by M. E. Carter
At the same time, we spent all day making sure no unnecessary personnel found out about the whole mess. Last thing we need is it leaking to the press. Nothing pisses off the people who write checks more than bad PR about their team. Being on lockdown meant no cell phone usage until everyone had been tested and was gone. That meant no texting Joie. Under already strained circumstances, it didn’t sit well with me. But what was I supposed to do?
I was finally able to text her at about seven when we got out of there. She didn’t respond, but I didn’t expect her to. Her biology study group was tonight. Yes, there was a test today, but she refuses to fall behind and the class is kicking her ass.
The house is quiet when I walk in. I toss my keys onto the side table and stretch my arms over my head after the long drive. The only thing on my mind is food; I’m starving. We still have some leftovers from that Filipino place we found in San Antonio. I’m pretty sure it gave me gas last time I ate it, but I’m the only one here. I’ll use some air freshener before Joie gets home.
Dishing all the noodles and veggies onto a plate and popping it in the microwave, I lean against the counter and look around. I’m happy living here. Even with my chair shoved back in the spare room she pretends is a man cave, it already feels like home.
The dryer runs for a few seconds and then buzzes. I wonder how long it’s been doing that. Joie and I left around the same time so it must have been all day. Making myself useful as I wait on the microwave, I pull the load of clean clothes out of the dryer and walk down to our bedroom, dumping all the clothes on the bed. I’d fold them now, but as soon as I hear the microwave ding, my stomach starts growling again. I need sustenance before anything else.
The food is steaming hot and smells delicious. The preliminary bite I take over the kitchen sink is amazing, too. So good that I almost grab and eat the wayward noodle that fell into the sink. Almost. I’m still a gentleman. Pulling a beer out of the fridge, I toe my shoes off and I carry my dinner to the man cave so I can settle in my chair and watch Sports Center.
Five big bites and a few swigs of beer later, my dinner is gone, the empty plate sitting on the table next to me as I relax and enjoy today’s highlights.
A baseball game that went into eleven innings.
A basketball player arrested for what seems like a fist fight at a bar.
Another basketball player in a car accident in LA stopped to do CPR until paramedics got there.
So far, it doesn’t seem like anyone has caught wind of our juicing scandal . . .
A noise startles me awake. Weird. I didn’t realize I’d been sleeping. I must have been more tired than I thought. Rubbing my hand down my face, I look at the clock.
11:47 p.m. Joie must be home.
Sure enough, she walks by grumbling as she carries my shoes.
“Hey!” I call out. It takes several minutes for her to finally return.
When she does, she doesn’t come in the room. Instead, she leans against the door jamb. “Hey.” She’s polite, but not her normal, happy self. “I see you left a noodle for me in the sink.”
This doesn’t sit well with me. I knew I should have left some for her, and now I look like a total prick.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I was hungry. Do you want me to make you something? I think we have a frozen pizza.”
“No thanks. I’m actually not really hungry. Maybe just cranky.”
“Come here,” I say, holding my hand out to her.
She hesitates momentarily, but finally makes her way toward me. She looks exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes and that messy bun thing on her head looks messier than normal. Grabbing her hand when she gets close enough, I pull her onto my lap. She snuggles into me, which I take as a good sign.
“How was your day?” I ask as I nuzzle her neck.
She clings to my shirt like she’s trying to pull me closer. “Not good.”
“How did your test go?”
She sighs a deep, tired sigh before answering. “I don’t know. I either aced it or I flunked. I honestly don’t know which one.”
“How come?”
She unwinds herself from my grasp and leans her head on my shoulder, absentmindedly watching some beer commercial. “I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about Charlie and Isaac and what it all means and what I need to do.”
“I’m not sure there’s anything you can do. I think this is one time you have to let Isaac decide what he thinks is best for him.”
She scoffs quietly. “That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t spent the last eighteen years watching Charlie make promise after promise, only to deliver nothing but disappointments.”
Shifting, I run my hand down her thigh. As much as I hate that this situation is bothering her so much, I love sitting here like this in my favorite chair talking about our day. I could do it for hours.
“You’re right. I wasn’t here. But I don’t think you’re giving Isaac enough credit. When he came to me the other day, he seemed calm. Like he wasn’t making an emotional decision. He wanted information so he could make a really good choice. Give him some time, but Joie”—I turn her to face me—“you have to be prepared. He may want Charlie in his life and that’s not something you can stop.”
“I know.” She says she knows, but I can see the disappointment on her face. “I’ve always said if his father came back around, and Isaac wanted a relationship with him, I would learn to be okay with it. I guess it’s just harder than I thought it would be.” She sighs again and I can tell thinking about it is part of why she’s so tired. “Anyway, how was your day?”
I drop my head against the back of the chair as I remember the fucking nightmare caused by one entitled little brat. “Shitty.”
She crinkles her cute little brow at me. “How come?”
“Off the record?”
“Uh . . . yeah, since I’m not a journalist.”
“I mean from telling anyone. Especially Weaver.”
Her face drops, and I can tell she already understands the gravity of the situation. She nods and shifts her body toward me.
“One of our guys got caught using drugs. More than one kind.”
Joie gasps as I tell her about the drug tests, the athletic director, and the looming PR nightmare if it leaks. It feels good being able to vent to her. To trust that it’ll stay between us and she’s supportive of me after a really hard day. It’s different than when we would talk on the phone at night. Being able to touch her and feel her and watch her reactions takes that bond to a whole different level.
“So anyway, I’m expecting to have to do my own pee test tomorrow and will probably have my office searched. All because of one little punk.”
“I’m glad you guys are getting him into rehab, though.” My eyes drift shut as she runs her fingers through my hair. “You could have just kicked him off the team. I hope he learns a lesson from it.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“When did being an adult get so hard?”
Opening my eyes, I smile at her. “Remember when we were kids and we wanted so bad to be grown up? Were you like that, too?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, her head nodding furiously. “I was going to have a fancy apartment in New York City and live the glamorous life of a super model because obviously my parents had no idea what living a good life actually meant. Clearly, my tiny stature was meant for a runway.”
I chuckle. “You were quite the little shit, weren’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
Pulling her to me, I kiss her quickly. “I think we need a break from adulthood. What do you say we go out this weekend?”
The smile that lights up her whole face is back at those words. “Really? Where are we gonna go?”
I shrug. “I don’t know yet. How about I call Hank and see if we can double date with him and Renee? You like her, right?”
“I do. She’s great. And I think Hank’s funny.”
This time my laugh is more of a disbelieving snort. “Don’t let h
im hear you say that. He’ll try too hard.”
“Noted.”
Rubbing my hands up and down her back as she snuggles back into me, I can already feel some of the tension leave the room. All we need is some fun. A night out with our friends will be just perfect.
“Ballroom dancing? You’re taking me ballroom dancing?” The look on Jack’s face when he finds out where Hank and Renee are taking us is priceless. He obviously didn’t have much to do with the planning part of this date.
“You know how it is,” Hank replies nonchalantly as he drives us through a small business area on the outskirts of Austin. “You tell your woman you’re taking her on a date, and she decides she wants to go dancing no matter how much you try to talk her out of it.”
Renee twists around in her seat next to him, shaking her head and giving me that look every woman knows. The one that says That’s not how it happened. I press my lips together as I try not to smile.
“The way I figure,” Hank continues to lecture, “if I have to suffer through this, next time I get to decide, and we’re doing something more manly. We’re Texas men, dammit.”
Renee pats his arm condescendingly. “We’re from Kentucky, honey.” He ignores her and continues his rant.
“We’ve lived here for twenty-five years. We’re Texans now, and next time, we’re going to the shooting range.”
I cover my mouth to stifle the laugh that really wants to burst out of me. The roll of Jack’s eyes says he doesn’t find this exchange as entertaining as I do.
“We most certainly are not,” Renee argues. “The last time we went to the gun range, you nearly blew off your toe when you unlocked the safety while pointing that thing at the ground by your side.”
Hank points his finger at her, but never takes his eyes off the road. “That was not my fault and you know it. Someone messed with my gun. The safety was too loose like someone had oiled it.”
“You’re the only one who touches that gun, Hank.”
“Obviously not since it had been tampered with.”
“Anyway”—Renee turns around in her seat to continue our conversation—“our daughter is getting married in a few months, and she really wants Hank to know how to dance appropriately. So I promised her I’d make him taking dancing lessons. He’s been resisting for weeks until Jack called the other day about going out.”
“So I got suckered into it,” Jack grumbles.
“Hell yeah,” Hank admits. “I need to bring some backup testosterone in case one of those dancer boys in tights and ballet shoes decides this silver fox is right up his alley.”
There’s no hiding my laugh this time.
“How do you have any friends when you say stupid shit like that?” Jack asks, still sounding irritated.
Hank just shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re the one who called and asked me to get together, remember?”
“Oh my lord. Just ignore him,” Renee advises. “The older we get, the less the filter between his brain and his mouth works.”
“It doesn’t bother me any,” I admit. Jack stares at me wide-eyed, shaking his head frantically, like my admission is about to open Pandora’s box. I’m not worried. “Frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t asked me about my ability to make tacos yet.”
Jack drops his head in defeat. Hank, on the other hand, his eyes light up as he looks in the rear-view mirror. “Can you? Make tacos, I mean?”
“Sorry to disappoint. Except for Thanksgiving turkey and a couple staples, I’m not much of a cook.”
“Dammit.” He actually looks crushed. “I was hopeful we finally got a cook in this little foursome here.”
“Why?” Jack’s tone changes, and he sounds really irritated now. “Because she’s Hispanic?”
“No, you racist shithead. Because she’s a woman.”
“Oh my lord!” Renee yells while Jack smacks his hand against his face. I’m the only one laughing so I guess I’m the only one who finds him funny. Inappropriate . . . yes. But harmless. “You are not allowed to talk anymore for the night.”
Hank mimics zipping his lips and throwing the key away as he pulls into a parking space in front of the Alexander Astaire School of Dance. I highly doubt this Alexander guy is actually related to Fred Astaire, but props to him for making himself sound the part.
We all climb out of Hank’s extended cab pickup—the vehicle of choice for any man living in the Lone Star State—and head into the building. It’s one giant ballroom, complete with a massive dance floor and dark red drapes strategically placed around the room. A woman in a white flowing dress and a man dressed to match stare into each other’s eyes as they glide around the floor, gracefully dancing a waltz.
I watch, mesmerized at how beautiful they look together. It’s like they’re two halves of a whole. They can completely anticipate each other’s moves, and I have no doubt that, if one of them messes up, the other is there to keep them on track. It’s beautiful.
As the music winds down and they end their dance, the patrons begin applauding, to the obvious delight of the dancers. He bows and she curtsies before breaking apart and going their separate ways. The man heads our direction.
“Velcome, velcome!” he says with a strange accent I’ve never heard before. That answers the question about his link to Fred Astaire.
Jack is obviously confused as well. “Is he from some random European country, or is he faking that accent?” he whispers in my ear. I shh him so I can hear what this odd man has to say.
“My name is Alexander Astaire, and I vill be your instructa this evening.”
“My money is on faking it,” Jack whispers. I smack him playfully.
“Let’s get everyone zigned in and ve vill begin.”
The next fifteen minutes is made up of people signing in and making introductions. This is followed by a series of stretches to warm up. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard Hank whisper “My nutsack doesn’t stretch this way” to Renee. Her hand clamped over his mouth pretty quickly.
An hour later, we’ve been taught some basic steps and the instructors are ready to set us loose on our partners.
“Remember,” Alexander calls into crowd of a dozen or so couples, “Zee man alvays leads on zee dance floor. Ladies, you may lead everyvhere else, but vhen you are in his arms, let him be in control.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down like he’s made a joke, and sure enough, several of the women are giggling. Jack rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time and sighs.
“Oh come on.” I hold my arms out in the correct ballroom dancing position. Jack does the same and pulls me to him, ready for the music to begin. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
“I don’t like dancing,” he grumbles. “Didn’t like it when my coach forced us into it at college. Don’t like it now.”
“Okay, Mr. Sourpuss. At least try to have some fun with me and your friends.”
He hrmphs, but I ignore him, trying to enjoy myself despite his grumpy mood. The music begins, and Alexander counts us down. I take a deep breath and prepare to dance with my man, excited about the idea of us floating around the room gracefully. Before I can take my first step, Jack beats me to it.
“Ouch!”
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your foot,” he says apologetically, as I rub my toe. My cute flats are no match for his cowboy boots.
“It’s okay,” I say as I shake my foot out. “Let’s try again.”
We get back in position and listen to the music, waiting for Alexander to give us the correct count again. He does, and we begin dancing. It’s not great, but we’re moving.
Until I step on him this time.
“Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry.”
Jack chuckles. “It’s okay. I barely felt it.”
Smiling through my discouragement, I raise my arms and we get back into position again. Third time is a charm and all that, right? Alexander calls out the count and we begin moving to the music. We make it all of ten steps before Jack steps on my foot again, making me cry out.<
br />
“No! No! No!” Alexander comes stomping over to us and we stand in the middle of the dancefloor while everyone else dances around us. “This iz not dancing. This iz . . . I don’t know vhat this iz. But iz not dancing. This . . .” He waves his hands at us. “This iz a couple that iz completely out of sync.”
I look at Jack and realize Alexander’s not wrong. We are out of sync. And not only on the dance floor. Jack and I love each other, that hasn’t changed. But with work, school, studying, football drama, Charlie drama, Jack’s inability to pick up after himself, and everything else in between, moving in together is harder than we originally thought it would be. It’s just the reality of everyday life, but I thought tonight would at least get us out of the chaos for a few hours so we could just enjoy each other like we used to. From the scowl on Jack’s face, I can see that’s not going to happen. At least not tonight.
“There. Look over there.” Alexander gestures toward Hank and Renee who are, to my surprise, gliding gracefully around the room. Alexander folds his hands together and covers his heart. “You zee how they hold each other. How they caress each other? How they love each other? This iz how you dance with your partner. Like you are making love on the dance floor.”
Jack puts his hands on his hips. “I am not making love to her on the dance floor.”
Alexander ignores him and calls to the other couple. “Come. Come here. Ve’ll svitch.”
Jack scoffs. “What? I don’t want to ‘svitch.’ I want to dance with Joie.”
Alexander cocks an eyebrow at him. “You need to learn to not stomp on her toes first. Come now. My beautiful Renee.” He grabs her hand and practically dances her over to my boyfriend. “You. Dance vith Jack. Show him how to treat hez lady.”
Before Jack can respond, Renee grabs him and waltzes him away. Oddly, he doesn’t seem to step on her toes. Does that mean I’m the problem in this duo?