Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  She flits up to me, moving at hummingbird speed and settles the hat on my head. “All that matters is that you look great.” She steps back, assessing the fit of the hat, and tilts the brim up just slightly. It smells and feels expensive. “And you look great! Let’s go. We have to get you to the Performance Center.”

  I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised to learn that Iris’s studio has rented out Vermilionville to film this scene. The tourist attraction and cultural center is modeled after an eighteenth century Cajun village, and the Performance Center hosts local musicians and Cajun dancing on the regular. The building—outfitted with rough wood floors and a vaulted ceiling with exposed cypress beams—looks like a giant barn where early Cajuns might have held a fais do do where they’d play music, dance, and sing well into the night while children slept in the hay. The only things they wouldn’t have had back in the day are the large wooden stage and the air conditioning.

  But when I follow my guide inside, the space has been transformed. Giant spotlights hang from metal scaffolding along the back wall, techs holding boom mics edge the perimeter, and dining tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths frame the dance floor.

  I haven’t even seen Iris yet. She was in makeup when I arrived. And, yes, I’m wearing makeup too. But unlike the cowboy hat, I can’t say I’ve never worn it. Almost every ballet performance I was in growing up required it.

  Yeah, my middle school years sucked.

  But dancing and fighting aren’t mutually exclusive. Nonc taught me that. Core strength, balance, and focus come in handy when some douche shoves you against the wall and calls you a fag. Nonc also taught me how to punch. I guess he learned the hard way as a dancer too.

  It’s probably the outfit that has me remembering those days. But all thoughts of fighting flee when Iris walks in.

  She’s metamorphosed into Raven Blackwood, and I’m so glad I’ve been watching her show because it’s surreal to see her like this. But I’m grinning like a fool because she’s decked out, and she’s owning it.

  Iris struts up to me in high heeled black boots, a ruby red dress that clings to her every curve, and a black cloak billowing behind her.

  She aims straight for me, her smile as big as the sky. Her hazel eyes are eating me up. “You look incredible.”

  “I look like a tool,” I mutter, but if anything my smile has grown.

  “You do not,” she says, swatting me on the arm, and it’s that moment I realize that the red of her dress perfectly matches the flowers on my shirt. On camera, it’ll look like we’re a matched pair.

  We go together.

  Maybe the shirt’s not so bad.

  “I’m sorry.” Iris rubs her hand on the spot where she smacked me. (For the record, it didn’t hurt at all.) “I should be thanking you. I’d be a nervous wreck if you hadn’t taken the part.” Her gaze softens as she stares up at me and drops her voice. “I feel so safe and confident with you, I’m not nervous at all.”

  I don’t give a shit what I’m wearing anymore. I don’t care if I’m the laughing stock of every future French class. I grip her hand and lean in. I just want to cover her mouth with mine, but she dodges me.

  “Make-up will kill us,” she says, eyes wide. “This lipstick alone took fifteen minutes.”

  I pull back and snort. “Tell me about it.” I point to my face, making her laugh.

  She squints. “Is that beard oil?”

  “No comment,” I grunt.

  Iris dissolves in hysterics. “Oh my God, I love that we get to do this.”

  I crack a smile. I love it too. Because I’ll never forget this. The way she looks in that dress and those boots. And I couldn’t forget this shirt if I tried. The memory of this day will stay with me. We’ve made a lot of memories the last six weeks.

  They’ve been the happiest weeks of my life.

  She’ll be gone in four days, and I haven’t come out and told her how I feel. I haven’t said those words that ache in my throat every time we make love. And we’ve been doing that like we could win a medal for it. Two or three times a night and before we say goodbye every morning.

  You’d think all of that would sate my desires, but I just want her more. Twenty times a day, I catch myself picturing the swell of her breasts or the feel of her tight heat around me. That sexy frown she wears when she calls my name, right before she comes.

  I blow a breath out my nose and rein in the urge to pull her against me. We’re on a movie set for Christ’s sake. There’s like a hundred people in here.

  But every time I think about losing her, my body wants to claim her all over again.

  She doesn’t want us to say it’ll be over. I don’t either. Of course I don’t. But Iris is so young. And this is her first relationship. She doesn’t know how easy it is for people to grow apart—especially when two time zones separate them.

  But I don’t think those time zones and all the miles in between are going to help me get over her. This is going to hurt like hell. It already does. The heartache just makes me want to tell her even more.

  I love you. I love you so damn much.

  But is telling her even fair? When she gets back to L.A., her life will pull her in its fast-paced current. Especially now that Moira can’t hold her back and keep her from having a life. She’ll find someone else in no time.

  She doesn’t need to hear that I’ll never forget her. That I think I’m bound to love her for the rest of my life.

  That she has lit up my world like a fireworks show, and the night is going to be as black as pitch without her.

  A bald guy with a clipboard charges up to Iris, pulling me out of my pity party. “Iris, Jonathan says five minutes.”

  She nods. “Thanks, Doug.” She turns back to me and gives my hand a squeeze. “We should take our marks.” Then her eyes sparkle. “See you on the dance floor.” And she’s gone.

  It actually takes longer than five minutes to get all the extras in place. They’re all locals, and like me, most of them are dressed in Western wear, but some are in overalls. Overalls. Ridiculous.

  A part of me chafes under the gross misrepresentation of Cajun culture, but then again, a real Cajun band will be playing up on that stage—a song of their own recording—and we’ll all be dancing the Two-Step and Cajun Jitterbug. People will watch the movie, and maybe they’ll get curious.

  And Vermilionville is a real place. A place for them to come visit and learn about our true history and culture.

  I don’t have long to question the ethical implications of Hexed because the stage manager begins barking instructions about chairs and props, and the band starts warming up. A pulse of energy tightens my skin, and it feels like it connects me to everyone in the space. I look to the right and find Iris offstage. She’s watching me, and I can tell by the excitement in her eyes she feels it too.

  It’s been a long time, but it’s the same thrill that runs through the veins of any performer just before stepping into the spotlight. I haven’t felt it since my last ballet performance, back when I was a senior in high school. And I didn’t expect the sensation because there’s no audience watching.

  But just because the audience isn’t here doesn’t mean none exists. There will be an audience, and they’ll see my beautiful Iris dancing with me. And that will last forever. Euphoria and adrenaline light me up.

  “Picture is up!” Jonathan’s assistant director—I can’t remember her name—calls and the chatter in the room hushes, but it doesn’t disappear completely. The scene is in a dance hall after all. People murmur, clink glasses, and scrape chairs against the floor. I’m on my mark, as is my first dance partner. Her name is Bella, and she’s a local from right up the road in Scott. We met at yesterday’s rehearsal. I nod at her before I put my hands on her.

  “Background action!”

  That’s our cue. The music starts and the dance floor comes alive.

  Jonathan’s voice rises above the sound. “Action!” Two seconds later double doors blow open and thre
e wrestling figures tumble onto the dance floor. Two of them, the shape shifters Raven pursues, are dressed all in black. The third is in boots, a red dress, and a cape identical to Iris’s, but it isn’t Iris. It’s her stunt double.

  She and the demons grapple on the floor for just a couple of seconds before Jonathan calls, “Cut!”

  Everybody stops while Jonathan and his AD review the clip. I drop my hands from Bella’s waist and search for Iris again. When I spot her, I can tell by the look on her face she’s already in character. Her expression is hard-edged as if she just pushed a demon through a set of doors.

  Seconds later, we’re called to order for another take, and the whole thing happens again. This time, Jonathan must be satisfied because when the AD calls, “Places,” Iris takes her stunt double’s spot on the ground along with her demon co-stars.

  The band starts up again, and we’re off. My heart thumps hard against my ribs as I circle the dance floor with my partner, and just as we reach Iris, one of the demons peels Bella from my arms and I sweep up Iris in her place.

  I feel the camera just over my shoulder as it captures Raven Blackwell’s startled expression. But even though her character looks surprised, my girlfriend doesn’t miss a beat. She slides right into the quick, two-step rhythm and into the counter-clockwise motion of the dance.

  We do the brush off perfectly, and I beam with pride. She cuts under my arms, and I twirl us before releasing her in a flawless spin. Her teeth flash. I clutch her back to me and—

  “Cut!”

  We both jerk our gazes to Jonathan. He’s giving us an arch look. “Iris, you’re smiling too much,” he says, as though this is obvious.

  I cut my gaze back to the woman I love in time to see that wide smile vanish. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

  Her director doesn’t acknowledge the apology, but busies himself reviewing the take. Iris’s eyes are tight. I feel the tension in her grip and beneath my hand at her hip.

  “Hey,” I whisper. Her startled gaze snaps back to me. Our eyes latch, and she softens. “It’s okay.”

  “I forgot where I was for a minute,” she confesses softly, looking crestfallen. “That’s so unprofessional.”

  “Chère, you just nailed that dance,” I tell her, practically splitting at the seams with pride. “If smiling too big is the worst thing you do all day, you take that win and run with it.”

  Her eyes stare deeper into mine. I watch her swallow. She looks like she’s prepping to jump out of an airplane.

  “I love you,” she whispers. And it’s my heart that’s falling at 9.8 meters per second.

  My breath leaves me. In a million years, I never expected her to say it first. I never expected for her to feel it.

  I’ve never been so glad to be wrong.

  “I love you, too.”

  And if she wasn’t smiling huge before, she is now. We both are.

  “Okay, let’s take it back to the partner swap,” the AD calls. “Places, everybody.”

  I want to yank her into my arms before she can step away and plant the deepest kiss in the history of kisses, but there’s no time. I squeeze her hand instead and let her go.

  I try like hell not to smile too big. But seconds later, when I take her in my arms again, our eyes lock with the power of our secret. Her face is Raven, but her eyes are Iris, and I hold her gaze as we nail the Two-Step a second time.

  Jonathan doesn’t stop us, and the band makes the quick transition to the Cajun Jitterbug, and we fly. Underarm Turn. Inside Turn. Cuddle Step. This is the scene. The moment of my greatest happiness. Like every moment, I know this will end. Our declarations change nothing.

  But they also change everything.

  I know in my bones our dance will make it into Iris’s movie, and even if no one else sees it for what it is—two people risking their whole hearts—we’ll know.

  All too soon, the song ends. As rehearsed, the crowd breaks out into applause, which is Iris’s cue to break away and chase after her villains. She tears through the crowd.

  “And scene!” Jonathan calls. “Great job, everybody.” The applause grows, and Iris runs back to me. I rock back on one heel when she leaps into my arms, laughing with triumph.

  “I did it!”

  “You did it, baby.” And I don’t care if the makeup artist demands a pound of flesh, I kiss Iris like the fate of the world rests on the communion of our lips. Hoots and hollers join the applause along with some laughter.

  “Wow. Okay,” Jonathan says a moment later. “Yeah, why don’t we all take fifteen and give everybody a chance to cool off.”

  Iris jolts in my arms and pulls back, a blush rushing to her cheeks.

  “Oh God,” she mutters, taking in all the eyes on us. But then she looks back at me and giggles.

  I can’t help it. It’s like there’s no room left in my chest to keep the laughter in. My heart is a crowded house.

  Hand in hand, we walk off set and grab two water bottles from the cooler topped with ice. I crack mine open and manage to tame my smile just enough so I can drink without dribbling like an idiot.

  “That was…” Iris looks transfixed with joy. Lit up from the inside. She shakes her head, unable to put words to it. I know just how she feels.

  “Incroyable,” I say because this can’t be captured with just one tongue.

  Iris blushes deeper, dips her chin and looks up at me from under her lashes. God, she’s so beautiful.

  “I know it’s fast. I know it might be crazy, but I can’t help it.” I think she’s talking about those three perfect words, so I shake my head.

  “No, I’ve been wanting to say it for a while,” I admit readily, easily.

  She blinks in surprise. “Really?” Her hand comes to my chest, and I wrap one arm around her.

  “You had to know.” My appetite for her alone should have clued her in to the fact that I’m hers, body and soul.

  Her chest rises and falls. “I hoped,” she says, sounding hopeful now. “I want this to last, Beau.”

  I cinch her tighter against me, the pain of our rapidly approaching separation tearing me up inside.

  “I do too.”

  “Then come with me,” she says, the hope in her eyes reaching inside me and pulling down my every defense.

  “Iris…” Her face is so open, so vulnerable. I know my next words are going to cause her pain, and I hate that I have to say them. “I wish I could.”

  She grips the ridiculous cowboy shirt in her fist. “You can. I know it’s sudden,” she says quickly. “I know people might think it’s crazy, but we should be together. Tell me I’m not the only one who believes that.”

  I shake my head. “You’re not.” The words come out choked. I’m glad we’re standing outside of the spotlights, tucked in the shadows, but I wish we had more privacy. I wish we were in her house. In her room where we could comfort each other against the truth of our reality.

  “You’re not the only one,” I say again. “I’ve known it for weeks. You’re it for me, Iris. You’re the love of my life.”

  Her stance eases, but she still holds tight to my shirt. “Then share your life with me. We could make it work in California. We could find you a teaching job or if you want to take some time off, that’s—”

  “I can’t.” My throat is so tight now the words come out in a rough rasp. “I can’t leave, Iris.”

  Her brows draw together, and she searches my face with a kind of desperation that physically hurts me to see. “Why not?”

  “My mom,” I say, not looking away. “I can’t disappear on her. She wouldn’t understand.”

  Iris shuts her eyes and drops her forehead to her hand. “Oh my God. I’m so stupid—”

  “You’re not,” I protest, reaching for her chin and bringing her gaze back to me. “Of course not.”

  Her eyes are sad and weighted with guilt. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that. I know she’s not okay, I just—” She shakes her head in self-admonishment. “I was just thinking a
bout what I wanted.”

  I give her a half-smile even though I’m as sad as I’ve ever been. “You’re allowed to do that, Iris.” And then I confess. “It’s what I’d love to do.”

  The guilt leaves her eyes, making room for the smallest of smiles. “It is?”

  I nod quickly. “I love living here, Iris, but I love you so much more.” It’s the truth. If Mom weren’t sick or if Val lived closer, I wouldn’t think twice. I’d give my notice to my principal and leap with both feet. But my mom needs me. I can’t abandon her like my father did. I can’t just disappear from her life when she’s lost everything else.”

  I know what this means, but I can tell by the look on Iris’s face she doesn’t. She doesn’t see that we don’t have a future. She doesn’t yet understand that we’re about to break each other’s hearts.

  But instead of breaking my heart, Iris steals my breath.

  “I’ll just have to move here.”

  I’m still on-set. It’s been almost two hours since we finished the dance scene, but no one’s told me to leave, so I’m staying. I don’t know if I could move if I had to.

  The studio is using the chapel on the grounds to reshoot a scene where Raven vanquishes a basilisk. The first version took place on a set, but when Jonathan saw the historic chapel with its white, high-backed pews, he reimagined the whole scene.

  I’m watching from the back steps, out of sight from the cameras. I should be lighter than air at the thought that the woman I love wants to stay in my life. But my guts feel like lead.

  Because Iris is really good.

  Her timing. Her inflection. Her expressions. Her energy.

  Whenever Jonathan calls Cut and gives her any kind of correction, Iris is quick to implement it. Perfectly. Nothing I’ve watched today has needed more than two takes, but most of the time, the corrections have been for Iris’s fellow actors or a technical issue.

  This movie may be marketed to tweens, but it could put her on the map. She could be in demand like never before.

  I swallow nausea.