Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  “No.” I smile a little at the memory of the scene. “Just since the accident.”

  “Mmm.” He nods, pressing his lips together and frowning as though concentrating. “So you didn’t send anyone else to the hospital?”

  My smile collapses as though I’ve been slapped. “No.” I push away from the wall and make for the door. I feel bad enough about what happened already. I don’t need to talk to this asshole to make me feel worse.

  “Wait.”

  I should keep walking, but something in his voice makes me stop. Still, I don’t turn around.

  “I’m sorry. I meant that as a joke. It was a bad one.”

  My gut is cinched so tight it feels like I’m wearing one of Raven’s corsets. I make myself let out a slow breath and I turn.

  His face is still hard to read, still hard in general. But maybe I spot some regret in his dark brown eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he admits.

  The corset loosens a little.

  “It really was an accident.” Defensiveness lines my tone.

  Beau stuffs his hands into his pockets, drawing my eyes to his jeans again. I force myself to ignore the front view this time. “I know it was.”

  Even though I’m relieved to hear this, I cross my arms over my chest in a protective stance. “And I feel really bad about it.”

  He shifts his posture, his shoulders dropping, his feet shuffling. He looks down and then up at me from behind his dark brows. “I know you do. That’s why I’m apologizing.”

  He’s saying the words and he looks like he means them, still I keep my arms crossed over my chest. I just don’t feel like I can let my guard down around him.

  Dancing lessons with him are going to suck.

  Please, God, please let Mr. Hebert be okay.

  I sigh again. “Thank you,” I say, acknowledging his apology. “We should probably head inside and find out how things are going.”

  “Yeah,” he says with a stiff nod. And about as awkwardly as two people can, we enter the hospital together.

  After a couple of wrong turns, thanks to confusing signage, we find ourselves outside of the Lagniappe Cafe instead of the emergency room. A big, bald guy dressed in green scrubs and wearing a wide smile steps out with his to-go bag and stops in front of us.

  “Oh my God! You’re Raven Blackwell—I mean, Iris...” His eyes bug and his smile turns embarrassed. “Iris Somebody.”

  I laugh. “Iris Adams. What’s your name?” I ask this of everyone who recognizes me. Like all the people before him, this guy looks surprised. Pleasantly so. Which is why I always ask.

  “I’m Nathaniel.” He offers his free hand, and I take it.

  “Nice to meet you, Nathaniel.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, pumping my hand.

  I glance around and catch Beau Landry gaping at me like I’m a freak of nature. “We’re actually looking for the emergency room. Can you help us out?”

  “Sure,” Nathaniel says, releasing my hand, but he frowns in concern. “You’re okay, right?”

  I nod. “I’m fine. We’re here to see someone who just came in.”

  “Oh, cool,” Nathaniel says, beckoning. “Y’all follow me.”

  We fall in step behind him, and, I swear, Nathaniel starts humming the theme music to Hexed. I grin. What a nice guy. I look over at Beau to share this thought, but he’s still watching me through narrowed eyes.

  What a crabby ass.

  Screw him, I decide and turn my attention back to Nathaniel. “This is really nice of you.”

  He grins at me over his shoulder. “Well, I should warn you, when we get there I’m going to ask for a selfie and an autograph.”

  I laugh again. “You got it, Nathaniel.”

  He sets off, making us nearly retrace all our steps, but then he goes straight at the juncture where we had turned right.

  “Oh, wow. This is where we messed up,” I say.

  Nathaniel nods. “Yeah, that sign is confusing,’” he says, pointing to the overhead placard. “The ER waiting room is just through those doors.”

  And from this angle, I can read the etching on the glass indicating the emergency room. “Thanks so much. I can’t believe we missed it.”

  The big guy just shrugs. “Happens all the time.” Then he fishes his phone out of the front pocket of his scrubs. “Can I get that selfie now.”

  “Of course!” I step closer to him but I already know our height difference is going to pose a problem. This is typical. “But a selfie might not be the best,” I say, gesturing between the two of us to indicate the obvious height difference.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, you don’t look so tiny on TV.”

  I cup my mouth with one hand and stage whisper. “Camera tricks and high heels.”

  He laughs again, and I swear, out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Grumpy Pants frown again. Wow. Wow. I really don’t like this guy. Nathaniel is being super nice to us. The least he could do is keep from scowling.

  Nathaniel holds out his phone to Beau. “Dude, would you mind?”

  For a moment, I’m almost afraid that Beau will say no. I’m ready to ask anyone else to help us, but then Beau surprises me. His frown clears as he looks at Nathaniel and he takes the phone with something almost resembling a smile.

  Readying for the camera, I lean into Nathaniel and he wraps a hefty arm around me. “Don’t worry,” he says, tucking me to his side. “I’ve only changed a few bed pans today.”

  I go rigid and wide-eyed, but then he smiles down at me. “Just kidding.” And then he taps his badge. “Radiology. No bed pans.”

  And I crack up. Completely. I laugh so hard, I almost don’t notice that Beau is frowning yet again. They guy must have zero sense of humor.

  At least he hides his glower with the phone when he snaps a few pictures of me with Nathaniel. Then Nathaniel hands me his pen, and after hunting around in his pockets for something I can autograph, we settle on the receipt from his takeout bag.

  I haven’t signed an autograph since before Sally and I set out on the AT, so I have to remind myself not to use my real signature. My autograph signature has a tall and swooping cursive I and A and a tail on both S’s whereas my legal signature is much more subdued. Moira made me craft an autograph for two reasons. The first was to protect me from identity theft and forgery, but even if that wasn’t an issue, she told me my own signature just wasn’t pretty enough.

  I’m sorry to have to break it to you, Iris, but there’s nothing special about you…

  ...if there were, your father never would have left.

  The words come back like boomerangs. And like the Australian weapon, these nearly take me down again.

  “Here you go.” I force a smile and hand back the pen and receipt. “Thanks again for all your help.”

  “My pleasure. So glad to meet you.” His big smile lifts my spirits. “Thanks for being so cool.”

  I give him a practiced bow that makes him laugh. What he doesn’t know is that I’d fall over if I tried to give him a practiced curtsy.

  “You are also cool, Nathaniel, and it was great meeting you.” Then I turn to my dour companion. “Ready to go find your uncle?”

  “Yep,” he says, the word clipped and unfriendly.

  Just a regular ray of sunshine. I resist saying the words out loud and wave to Nathaniel as we leave.

  Chapter Eight

  BEAU

  Two hours after we meet up with Nonc in the ER waiting room, he’s finally seen, x-rayed, and sent home with a temporary cast and an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. His elbow is broken, alright, and not cleanly.

  But at least my uncle convinced Iris Adams and her entourage to go home when eight p.m. came and went.

  Thank God.

  Because I couldn’t stop staring.

  Fans recognized her two more times while we waited, and each time she spent a good three minutes talking, signing autographs, and having her picture taken.

  I didn�
��t have to do the honors for those. The guy, Ramon—I guess he’s an assistant or something—took them. And when she smiled for the camera, it looked… real. Just like it had when I took her picture with the big radiology tech.

  Gone was the huffy celebrity princess who’d refused to ride with me. The Iris Adams I watched in the ER was friendly, funny—jeez, she had Nonc laughing so hard, he begged her to stop because it hurt his arm—and as vibrant as a fireworks show.

  Gone, too, was the sullen girl I found when I walked up to the hospital entrance. The one who looked like she’d just lost her best friend. The one who’d had me worried about her. Just for a minute.

  Damn, that girl can act.

  Either that, or she’s bipolar or something.

  “You’re awful quiet,” Nonc says from the passenger seat of my truck, scattering thoughts of the drama queen.

  “I figured you were tired after all the excitement,” I lie. I’m not about to admit I was thinking of Iris Adams.

  He chuckles. “It was quite an evening.”

  I raise a brow but keep my eyes on the road. “You think it’s funny?”

  He pats the edge of the bandaging near his wrist. “Seems a lot funnier now that I’ve had a little Oxy.”

  I snort. “Don’t get attached.”

  “Naw.” My uncle shakes his head. “They sent me home with one for the morning, but I’ll stick to over-the-counter meds.”

  “Until your surgery,” I mutter.

  He grumbles. “Don’t remind me.”

  “So, how did it happen?” Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but I’m dying to know. “Were you trying to do a lift or something and it got away from you?”

  Nonc blows out a breath between his lips. “No, nothing like that. We were just going through an outside turn. One minute her feet were in front of mine, and then I went to move her through, and the next thing I know, her heel is behind my ankle, and I’m going down.”

  I frown, trying to picture it, and Nonc just laughs. “Damndest thing,” he mutters. “Poor girl.”

  I give him the side-eye. “Poor girl?! She’s just fine. What about poor you?”

  He shakes his head. “She’d trade places with me in a heartbeat.”

  I put my gaze back on the road. “Right.” The word drips with sarcasm.

  “Aw, come on, Beau. She feels terrible.”

  I shrug. “I’m not saying she did it on purpose.”

  “Then what are you sayin’?”

  The question brings me up short. “Nothing,” I say finally.

  Silence hangs between us. “You don’t like her.”

  I wince at the accusation. “What is this, sixth grade?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask, shooting him crazy eyes.

  “You made up your mind about her before you even met her.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but I hesitate.

  His low laughter fills the cab. “Glad to see you’re not lying to yourself, at least.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Hey, she’s a sweet girl,” he purrs. “You’ll figure that out soon enough if you just give her a chance.”

  I glance over at my uncle, his injured arm dangling in a sling. It’s late. He’s tired, and I can see that even though the meds have taken the edge off, he’s still in pain.

  “I’m sure she’s a sweet girl.” I say this to placate him if nothing else. She might be sweet as pie. She might also be a nutter.

  We pull into the drive behind his place.

  “You sure you want to do this with your summer?” he asks, nodding toward the studio.

  “Without a doubt.” Nonc covered for me last summer with Mom. Maybe not for as long as his recovery will be, but I’d never leave him high and dry.

  “You gonna be nice to her for the next two months?”

  Shit. In all the fuss over his arm, the x-rays and the consult, and talking over the immediate plan for the studio, I hadn’t acknowledged the fact that I’d be covering her private lessons.

  “Of course, I’ll be nice. I’m nice to all my students.”

  Nonc raises a brow. “I don’t think your kids at Northside would ever call you nice.”

  He’s right. At my school nice is a terminal illness. But I’m fair, and I’m a professional, and that’s the way I’ll treat Iris Adams—even if she has to bring a whole team with her or she looks at me like I have leprosy.

  “Your Hollywood star won’t have anything to complain about.”

  “Good.” Nonc’s eyes turn earnest. “Because the only thing she’s complained about so far is her inability to dance.”

  I frown. “It’s that bad?”

  Suppressed laughter squeezes from his throat. He shakes his head. “I’ve taught stroke victims who had more rhythm. You’ll earn every penny of what she’s paying you.”

  This notion hits me sideways. I don’t want her to pay me.

  “I think you should keep it,” I say. We’ve already discussed this for his regular classes. He’s insisted on giving me a cut, but he needs to take the lion’s share to keep the studio open and cover his expenses. He can have it all as far as I’m concerned. I’m on a twelve-month pay schedule through the parish. I can cover his classes for free, but he won’t have that.

  A gust of air whistles from his nose. “Not with that one.” His brows climb halfway up his forehead. “You set your mind on something you want. Somewhere maybe you wanna go in late July, and every time you’re ready to pull your hair out because she starts on the wrong foot or toe-heels instead of heel-toes, you picture that destination.”

  I blink. “So you’re not exaggerating.”

  He gives a slow shake of his head.

  I should feel dread. I should feel irritated. But I don’t. Instead, I sort of feel sorry for her.

  “And she has to be ready for a dance segment for a movie?”

  He switches to a slow nod.

  “Damn.”

  “Yep. And just wait until you meet that manager of hers.”

  I give my last two finals on Wednesday and bring them with me to Camellia Court. I tell Mom about Uncle David’s arm—and the surgery he’s scheduled to have Friday morning—even though I doubt she’ll remember. She’s upset and worries over him for a few minutes, but then she asks me about Rebecca and is surprised and saddened to hear—again—that we broke up.

  After we eat lunch and take our usual walk, I grade one set of exams while Mom watches West Side Story. It doesn’t make sense for me to go all the way back to the tiny house in St. Martinville when I’ll have to return to the studio for ballroom lessons at four and Iris’s session at six, so when Mom lies down for her afternoon nap, I head straight to the studio.

  I find Nonc at his kitchen table, looking about as cheerful as a grizzly bear. He grunts when he sees me.

  I nod toward his arm. “How’s it feeling?”

  “About like a broken bone.”

  I scan the kitchen. Coffee’s on the warmer and the smell of it is like a sacred promise. Nonc’s nursing a cup and scowling at the entrails of the newspaper. Other than the coffee cup, there’s no sign of a dirty dish in the sink.

  My uncle is tidy, but he’s not that tidy.

  It’s just after two o’clock. “Had lunch?”

  He grunts again, and I know this one means no. Nonc is left-handed, and the break is on his left side.

  Damn. I should have thought of that last night. The old guy might need a little help.

  “Mind if I make a sandwich?” I ask, moving toward the fridge.

  He looks up from the paper and glares at me over his reading glasses. “You didn’t eat with your mom?”

  I shrug. “It was cabbage rolls.”

  This is true, and I ate them, but Nonc hates cabbage, so it’s a convenient excuse.

  He wrinkles his nose. “Help yourself.”

  I grab the loaf of Evangeline Maid bread and take mayo, mustard, and lettuce out of the fridge.

/>   “Got some bacon in there if you want to fry it up,” he mutters.

  I snag the unopened packet from the meat drawer. “Want a BLT?” I glance at him over my shoulder.

  He purses his lips together but keeps his eyes on the newsprint. “Wouldn’t say no.”

  I hide my smile as I take down a skillet from his pot rack and light the burner. “Anything good in there?” I ask, referring to Nonc’s paper.

  My uncle grunts. “They’re predicting another busy hurricane season.”

  No surprise there. The warmer the planet gets, the warmer the oceans get, the more storms we get.

  Great.

  “More fun for those of us living in a floodplain,” I mutter, grateful that my tiny house is on stilts.

  My uncle snorts his somber agreement.

  In minutes, the kitchen is heavy with the smell of frying bacon and in another minute Nonc shuffles up beside me.

  “Don’t ruin good bacon by cooking it to a crisp.”

  I grin. “Bacon’s supposed to be crispy.”

  He grunts.

  “I’ll take yours out early.”

  He grunts again, sidles to the fridge, and takes out a jug of orange juice. When he sets in on the counter and struggles with the twist-off lid, I wade in.

  “I got it, Nonc.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” he grumbles.

  “No, but you’re injured. So let’s just take it easy today.”

  He glares at me, but then he shuffles back to his place at the table. Five minutes later, I set down our two plates. BLTs, potato chips, green grapes, and OJ. Our sandwiches are cut into triangles so he could manage one-handed. Nonc looks at his lunch.

  “Merci bien.”

  “Pas de quoi.”

  We each take a bite. Nonc hums his pleasure, and I echo the same. I don’t care if I’ve just had a Thanksgiving feast. I wouldn’t turn down a BLT.

  “How’s Gina?”

  I shrug. “Not a bad day.”

  “Movie?”

  “West Side Story.”

  “Good.”

  Mom’s library of dance-themed movies is almost as impressive as her obsession with them. She watches at least one a day, but we know we’re on thin ice if she puts on Dirty Dancing or Step Up.