Meghan said, “Good. Wipe down your pole and hands and try again. Be sure to brace up top.”
Her encouragement helped me double down on my determination to do it right this time. I bit my lip and focused on getting a solid grip before trying again. With the extra traction from the wipe down, my spin was much slower, and I was able to get into the crouch at the end.
“Nice! I think you’ve got it.”
It didn’t feel nice yet, but Meghan’s generous praise encouraged me t0 keep practicing. Meghan let us practice for a few more minutes before asking us to move away from the poles to teach some basic dance choreography. She put on a sultry slow song, then stood facing the studio wall. As the beat kicked up, she slowly traced her hands up the wall. As they reached the apex, she drew a circle across the plaster with her right hand and turned to her back. She put a lot of heat into tracing her hands down her body, then circling her hips. I joined in the catcalls of encouragement from my classmates. Their lack of judgment and vocal support eased some of my nerves.
Meghan demonstrated a few additional moves that moved us close to the pole before transitioning into the first fireman spin, then had us practice.
The music swelled, and I breathed with the beat as I faced the studio wall. A fizz of excitement and trepidation at the thought of putting it all together and making the dance my own buzzed through me. Slowly, oh so slowly, I brought my right hand forward, feeling the bumpy drywall texture. I swayed my hips slightly and brought my left hand to trace up the wall with my right, until I felt like someone was tugging my wrists at the top. Leaving my left hand high, I traced a big circle with my right, down to my hip and under my left arm to move to my back. The bass thumped, and I kept my eyes softly closed and danced my legs slightly wider before sinking into my own hip circles. I gently shoved away from the wall and gave my best walk to my pole, stepping around catlike before launching into my fireman spin. I only tangled my feet a bit at the end and did my best to slither up slowly to a standing position. Not bad. I’d take it. Maybe I wasn’t a goddess yet, but I felt slightly less self-conscious.
Our instructor whooped and hollered for us, and my classmates beamed with a combination of sheepishness and pride. Satisfaction rushed through me. I wasn’t amazing, but it didn’t matter. No one was judging.
“What did you think?” Meghan asked, as I put on my shoes in the lobby after our cool down. Her smile was wide, and the glow of a good workout brightened her features.
I bit my tongue to avoid telling her how awkward I’d felt at first. She had eyes. There was no way she’d missed some of my stunted moves. My lips tilted up. “It was fun,” I admitted.
“There’s nothing like it, right? You looked great for your first class.”
My smile grew bigger. “Thanks, I’ll see you next time.”
Overcoming the anxiety of looking silly in front of strangers, of trying something awkward, had been hard at first. But Meghan and the other Athenas had been a welcoming audience. Not harsh or judgmental like I’d feared. The very definition of accepting. And the warm balm of their encouragement helped me build the confidence I’d been looking for. One small step in the studio, but one big step for me. A stride away from beige, and into living a full rainbow of color. What color would pole dancing be? Something bold, for sure.
THE LINGERING FLUSH of pride from following through on pole dance class helped dull the resulting aches and pains on Sunday. My inner thighs burned every time I sat down. My biceps felt tight just lifting my coffee mug. My knees were squawking about the abuse I’d put them through. I hadn’t anticipated so much floor work. Kneepads were going to be a must since I planned to continue dancing.
Virginia had direct messaged me yesterday while I was in class. For once, I had plans and didn’t see the message right away. It made me feel the littlest bit special connecting with someone who I thought of as famous.
VirginiaRothman: Hey Tamra. I’ve got questions. Can I beg for answers? Happy to compensate with a gift card for coffee.
I bit my lip, thinking about how to respond. I wasn’t sure where exactly Virginia lived, but a lot of her stories were set in the Pacific Northwest, so there was hope. Would it be too forward to see if she wanted to meet in person? Maybe get a few books signed? Gina would tell me to go for broke and ask for what I wanted.
TamraRN: Sure, send them my way. Unless you want to meet for coffee?
VirginiaRothman: Well, I do want to make good on my coffee offer. Where are you located?
TamraRN: Tacoma, Washington area.
VirginiaRothman: Another local! I’ll email you my questions, and maybe we can try to meet up?
An uncontrollable grin split my cheeks. I was going to meet one of my romance idols. Better still, she wanted to hear my oddball nursing stories. For once I wouldn’t have to worry about oversharing. I sent her my email address and tried not to geek out waiting for her list of questions. Helping with research was as close as I’d probably get to playing the part of a romance heroine. But for the moment, that was enough.
Chapter 7 - Chase
I didn’t usually dither, but I was stymied by Tamra’s messages. To reveal or not? So few people knew I was Virginia Rothman. I didn’t socialize in the industry, preferring to remain a lovable mystery instead of an awkward reality. My secret had been safe for years. Risking it for a stranger, even a funny and friendly one, put me on edge. My research would go much faster if I could ask my questions directly, and I did want to meet her, but if she revealed my identity online ... I shuddered.
I felt guilty about interacting with Tamra under false pretenses. She seemed so genuine. Most of my social media presence was just that: a presence. I didn’t interact much with fans or share details of my personal life, and I liked it that way. Sharing my heart through my work felt like enough personal revelation for one lifetime. Hiding had become a habit. A way to preserve some small corner of my life outside of writing. But something about Tamra left me wanting to get to know her better. Possibly the sorcery of her smile and that bottom lip.
Maybe it was old-fashioned or misguided of me to think I needed a feminine pen name to sell romance. However, I’d read that only sixteen percent of romance readers were guys. I grew up with a dad who was one of the sixteen percenters. I didn’t realize it was unusual for men to read romance until I was into my teens. I’d started reading Nora Roberts, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, and Jayne Ann Krentz from a young age because that’s what we had at home. New books passed from my mom to my dad. They read them first, then passed them on to me, and eventually we shared them with my grandma. We regularly loaded brown paper bags of used books in the car on the trip from our house in Tacoma to my grandmother’s in Enumclaw. It wasn’t until my copy of Midnight Jewels fell out of my bag at soccer practice that I realized how unusual my family’s reading habits were. Jason Michaels had called me out in front of the whole soccer team for being a “sissy who liked kissing books” and my nickname was born. From there on, I left my books at home, limiting myself to Sports Illustrated in my backpack.
I wish I could tell teen me not to be embarrassed by my reading choices, but at the time I panicked and told him I was only reading them for the sex scenes. Fifteen-year-old me found them incredibly hot, and I learned a lot. Health class sex ed had nothing on romance descriptions. But I wasn’t reading for the sex. Okay, not entirely for the sex.
Some days it was for the sex.
But it was also about the plots, humor, and relationships. Found family was my jam, and I loved a good grovel. Even at that age I was skilled at sticking my foot in my mouth up to the ankle and romance helped me see that there was hope for someone as awkward as me.
Romance novels even helped me snag my first high school girlfriend. I’d thought it was flirting when I gave Melissa Swanson a dozen cupcakes with frosting the same pink as her favorite sweatshirt. She thought I was taunting her for the extra curves she used the baggy cotton to hide. Not my intent. Teenage me had been horrified when she burst into
tears and rushed to the girls’ bathroom. I couldn’t let her think that’s what my gift had meant. I may have been an idiot, but I wasn’t an asshole.
Luckily, Melissa had forgiven me and agreed to go to the movies when I apologized and explained. It was the most awkward five minutes in the girls’ bathroom ever, talking through a stall door, but I survived. Granted, I got a girlfriend and detention out of the deal. I liked to think I learned from my mistakes, but the last few years of my haphazard dating history proved that was a lie. I’d only discovered new ways to screw up. Ironic, considering my bestselling author career. I’d learned how to write successful relationships, but when it came to practical application, I was still hopeless.
I’d never properly thanked my dad for making it manly to read romance, but I definitely should. As an only child with older parents, we did a lot of reading at home. All genres were welcome, but romance easily made up fifty percent of our reading list.
When I was starting my writing career, they supported me by beta reading my early sci-fi projects. But romantic plot ideas wouldn’t leave me alone, and sci-fi just couldn’t scratch the itch. I’d always been pretty open with my parents but was still flooded with regret when I sent them my first romance novel and they provided detailed comments on the sex scenes instead of the butterfly garden proposal. I wished I’d edited it down to a parent-friendly version with no cussing or stray nudity, but at the time I needed expert help, and I knew no one more expert in reading romance than them.
My mom, bless her, had no issues taking me to task over how I described female pleasure. I was grossly uncomfortable; she was oblivious. My mother didn’t need to know that I’d dubbed all of her comments as coming from Alpha Reader One to help divorce myself from the most cringeworthy suggestions. However, without my parents sharing their love of reading, I wouldn’t be a successful author.
I also wanted to stay a successful author, which was a major point in favor of keeping my identity from Tamra and bailing on a coffee meet up. I could still send her a gift card and some signed books for answering my questions instead. Revealing my true self to her could potentially mean outing myself to the world if I upset her.
Maybe email was best. It didn’t hurt to try. My nursing questions were pretty basic, but my online research on shifts and hospital roles had yielded a variety of differences among hospital systems. I wanted the straight scoop. Most of my information on what a typical nurse’s day was based off online job postings, which were idealized. It was all rainbows in recruiting. I imagined for patient privacy reasons, there were relatively few nursing blogs that I could read to gain a more human perspective on daily life.
I could always see how Tamra responded to my emails, then decide if we should meet in person.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Labor & Delivery Questions
Hey Tamra,
Thanks again for your willingness to help me! My next project features a labor and delivery ward prominently, and I’d love your help to make it realistic. If you’re game, answering the questions below would be helpful. I’ve done some online research, but I understand things vary a lot from hospital to hospital and region to region. Would you also be up for reading my draft to help me catch inaccuracies? That would be a huge help, and I’d be happy to pay for your time.
What are your hospital’s shifts?
What are the standard job roles?
What do you love about your job?
What do you hate about your job?
What are some funny things that have happened in the delivery room?
What do people get wrong about what it’s like as a nurse?
What is something you wish people knew about being a nurse?
What is something you wish people knew about labor and delivery?
Thanks again,
V
I looked at my clock. It was nearly six. Jimmy was due soon so we could carpool to dinner. Since I had wrapped up my latest manuscript earlier in the day, I was officially off the clock until I started my next project with Tamra. Self-publishing was wonderful because I set my own deadlines, but there was also tremendous pressure to publish at least quarterly, which was grueling. Three months to plot, write, edit, and promote my work was aggressive. Fitting in editing clients on top of that meant I worked a lot of hours. But it paid for my rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle of ... a semi-nice apartment in Tacoma, my health insurance, and both a Nintendo Switch and PS5. Luckily, video gaming at home was my idea of fun. My modest lifestyle had allowed me to save for a rainy day. Running a small business was a nightmare for stability, and I’d had one too many rainy days when a book didn’t sell well. Being self-made had its drawbacks.
Jimmy’s knock pulled me out of my reverie. I moved to the door and looked down to make sure I’d remember to dress today. Something every fully functioning adult does on a Tuesday, I’m sure. Pants, check. Shirt, check. No visible stains. I felt my chin. I hadn’t shaved in a while, but that was normal, so check.
Jimmy grinned when I opened the door. “You remembered.”
I smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, it helped that I finished my latest project today. Head’s finally out of it.”
He snorted. “So that means I won’t have to answer any more fire protection procedural questions, right?”
I laughed. “But you’re so good at it. You make my research easy. Speaking of which, I owe you a beer. Let’s head downtown.”
I could always count on Jimmy to share a few work stories that ran from mildly horrifying to hilarious. On the drive to dinner, he explained how his crew had handled a brush fire on a nearby highway that shut down traffic for hours.
Jimmy was a badass. We played soccer together in school, and I was known for my speed and agility. I could handle the ball well and played midfield. Jimmy was a striker, aggressive and fast on the field. I could see him running into a burning building and never giving up on potential survivors. His love of winning also made him competitive when we played video games, which was a blessing when he was on my team and a curse in individual play.
We walked into the Haven Brewery downtown and found a free booth. Low ceilings and dark wood gave the restaurant an earthy ambience. The space was cozy on rainy days like today.
He waited for our food to arrive before asking, “Any new ladies in your life?”
“Only the fictional ones,” I acknowledged.
“I don't get it, man. If I were you, I’d be at the coffee shop every weekend with an advance copy of my next book, pretending to read. I would casually mention to any cute women that I happened to be the author of the book.”
“You think they’d believe that?” I asked.
“With an advance copy of an unreleased book? I’d hope so. Then you could go on about how you’re all sensitive and shit. Your sex scenes show you clearly know how to treat a woman.”
I shook my head at him. “I love the fantasy, but I don’t see that ending well for me. With a woman I just met? I think I’d get a dirty look goodbye. Maybe a face full of coffee for my trouble.”
It was his turn to shake his head. “Man, you’ve got to try. I’m pretty sure the only date you’ve had for years—other than your hand—has been with me, and I don’t swing that way.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, it’s been established that you like women. It’s hard to meet people. Especially women people. Look around. Everyone is either already with someone or staring at their phone like it contains life’s answers.”
Jimmy laughed ruefully. “To be fair, I’m convinced Google does have all the answers. However, do you ever introduce yourself to new women?”
I gave him a dry look. “You’ve met me. My best dialogue happens between the pages, not in real life. I’m not exactly at Raj levels of shyness, where I have to drink to be able to talk to women, but it’s damn close. Last time I tried it was horrifying. I approached a woman reading and commented on how nice it was she could read. Only after the words left
my mouth did I realize they were condescending as hell, and not what I intended.” My shoulders scrunched near my ears as I sank into my seat in remembrance as Jimmy broke into laughter. The bastard.
“It only got worse from there. I couldn’t shut up. For some reason I complained that everyone who wasn’t reading was lazy, and how I wished I could slap them silly for it. I sounded like a violent asshole. Or a pretentious idiot. All I was trying to do was compliment her on her ability to read in a crowd.”
Jimmy shook his head, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “That’s another reason you should hole up at a coffee shop with a good book and let them come to you. See, then you’re not the one doing the talking. Clearly, it’s not your strength. What about an online relationship? Then you can write everything.”
“Yeah, but eventually, I’d have to meet her in person. And then, what happens if there’s no chemistry?”
Jimmy gave me a tough look. “You have to crawl before you learn to walk. Start with baby steps and learn to talk with women. Ideally beyond the printed page. You’re thirty-five. Do you want to be alone forever?”
“Maybe?”
Really, no. Not at all. However, after more than twenty years of romance reading and a few of romance writing, I wasn’t prepared to settle. Eventually I would meet someone I could talk to. There were nearly eight billion people on earth. I had to be capable of connecting with one.
“I can’t imagine my romance writing friend winding up alone. Maybe my sister can introduce you to someone nice?” He sounded doubtful, and I didn’t blame him.
“Do you really think Andi would, after last time?”
“What did you do?” he asked, a protective warning in his voice. I’d known her since we were little, and honestly, I thought of her as my sister too, so I could understand.
“Nothing gross. She had a friend with her at the coffee shop, and it threw me. I panicked and started babbling on about breasts and made everyone uncomfortable. Some gibberish about how if I wrote for The Twilight Zone, breasts would be secretly watching me all the time, the nipples like eyes.”
Mister Romance Page 4