and another muscled blond whose main distinction from Jeff was that he had more tattoos. His left arm was covered from bicep to wrist.

  While that happened, Erin discussed the lesson with Evangeline, learning from her instructor which dances would translate best on camera and settling on a classic waltz. By the time the dancing and filming started, her frustration had smoldered into a scorching, angry lick of flame. It flared hotter the first time Leo placed his large, warm hand on her waist, but it wasn't Leo she was angry with—it was Ben. He'd literally forced her into another man's arms.

  Thankfully she couldn't dwell on these feelings as she concentrated on learning the steps, but they resurged each time Leo's strong, solid hands found the curve of her waist, slid the length of her arms, traced a sultry path to the small of her back. One, two, three. Slow, fast, slow. A slight lingering of his fingers in hers. One, two, three. One, two, three. A brush of hot skin along the line of her shoulders. Fast, fast, slow.

  It was maddening, primarily because she never lost consciousness of the cameras trained on her as she usually did in the middle of a shoot. Her steps felt stilted, her limbs less fluid, more robotic than they normally felt when she danced.

  That bothered her. Why was she letting Leo get to her like this? Was she, in fact, attracted to him? Erin considered the possibility for a millisecond.

  No. Of course not. Her conscious mind denied the possibility, no matter what less flattering thoughts lurked in her subconscious. No, it was more that Leo was trying to get under her skin—she was sure of it—that messed with her head and kept her from forgetting herself and focusing on the music. That, and the fact that this dance was being recorded, that it would replay to a national audience, and she'd be judged by strangers and loved ones alike on every facet of every concern that was flitting through her own mind right now.

  Angry at the thought, Erin's natural rebellion kicked in. She tightened her grip on Leo's shoulders and determined to make the best of a crappy situation. She tried to visualize Leo as a dummy, a life-size doll that happened to be programmed to lead her through the numbered steps of a waltz. His warm, invasive hands weren't his. His stubbled jaw when it grazed her earlo
be could have belonged to anyone, to Ben. Wait, that's even better. She morphed from envisioning the dummy to envisioning Ben as her partner. It was Ben's arm that circled her waist, Ben's quick feet that swirled her in time with the music. That Ben and Leo were roughly the same height, the same build, made it easy.

  This was working.

  After a minute or two of pretending, Erin felt herself relax into the dance. Her thoughts began to flutter and flit in time with the music—big band versions of classic rock songs. As a generic studio version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" blared from the speakers, filling every crevasse and making the large room seem closer, more intimate, Erin concentrated on the steps, finding her rhythm and twirling effortlessly.

  And then the song ended, and Ben—er, Leo—pulled her close to his side and whispered in her ear, "That was great. You're getting it."

  His right hand rested at the curve of her waist, and when she glanced up at him, his fingers traveled down and squeezed lightly, caressing her hip through the thin fabric of her skirt. Erin tripped back on her awkward heels, a hot blush rising in her cheeks. She'd truly forgotten for a moment that he wasn't Ben.

  And then her thoughts went haywire again.

  Ohmigod—did I seem into him? She unlocked her grip on his shoulder, stumbling back a step after stepping on Leo's toes. "Sorry," she mumbled.

  Evangeline's voice cut into the scene. "Very good," she said. "That was very nice. And now we're going to do it once more, this time without me calling your steps. See if you can keep the time in your head. One-two-three, one-two-three, it's ea-sy, one-two-three." She demonstrated a partnerless waltz as she spoke.

  Seconds later the music swirled again. Erin's head got in the way as it had before, the wooden dancer back. Mainly she was worrying about that last dance, the intimacy of Leo whispering into her ear with cameras rolling.

  What's Ben going to think? What will Mom say when she sees this? And finally, Why am I being so neurotic? When she looked at it rationally, she knew Leo was saving her ass. When the time came to put the show together, they'd be screwed with no footage of an entire list item.

  Her annoyance was great enough and her rudimentary waltz knowledge now stable enough that Erin was able to focus on the steps without really concentrating. This was what she'd needed to feel comfortable—this determination and confidence. Not a stand-in Ben. What the hell was I thinking?

  Leo seemed to grasp that he'd lost his hold on her, and he, too, seemed preoccupied as they moved through the steps—completing a flawless waltz for the first time all night.

  She didn't once meet his eyes as they danced. When the music finally stopped, when Evangeline deemed the lesson finished and Jeff, Gustavo, No-Name, and Jeff Number Two began breaking down their equipment, Erin walked away from Leo without saying a word. She was sure he could feel the resentment heaving in hot waves off her skin.

  Resentment that he'd saved the day. Resentment that she would, in fact, be able to include a ballroom dancing segment on the show. It didn't make sense, even to her.

  Leo moved over to his crew and left Erin to wrap things up with Evangeline. He never asked what was bothering her, didn't even wait for her to exit the studio before packing up his equipment and leaving himself. Even though they wouldn't see each other again until postproduction meetings commenced in L.A.

  What just happened here?

  On one hand, Erin was glad to avoid another awkward scene. On the other, she had a shaky feeling this night would come back to haunt her. The feeling followed her home, and it didn't lift even when she walked into the house and was greeted with takeout from Teppo, her favorite sushi restaurant, complete with the yakitori appetizer she usually only ordered when they dined in.

  Ben was contrite when she told him she'd done the lesson without him.

  However—and maybe it was her imagination, which was, after all, running wild—when she told him Leo had been the one to fill in as her dance partner, he seemed less apologetic than appalled.

  * * *

  Date: July 22

  Age: 34

  Time to 35: 10 months, 3 weeks, 2 days

  List Item: No. 19: Take ballroom dancing lessons

  I have a whole new appreciation now for Dancing with the Stars.

  This list item was no picnic, guys. I might be a runner and a biker, and now a swimmer, but one itty-bitty ballroom dancing lesson made muscles that I didn't know existed in my body sore. It was super fun, though, and if it's on your list, I highly recommend that you check it off as soon as possible. A few pieces of advice:

  1. Wear the right shoes. In other words, don't wear a pair of strappy high-heeled bridesmaid's sandals that you've only worn once in your life and therefore have never broken in. Oy, the blisters.

  2. Be open-minded. You are NOT going to look like Nicole Scherzinger on your first time out, no matter how athletic you think you are. My field producer played back some of the footage, and OMG, I'm going to be hiding in a closet when that segment of YOLO airs, seriously. But that said, be willing to look like an idiot. It's part of the fun.

  3. Be sure you have a partner who's willing to look like an idiot with you. In other words, those of you who are married or otherwise coupled up need to be sure your significant other is on board, even if you have to kidnap said person and drag him to the studio. Because this is an activity that's meant for two, and although Ben was supposed to be there with me, a "work conflict" kept him from it at the last second. What do you think? A real work emergency or a ploy to get out of ballroom dancing?? I'll be interested to read your votes in the comments.

  Erin's finger hovered over the backspace key. She was pissed enough that she wanted to keep the dig at Ben in the post, her mini revenge for getting stood up, but with her YOLO contract she figured she shouldn't give that much away. Better to keep it vague.

  She deleted the last few sentences and then scrolled through the rest of the blog entry, squeezing her eyes shut at the memory of her and Leo's too-close-for-comfort waltz. Should I tell Ben about that? About the weird vibes she'd gotten from Leo that night?

  The question had agonized her since the class two nights earlier. Ben was legitimately remorseful for missing the lesson—even more so when he'd found out that instead of dancing with a middle-aged, balding instructor, she'd danced with Leo.

  Erin knew Ben's work conflict wasn't a ploy—she'd typed that because she was still a little pissed at him, but she knew he hadn't lied to her. What she didn't know, however, was whether Leo had lied. Had he really had to leave town the morning after the dance class? Had he suspected Ben wouldn't show up again all along? Either way, his hands on her body had been unnerving.

  Her mind flitted to his shoes…his black leather dancing shoes. Erin cringed and clicked to publish her post.

  Thank God filming was over. She'd keep her distance from Leo from now on.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  So Not Brave

  August 9, ten months, one week to thirty-five

  "Micah's story isn't tracking. I'm going out of my mind." Erin leaned back in her chair and inhaled deeply, gazing up at the high ceiling. She massaged both sides of her neck with her hands.

  "Yeah, well, I'm just getting started on Fabian's segment, so I'm honestly a little jealous. At least you've got a story to track." Joey Pyanowski, a story producer who, like Erin, had been with YOLO since the beginning, kicked back from the table with a little more force, causing his chair to roll backward over the concrete floor.

  After a few seconds of companionable silence, he asked, "What'd you think of Jarvis' bump in the scuba scene?"

  Erin's eyelids had drifted shut, but she cracked one, shifting her head to glance at him.

  "Eh," was all she said. She closed her eyes again.

  "Chop-chop," Joey replied. "You can't konk out on me now. We've got a lot of ground to cover tonight." He poked her in the shoulder.

  "Hey!" She sat up and rubbed the spot, glaring daggers at him. "No rest for the weary, apparently."
>
  "Got that right, sister."

  Try as she might, Erin couldn't be annoyed with him. Joey, an earnest, wide-eyed boy from Grand Rapids who'd earned his spot in this room from a decade of grunt work and determination, was the most genuinely amenable person she'd ever met. One of those people for whom cheerfulness is a given, who smiled when somebody stepped on his foot and apologized for being in the way.

  His eyes were situated too close together in his round, fleshy baby face, but he compensated with retro-chic glasses and a wardrobe pieced together from the vintage—as in, too cool to be called "thrift"—shops on Melrose. If not his face or his disposition, then his wardrobe, at least, matched his spot-on comic timing.

  "What's the matter? Not sleeping? You can borrow a bottle of Ambien—I buy it by the barrel full. It's the L.A. version of a Tic Tac."

  Erin chuckled. "Nah, I'm good."

  Actually, that wasn't true. On the back side of a two-week stretch without seeing and scarcely talking to Ben, she wasn't sleeping well. She missed the comfy antique rice bed in her master suite, which had belonged to Ben's grandmother.

  Her homesickness was weird, considering she loved to travel and usually thrived on getting away. Maybe if she didn't feel so separate from Ben in other ways she'd be OK out here on her own for weeks on end.

  The room where she and Joey were sitting was carved from a back corner of the bullpen, a cavernous, repurposed warehouse that housed clusters of cubicles designated for various parts of the show's production. The story producers' room was one of only two with a door—a vain attempt to achieve quiet in the wide-open space since the makeshift walls stopped a dozen feet below the pipe-threaded industrial ceiling. A plate glass interior window ran almost the length of one wall. The Venetian blinds covering it must have been fabricated sometime around 1989, which seemed ironic in a building with hipster-chic, industrial modern décor. But the blinds added to the surly writers' room ambiance, which Erin figured was the point. All that was missing were half-empty tumblers of bourbon and a pall of nicotine residue. These kids were more into zero-cal energy drinks and gluten-free, vegan, organic snack foods than death sticks and heavy liquor—though vodka was perfectly acceptable as a mixer into almost anything. It was carb-free.