Shall We Dance?

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  After clapping her hands together a couple of times in an effort to get the circulation flowing again, she put her right foot out, felt for the rung, and then started praying that it would hold her weight. Then she did the same with her left, biting her lip when sharp needles traipsed up her calf.

  Then she did the process again.

  By the time Jennifer reached the ground, she was panting, colder than ever, and seriously hating her cute black flats.

  At least the snow had stopped.

  She looked around, wished she’d thought to look out of the slats of the blind on all four sides to get her bearings. But since she hadn’t, she decided to retrace her steps as best she could.

  It was a slow journey, filled with a lot of stops for rest, a lot of pep talks to herself, and even more prayer.

  Then, ironically, she started thinking about her recovery two years before. To say it had been difficult was an understatement. But as the days went by, she’d begun to see small slivers of hope in otherwise dark days. She’d started cooking more. She’d discovered that it was okay to be alone. She’d started journaling. She’d even begun to pray.

  Each of those activities had started in small ways—her first journal attempt had consisted of one sentence.

  But she hadn’t given up.

  She was stronger now.

  Just as she was giving herself another pep talk, she spied a pair of women. “Hello?” she called out.

  They turned, revealing that it was a woman in her thirties or forties and her daughter. They looked at her curiously as she hobbled closer.

  “Can you help me? I was chasing a dog and I got so lost.”

  The woman eyed her with sympathy. “You poor thing. You’re hurt.”

  Jennifer nodded. “I think I hurt my ankle and my phone . . . it’s . . . it’s at someone’s house. I don’t even remember that address. Do either of you have a cell phone I can use to call my brother?”

  The teenager looked at her mother. After she nodded, she handed it to Jennifer. “Here.”

  “Thank you so much.” With the girl helping her get to the right screen, she dialed Dylan.

  He answered on the first ring. “Lange.”

  “Dylan, it’s me.”

  “Jennifer? Oh, thank God.” He continued, barely pausing for breath, “Are you okay? Please, are you okay?”

  Even though her getting lost had been an accident, shame poured through her. His voice sounded so strained. “I’m okay. It’s a long story, but I ended up seeking shelter in an old deer blind. I must have fallen asleep for an hour or two.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I just came upon two ladies.” Smiling at the teen, she added, “One of them is letting me use her phone.”

  She heard him murmur something to whomever he was with before he got back on the phone. “Where exactly are you now?”

  “Hold on. Um, ma’am,” she asked the mom, “do you know where we are?”

  “Sure, honey. We’re about a ten-minute walk from our house.”

  She couldn’t believe it. She’d been that close to a house and she’d had no idea. “Did you hear that Dylan?”

  “Sure did. Let me speak to her, okay?”

  “Ma’am. My brother wants to talk to you. He’s a cop,” she explained.

  The lady took the phone, obviously listened to Dylan introduce himself, and then said, “Yes. We live off of Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert Circle, right off of Columbia. Fifteen Eighty-Nine Gilbert Circle. Yes. Of course. Bye.” As she handed the phone to her daughter, she said, “My name is Marianne, and this is my daughter Vanessa. We’re going to walk you to our house, and your brother’s going to meet us there.” She smiled.

  “Thank you so much. I’m Jennifer.”

  “It’s real nice to meet you, dear. Now, how about the three of us get you over there quick?”

  Jennifer laughed. “I think that sounds like a great idea.”

  “Me, too.” Her smile got wider. “I tell you what, your brother sounded like a very worried young man.”

  “I’m sure he was. He’s a really good brother.”

  “My brother is twelve,” Vanessa said. “He’s a pain.”

  “Mine was, too, at twelve. They get better,” Jennifer promised as the three of them continued along.

  It took longer than ten minutes—maybe double that time— but eventually they ended up on a gravel path that ended next to a driveway.

  Practically the moment they arrived, a blue and white Bridgeport Police cruiser pulled up. It had barely come to a stop before Dylan climbed out of the passenger-side door. “Jennifer.”

  She walked right into his arms and hugged him tight. “I’m so sorry I got so lost. I’m even more sorry for worrying you.”

  “It’s okay,” he soothed, rubbing a hand down her spine. “I don’t know what happened, but we’ll get through it, okay?”

  She turned to Marianne and Vanessa. “Here are my saviors,” she said. After introducing them, Dylan shook their hands.

  “I’m indebted to you,” he said. “We’ve all been worried sick.”

  “We’re just glad we were there to help,” Marianne said.

  After hugging them both and thanking them again, Jennifer limped into the back seat of the cruiser. As soon as the door closed, she leaned back and sighed. She’d done it! She was safe again.

  Traci, who was behind the wheel, turned around and smiled at her. “You are a sight for sore eyes, girl.”

  “I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused. I can’t even believe it.”

  “Hey, you livened up a pretty boring day. I’m glad we weren’t just out and about today trying to catch speeding soccer moms.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Dylan said with a dry laugh as he buckled up.

  When Traci started heading to their house, Jennifer realized that she’d forgotten all about her purse. “Dylan, my purse is still over at Jack’s.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ve got it. Remind me to give it to you when we get you home.”

  “All right . . .” Realizing that if Dylan had her purse, he’d been at Jack’s, she said, “So you went by Jack’s house?”

  “Oh, yeah. Traci and I talked with him for a while.”

  For a while. Dylan’s cop-speak for interrogating him. She could only imagine how that had gone. “When I get home, I should call him and explain what happened.” Boy, she bet he was really confused. The last thing he’d known was that she was going to stay in his truck. She’d be lucky if he didn’t hate her for the rest of his life.

  “I’m sure he has a pretty good idea by now,” Dylan said.

  Did he, though?

  “I’m thinking you’ve got some time,” Traci said in a teasing tone. “You were outside for a while. We need to get you home and warm.”

  “All right,” she replied. She looked at Dylan’s back. He looked tense, and no wonder. It took everything she had not to press her palms to her eyes and attempt to block everything out.

  When they pulled up to the house, she and Dylan got out. Without a word, he went to the cruiser’s trunk, pulled out her purse, and handed it back to her.

  “Thanks. Are you coming in, too?”

  “Yeah. I will for a second, but then I’m going to have to get back to the station.” He leaned into the open door. “I’ll be right back, Lucky.”

  “Take your time,” Traci said, holding up her phone. “I need to look through these emails.”

  “Come on, Jennifer,” he murmured, as he helped her walk to the door.

  Feeling like a little kid, she kept her mouth shut and stood there while he unlocked the door and helped her enter.

  She’d expected him to help her upstairs and convey that they’d talk later.

  Instead, he closed the door and leaned against it. “So,” he said.

  Thi
s was awful. Though all she wanted to do was get some water, go to the bathroom, and then soak in a hot bathtub, Jennifer knew she needed to clear things up for both their sakes. Setting her purse on the floor, she said, “I guess you’d like to talk right now?”

  “Yeah. We better.”

  She noticed that he looked both apprehensive and resigned. Neither was a welcome sign. Determined to at least sound normal, she said, “Let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make a pot of coffee, and you can take some out to Traci.”

  “Sounds good, but I don’t have much time.”

  He was hardly looking at her. “I understand.” Half hopping to the kitchen, she rinsed out the morning’s dregs in the coffee pot and then pushed a button on her industrial-sized grinder to start the beans.

  Since it was that easy, she sat down in one of their chairs next to the kitchen table and waited. Dylan sat down, too. But though her day had had a happy ending, he looked weary. Absolutely exhausted.

  This was her fault. She needed to clear the air and try to get them back on the right track. “Dylan, I don’t know how to apologize to you enough.”

  “Just tell me what happened, Jen.”

  “All right. Well, um, I guess you know that Jack invited me to lunch.”

  “I heard about that. And I heard how you accepted and went to his house.”

  Each word he said sounded like it was getting torn out of him. “I did. And though I was feeling a little panicked, I was determined to go through with it.”

  “But then you took off?”

  “Well, kind of. I mean, I meant to stay there, but then—”

  “But then you couldn’t take it and got scared?”

  How had he put that together? “Uh, no.”

  But before she could explain about Harvard, Dylan stood up and stared pacing. “I thought you were dead,” he said.

  “No. Dylan—”

  “I thought that guy had found you and kidnapped you. I thought that Jack guy had raped you. I thought about a dozen scenarios and each one was worse than the other.” He stopped and stared at her. “I pretty much lost my mind.”

  “I’m sorry. If I would have known what was going to happen, you know I wouldn’t have left the truck.” She shook her head. “Or the bookstore.”

  “Or the house?” he added. Still looking haunted, he said, “Jennifer, I think we might need to look at other options for you.”

  A tremor zipped up her spine. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I love you, but I don’t know if I’m the best person to take care of you.”

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” When he raised his eyebrows, she lifted her chin. “I’m not a child.”

  “No, you’re not. But today was bad. It’s obvious that you’re not all right. Not anywhere close to being all right. I’m no counselor, Jen.”

  She didn’t need him to be one, either.

  So many emotions were pulsing through her, she could hardly contain herself. She wanted to argue, try to explain herself. She wanted to do a lot of things and offer a bunch of excuses . . . but she knew he was in such a dark place that he wouldn’t believe them anyway.

  “I understand,” she finally replied. Turning to the kitchen that she’d perfectly arranged, she limped to a small cupboard and got out two ceramic to-go cups. As Dylan watched, she filled the cups, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out the cream. “Traci likes cream, I think,” she murmured.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “But I already am.” She poured a couple of tablespoons into one of the cups, fastened lids onto both and handed them to her brother. “Here you go. I’ll see you later.”

  He took both. Looked like he was about to say something, but in the end simply turned around and walked out.

  When the door closed, she carefully locked it and then got herself her own cup of coffee. Then she sat down and pulled out her cell phone. She thought about Jack and how she owed him a call, about their parents—she needed to talk to them before they heard about this latest drama from Dylan. She thought about Melissa, her counselor.

  But instead of calling anyone, she simply sat and sipped a whole cup of coffee. And then she slowly made her way upstairs, turned on the bathtub faucet, and took a very long, very hot bath.

  CHAPTER 28

  “I try to dress classy and dance cheesy.”

  —Psy

  Had she ever been more thankful for dance? Shannon doubted it. After learning that Jennifer was fine and that Traci was back at the precinct with Dylan, Shannon had been so relieved that tears had filled her eyes.

  Then, on its heels, were all the things that Dylan had told her. How he’d trusted her and she’d let him down. How she’d failed Jennifer.

  How Dylan no longer had anything to say to her.

  And . . . how she’d felt about all of that.

  She’d been so torn up, both with his words and the knowledge that she’d been unable to move.

  And then she’d gotten angry.

  Knowing that yelling or calling him back and giving him a piece of her mind wasn’t going to happen, Shannon had walked down the stairs, double-checked her schedule, and taught that private swing class and the high school girls’ tap class.

  When the last girl went on her way, she went upstairs, pulled off her dress, and put on something a whole lot more comfortable.

  Then she walked back into her dance studio and closed the door behind her.

  And at last, in the privacy of her favorite space, Shannon reached for her iPad, bypassed all the ballroom songs she played for students, and went straight to the music that was good for her soul. Country, plain and simple. Old-school Garth Brooks and Brooks and Dunn. Keith Urban and Jason Aldean. Eric Church and Dierks Bentley. Singers that had gotten her through bad days and self-doubts and hours of practice until her body hurt as much as her feet.

  After two more clicks and an adjustment in volume, the piercing strum of an electric guitar filled the room, and the familiar twang fed her soul.

  Her body reacted the same way it had when she’d been twelve and eighteen and twenty-two. She might be living in Ohio now, might be trying to keep up with a whole lot of people who’d been more places and had more schooling, but at the end of the day, she was still who she was. Shannon was a small-town West Virginia girl with a fondness for music that talked about trucks and farms and Friday night lights.

  More importantly, she was okay with that.

  Already feeling better, she opened a small closet nestled in the corner of the room. On the top shelf was a clear plastic container filled to the brim. It took a minute, but eventually she was able to stand on her tiptoes and coax it down. When she got it on the floor, she crouched down and pulled off the lid.

  The faint scent of peonies wafted out—the remnants of her favorite drugstore cologne when she’d been fifteen. It brought back memories of big dreams and early morning Sunday church services wearing one of the many dresses her mother had bought for her that Shannon had always been sure were too old-fashioned and plain.

  Shaking off the memories, she pushed aside the extra pair of tap shoes and the pair of heels that she’d worn for her first ballroom competition. After digging some more, she at last found her goal: an old pair of pale-pink satin toe shoes.

  Holding them up, she made sure the ribbons were still secure, then dug back in that box for some cotton for the toe box.

  Brooks and Dunn started singing “My Maria,” making her grin. It was time. She took a chair and at last put them on. Her toes protested for a few seconds but settled down when she stood up and lightly stretched and tried out a couple of almost-forgotten steps.

  Then, feeling like she was looking at a stranger, she walked to the center of the room and stared at her reflection.

  And perhaps she really was staring at a stranger. The woman looking
back at her wasn’t the girl she’d once been. Instead of pink tights, she had on tight black leggings. Instead of one of her many black leotards, she was wearing a fitted aqua tank top. Her hair was in a ponytail, not the bun that was so tight she used to swear it made her eyebrows rise a quarter inch.

  But maybe—just maybe—there was still that look of determination in her brown eyes. Back in the day, she’d refused to listen to anyone who said she hadn’t started dance classes early enough, wasn’t tall enough, wasn’t talented enough. She’d just worked harder.

  Now, her body was bigger than it used to be. And, maybe her steps weren’t as steady and her legs and core weren’t nearly as strong.

  But, even as she stared at this almost-stranger in the mirror, Shannon realized that everything that she’d been focusing on for the last six months had been a mistake.

  No, she wasn’t an only child. She wasn’t from West Virginia, and she wasn’t even much like her mom.

  But that said, she wasn’t all that different from the girl she used to be, either. She was still Shannon. She still liked to dance. She still liked her country music. She still loved her parents and would never think of them as anything other than “Momma” and “Daddy.”

  She was still so grateful for her life and the blessings she’d been given.

  And looking at herself—at this older version of herself, with her long brown hair, same long arms, full lips, and faint scar on her eyebrow from a fall when she’d been a toddler—she wasn’t perfect, but she’d never been. More importantly, she’d never needed to be perfect.

  Which was okay.

  As the songs changed and she heard Garth singing about the river, she walked to the barre and lightly rested her hand on it. And then went through the exercises and warm-up steps she’d done so many times it was as if her muscles were leading her brain. Maybe they were.

  Pliés and relevés slid into jetés and sautés. A faint sheen of sweat formed on her forehead and back. She welcomed it as she pirouetted then arched her back.