by Julia Kent
“I have lots of questions about that day, too.” Crossing his arms, Will cocks one eyebrow, winces, and goes into interrogative mode.
“Let me ask mine first.”
“Shoot.”
“You told me to leave with my anal beads.” I hold up one finger and hastily add, “That were most definitely not mine.”
“I did.”
“That means you know what anal beads are.”
“You didn’t?” Oh, his body language.
“I thought it was a dog's chew toy,” I admit.
“Sex toys for dogs? You think there are kinky dogs out there? The whole pet-pampering industry has gone way over the edge, but I don’t think it’s gone that far, Mal. What’s next? Fifty Shades of Rover?” He cracks the knuckles on his left hand, starting with the index finger and working his way down.
“You're changing the subject.”
“How do you know that’s what I’m doing?”
“Because you have this thing you do when you get nervous. You did it in high school and you're doing it now.”
“What’s that?”
“You start cracking your knuckles. One by one.”
He halts mid-crack on his ring finger. His bare ring finger.
Will looks down. A slow smile pulls at his lips. “You’re right. I do.” Our eyes meet. “How did you know?”
“I sat behind you in nearly every honors class, Will. I’ve watched you answer countless questions from teachers. And every time you didn’t know the answer, you cracked your knuckles. One”–I crack my index finger–“by”–I crack my middle finger–“one.” My ring finger won’t snap.
He waits.
“You spent a lot of time paying attention to me, Mallory.”
“I sat behind you. It’s not like I could stare at your ass all day. I had to have something else to look at.”
“You stared at my ass?”
“It was two feet in front of me! Four classes a day!” I start to sweat. The memory of him in football uniform pants. Oh, sweet ice cream fairy, deliver me from evil.
“You okay? You look,” he says, stepping closer, “a little disturbed.”
“I’m fine.”
“Hot, even.” The rise and fall of his chest pauses after those words, as if he's holding his breath, too.
“I am fine! You just need to turn on the air conditioning.”
“It’s sixty-two in here. Remember? You emailed about getting the HVAC company to come fix it because it's stuck.”
We remember to breathe, over and over, magically living through the seconds of some unverbalized emotion I can’t name, but can only feel.
Does he feel it, too?
“Have fun on your date tonight, Mal,” he says softly, biting his lower lip as he smiles at me and turns away, the break in eye contact making me long for a past that just happened. “I hope it goes well.”
“Thanks,” I say, the words so different from what my heart is screaming.
But thanks has to be enough.
12
Bailargo is impossible to miss. Years ago, some town council got money to renovate an old Victorian home, which is now a painted lady.
Painted red.
None of the muted jewel tones you see on old Victorians are anywhere near the Bailargo building. Oh, no. Red, white, and black dominate, with murals. The original ballroom in the house became the main dance-lesson venue. If you have to learn to dance for a wedding, prom, bar mitzvah, Purim ball, cotillion, or any other purpose, this is the place to go.
And to be seen.
Like every Pilates studio on the planet, Bailargo’s dance-lesson clients are there to impress. To have others notice their presence. To take selfies and perfectly positioned Instagram photos, and to be giddy and excited about dance.
I have not danced since college, where arms in the air, foot shuffles, and the requisite booty shake were my repertoire.
Pretty much every college student’s alcohol-infused dance set.
I’m sitting in my car, texting with Perky, five minutes early, when I look up and gape.
Will is walking into the Bailargo building.
Given that there are no other businesses in this building, this can mean only one thing:
I must enter the witness protection program.
Will just went into Bailargo! I text Perky.
Her instant reply: Don't call him Will, Mal. His name is David. Do you shout out the wrong name when you come during sex, too? Geez.
I do not! I reply, incensed. And Will really did just walk in!
Didn’t you decapitate him earlier? How is he walking? That sounds unnatural. Maybe he’s a zombie.
I gave him a small scalp wound, I correct her. Barely a scratch.
You’re lucky he didn’t have you arrested for assault. That's twice he's saved you from your emerging criminal tendencies.
Focus. Focus on the now, Perky. What am I going to do? Will is in the same building where I’m having a first date with Dance Guy.
What if Will IS Dance Guy????? Perky texts back. I can feel her hot breath and shaky jadedness through the phone.
Before I can answer, I get a notification on the dating app. I open it.
Ready to have some fun? David asks in the message section.
Sure am! I type back. Where are you?
Already inside, waiting for you. :)
Damn it.
K. Be there in a minute, I reply, sliding my phone away before realizing I’ve left Perk hanging.
David texted me. He’s inside already. This is crazy, I tell her.
She texts back a popcorn-munching emoji.
So much for friends.
The rearview mirror reflects a vision of my better self. Auburn hair in waves that are so close to curls, the humidity doing its thing. My makeup is crisp, eyeliner perfect, eyes no longer red from doing that eyelid-flip trick Perky swears by. With my pulse tap dancing in my veins, I climb out of the car.
I’m not sure whether I’m more nervous about meeting David or running into Will.
No. Actually, I am sure.
It’s Will.
The studio smells like linseed oil and geranium, a weird combination that works surprisingly well. Gleaming, polished wood floors go on for what seem like miles, rolling on and on until I start to wonder if my depth perception has been altered by panic.
“Mallory?” Will’s over to the left, next to a water fountain, wearing a navy blue polo shirt, jeans, and a confused smile. My eyes dart to the spot where I hit him.
No bandage.
No blood on his collar, either.
“Will!” I feign surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask the same question.”
“This is my date.”
He looks behind me. “Where is he?”
“Oh, hahaha, I mean this is where I’m having my date. With David. David, our first date,” I ramble. If this were a flamenco-dancing studio, could I snap myself to death with castanets and end this misery?
“What are the odds?” Will crosses his arms over his chest, the move making his biceps bulge. There’s not an ounce of fat on him, all of him contoured, strong, and tan.
I narrow my eyes. Was that a dig? Does he think I’m following him? Does he think I have no life and all I do is stalk him to find ways to “accidentally” run into him at the farmer’s market or his lacrosse games or when we shared the same orthodontist freshman year and I figured out his schedule?
Because that is sooooo fourteen years ago.
Okay. Fine.
Ten.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, quirking one eyebrow. Maybe Perky and Fiona are right? Maybe Will is Dance Guy, and this is all an elaborate scheme to get me to go out with him?
Wait. That’s the entire plot of one of my ninth-grade fantasies, with the addition of the app.
Never mind.
“The wedding.”
“Wedding?”
“Remember? I’m a groomsman
in a wedding. The bride requires us to take dancing lessons.”
“Hah. You got a zilla.”
“A zilla?”
“Bridezilla.”
“It’s not that bad.” Shrug.
“I’ll bet she’s an over-controlling, pedantic, neurotic freak who has a high need for perfection and she thinks objects are more important than people.”
“She’s my sister, Mallory.”
Foot, mouth, insert. Awkward.
I try to recover. “Actually, that was my sister that I just described.”
His head tilts, like he’s trying to understand me, as if that shift will somehow give him more power. “That’s right. You have an older sister, too. Hayley? Holly? Hannah?”
“Hastings. She’s four years older than us.”
“My sister is four years older, too. Bet they knew each other in school.”
I don’t know what to say to that, because I know Hasty hated Will’s sister with a burning passion she once compared to a raging yeast infection, so I just ask, “How’s your head?”
“Better. Some ibuprofen, emergency brain surgery, and an ice pack later, I’m good as new.”
I laugh, but I'm suddenly filled with remorse. “Seriously, I’m sorry I hurt you.”
His eyes soften, attention deeper. “Thanks.”
“But if you ever creep up on me like that again, I’ll do the same.”
“What are the odds that I’ll surprise you in my bedroom a second time?” He smiles, mouth closed, dimples emerging, his eyes filled with mirth. It’s as if he actually wants me to quote him a number.
May the odds be ever in your favor.
And why am I recalling Hunger Games when it comes to thinking about being alone with Will in his bedroom?
Because my entire dating life has been nothing but a post-apocalyptic race to the bottom.
Nerves get the better of me and I look down at my phone, wondering where David is so I can move from one awkward conversation to another.
“Uh, excuse me,” I say, wishing my skin didn't feel like a tingling war zone. “My, uh, date is texting me.”
I’m going to hell for that lie, but whatever.
Will takes the cue and crosses the room to a table with lemonade and store-bought cookies, pouring himself a cup as I will my date to say something.
What are you wearing? I type into the app message system.
Nothing.
Two full, sweaty minutes roll by as I wait for a guy to answer the easiest double entendre ever. One hundred twenty seconds of sheer hell pass as I watch a blonde woman talk up Will like she wants to take him home and turn him into her evening protein shake. She's wearing lululemon tights and Jimmy Choos, an unusual combination that seems to indicate she's ready for anything.
Clap clap! A man in a tight, black Lycra shirt, grey fitted slacks, and the most beautiful Italian leather shoes I have ever seen glides like melting cheese on a raclette into the center of the ballroom.
“Hello, hello! My name is Philippe, and I am your instructor tonight. Welcome! Two more minutes for refreshments, and then we DANCE!” The word DANCE comes out of his mouth in capital letters.
Philippe heads straight toward me, eyes meeting mine, his dark, wavy hair slicked off his face with curls escaping at the nape of the neck, a perfectly manscaped moustache adding to his rakish look.
“And you are?” he asks, the words a demand to reveal my soul.
“Uh, Mallory.”
“Uh, Mallory, it is nice to meet you.”
“It’s just Mallory.”
“Are you Uh, Mallory, or Just Mallory?” he asks, mouth pursing with amusement.
I cannot tell whether I like him or hate him.
“Mallory.”
Eyeing me up and down, his expression changes to approval when he sees my shoes. “You have come prepared.”
Will chooses that exact moment to walk over, a lemonade in each hand, and offer me one. I smile a thank you as Philippe watches us like he’s judging a couple on So You Think You Can Dance.
“You are here together?” he asks.
“OH, NO!” I call out, as if it’s the word DANCE. “I’m waiting for my date.”
“Date?”
“First date, actually. I don’t know what he looks like, but...”
“Was his name David, by any chance?” Philippe asks, mouth twisted with disgust.
“Yes!”
“Corporate,” he hisses. “Again!”
Will exchanges a confused look with me, then takes a sip of his lemonade, choosing to stay out of this. One hand goes to his hip as he politely looks away, drinking like it's his job. I can see his profile out of the corner of my eye.
“Excuse me?” I ask Philippe.
“Did you meet him–this David–on an online dating service?”
“Yes.”
Philippe takes my hand as if I’m a mourning widow at her beloved husband’s wake. “Then I am sorry to inform you, Mallory, that David is not coming.”
“Why not?”
“Because David is a salesman.”
“No, he’s not! He’s a conversion consultant.”
Will’s mouth tightens as if he knows something.
“Mallory,” Philippe says sadly, “David works for the corporation that owns Bailargo. He is one of their best salesmen.” Anger flashes in his eyes. “Because he toys with women’s emotions and sets them up for this.”
“This?”
Gesturing at me, he says, “This. You. The poor, lonely single woman looking for love on apps.”
“HEY!”
Are Will’s shoulders shaking?
“Watch,” Philippe says, clapping twice again. “Are any women here for a date with David? First date?”
Two hands go up.
“Oh, God,” I mutter, my hands flying to cover my burning hot, deeply embarrassed face. “What does this mean?”
“David has developed a new technique. He goes to dating apps and pretends to be original, asking women to have a first date at a dance lesson. He is charming and funny and–”
A feral sound comes out of my mouth.
“Sound familiar?” Will asks, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, looking really sympathetic on my behalf.
Which makes me feel even stupider.
“And then the women come here, there is no David, but some of them stay for class,” Philippe finishes.
“You’re telling me your corporate headquarters is hiring a guy who goes on dating sites and convinces single women to come to a dance class with him, then ghosts on them? On the chance that a certain percentage of us will sign up for dance lessons and convert to paying customers?” My voice goes higher and higher, until I start sounding like Mariah Carey the second everyone finishes Thanksgiving dinner and it's time for her songs to start on the radio again.
“Yes.”
“That's horrible!” I cry.
“That’s ingenious,” Will says. My glare makes him add quickly, “And completely unethical, of course. Some men are disgusting pigs.” His brow drops, eyes troubled with vicarious empathy, but they move in patterns that tell me he's processing this information and finds David's business acumen to be worthy of note.
“If you will excuse me, I need to find some tissues for those two women who are, like you, expecting a date with the charming David. Since he started doing this four months ago, sales have increased eleven percent, but my operating supplies have gone up 286 percent with all the tissues!” Philippe glides across the floor and approaches the two women, who are whispering and comparing phone screens.
Bet mine makes us triplets.
I take mine out and open the message app, livid.
You asshole, I type, hitting Send.
I told you women normally say that after the date :) he responds immediately.
There is no date. And no, I’m not buying dance lessons because you lured me here, I add. I’m complaining about you to corporate!
Come on. I’m sure dance lessons
will lift your mood.
I hold the camera up to my left hand, middle finger flying high. I text that back with the message: This is the only thing I’m lifting when it comes to you.
And then I delete the damn app.
Will appears again, this time with more lemonade and a box of tissues under his arm. “Here,” he says, holding out the cup.
“I don’t need to be patronized.” But I take it anyhow and drink some, wishing it had vodka in it.
“Need these?” He offers the tissues.
“NO!” I’m not letting that weasel ruin my night. Who cries over someone with a username like NiceGuysFinish?
Wincing, Will gives me a look that says he’s judging me. I agree. I’m totally judging myself now.
The door is to my right. Without another word, I head for it.
“Mallory!” Philippe calls out as the other two David victims stroll along the room’s perimeter, talking about getting dinner at the new Mongolian barbeque in town. “Please don’t leave!”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not converting to a paid customer so David the Asshole can meet his quota!”
“No, no, no! Tonight’s lesson is one hundred percent free for you, Mallory! It’s just,” he says, looking around the group of dance students with eyes that dart as he clearly counts heads, “even including me, we have an odd number.” One super-old dude with an impressive Duck Dynasty beard appears to be comforting a crying older woman in a Chanel-style suit.
Is that going to be me in thirty years?
“So?” I challenge Philippe.
He looks at Will, then me. “It would be a much richer experience for everyone if we can pair up properly.”
“Do you have any idea what my day has been like, Philippe?” I start, winding up inside, ready to unleash a verbal whip that cracks with emotion. “It’s been kinda long. And very full.”
Will reaches up to gingerly touch the wound I gave him.
Philippe takes my hands in his again, an earnest expression on his face wearing me down. Exhaustion fills me, emotional and physical. My calves ache along with my heart.
“Do not let David win. Let your pain step aside and your soul take over, Mallory,” he says with a dramatic flourish, looking just over my shoulder as if the horizon beckons him to take a journey to the divine.
“Is that a corporate slogan for some advertising campaign, Philippe?”