by Maya William
He then performs a vision test, where he determines I don’t need glasses, which he checks off on his list.
Afterward, he takes me out to the range, where we use Zach’s car. The familiarity gives me a fraction of relief. Jack sits in the passenger seat.
My nerves remain on edge while my hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles whiten, but I try to keep a cool head and remember everything Archie taught me, from checking my mirrors to parking.
Constantly, I repeat Grams’s mantra, trying to keep my nerves at bay. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.
When we return to the parking lot, my hopes of acing the test go down the drain as I realize too late that I took two parking spaces.
Darn it! I screwed up the last part.
With a heavy heart, I turn off the car, remove my seat belt, and step out to assess my poor parking job.
“Okay.” Jack steps out of the vehicle, his eyes going over his checklist to do one final review. “Your score is good, except for a minor point deduction for the parking, which can be rather tricky if there aren’t any vehicles nearby to work as a guide. However, I’d recommend you continue practicing, and keep up the good work. Let’s go to the office to fill out the paperwork and give you your license.”
OMBG, I did it! I did it! Wait. Did he say license as in driver’s license?
As he heads into the building, my head snaps toward Archie, who smiles widely.
“He meant permit, right?” I whisper.
What about the whole one-hundred-and-something days with the learner’s permit?
He shakes his head. “Believe it or not, I am a certified driver’s ed instructor. I know what I’m doing, though I don’t plan to let you go alone until you prove yourself.”
Twenty minutes later, after filling out the paperwork and getting my picture taken, I hold my driver’s license in my hands.
“Thank you for your help,” I cheer and hug Archie.
He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. “Hey, Twinkle Toes, you did it on your own. I only helped with a little encouragement.”
He chuckles, his blue eyes twinkling down at me.
“A little encouragement?” My eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “You practically pushed me into it.”
“It worked, didn’t it? And way before our deadline, my lady.” He bops my nose with a finger. “Samuel lost the bet, which makes this achievement a lot sweeter.”
He releases his hold from around my waist, which makes me bring my arms down.
Oh, I can’t be mad at him. He did, after all, make it possible.
“Now, Joy, we need a picture to commemorate this milestone. Miss Samantha Melbourne can officially operate a vehicle according to the State of Colorado.”
“It’s only a driver’s license.” Joy giggles, but pulls out her cell phone, opens her camera ap, and motions for us to get closer.
“Twinkle Toes, show to the world your new ID,” Archie orders.
I gladly hold up.
Before snapping the picture, Archie puts one of his arms around my waist and lifts me, my feet leaving the ground. “Look at the camera and say ‘cheese,’ my lady.”
I follow his instruction, making him laugh.
After Joy gives us a thumbs-up, he sets my feet on the ground.
“Now, time for lunch and, most importantly, to create the list of food we’ll need for this upcoming week,” Joy reminds us, giving her phone to Archie.
A corner of his lips quirk up, and with a mischievous glint, he quickly types something on it, laughing. Afterward, he returns it to Joy.
“And the best part, Joy”—He glances at her, his features coming alive while he rubs his hands together — “we get to suggest what the menu should be.” He raises his finger and makes quotation marks around the word suggest.
Joy high-fives him.
“Of course, we do.” She throws her arms upward and shouts a hearty, “Yahoo!”
Should I be afraid of their suggestions? Oh well, Archie got me a driver’s license, and it’s going to be Joy’s B-Day. I’ll let them go crazy with the menu, but only this time.
The Heart on My Hand
When I arrive at the studio, I´m startled when something moves behind the desk. My hand flies to my heart as my gaze darts to it. It takes me a few seconds to gather my wits and identify the unexpected figure as Melissa.
“Do you come to work often on Sundays?” I ask, worried her job takes her away from her family.
She smiles as she focuses on me. “Hello, Samantha! No, this is the first time. But you know how things get before a presentation. Maria asked me to prepare a few last-minute items before their trip.”
Oh, shoot! I totally forgot about Maria and Samuel’s trip.
“Right,” I unnecessarily drag out the word.
“They already expect you at the studio right next to Maria’s office.” She winks and points at the hall.
I nod.
“Perfect.” She gives me a thumbs-up and returns her attention to the computer.
After a quick wardrobe change, I head to the dance studio and silently step inside. My gaze goes right to Samuel’s dancing figure.
Every single time, he manages to steal my breath away, not only with his good looks but with his excellent dancing.
If I ever decide to pursue ballet professionally, I would never get tired of dancing, but Samuel would add an extra touch of motivation I’ll probably need now and then.
Well, honestly, I wouldn’t mind looking at him all day long, dancing or no dancing.
Maria’s voice startles me, bringing me back to reality. “Warm-up, Samantha.”
My ogling Samuel doesn’t stop while I stretch; instead, it intensifies.
What, BG? Maria said to stretch, but she didn’t forbid me from multitasking.
After I finish, Maria quickly brings me up to speed on the new routine we’ll practice today. Samuel joins us, stealing my hand in the process.
Okay, now my brain won’t be able to register anything else.
She explains the choreography, then we perform it slowly together. Samuel corrects some moves and tells me the story about two lovers being separated by a specific circumstance, then he asks me how to put emotion behind the dance.
“The dance in itself is rather easy. The tricky part lies in transmitting your emotions to the audience. Let’s prove we can excel at storytelling without using our words, but with our moves. My goal is to see them in tears,” Samuel explains with a small smile.
Tears? How?
“Have you ever loved and lost something, or someone, and there’s nothing you can do to get it back, no matter how hard you try?” Sadness fills his eyes.
“Like death?” I ask, not really understanding what he means.
He nods tentatively, not looking fully convinced by my comparison. “It could be. Depends on who you think of.”
“Like Grams?” I propose.
He shakes his head.
“The story goes more down the line of two lovers doing their farewell dance.”
My knees tremble as a cold sensation runs down my spine.
Please, Big Guy, don’t let this be his farewell dance with me.
When the music starts, my back straightens as I recognize the theme from Jurassic Park. It’s a masterpiece, even though it comes from an old movie about a dinosaur park. However, the arrangement manages to get me all teary. There’s something melancholic about the sound of the cello mixed with the piano.
My skin fills with goose bumps as I picture the story Samuel explained before.
Oh My Big Guy!
Afterward, we practice the dance, focusing on memorizing the choreography together with the beats of the dance, so later, it comes naturally. Then, I can focus my attention on conveying the right sentiment.
Once Maria and Samuel agree on the basics, we practice the routine several times without any music.
A few hours later, Maria wants us to perform it as if we’re on stage.
�
�Ready?” Samuel asks, and I nod. “Time to add some feeling to it, partner.”
Partner? What happened to Beautiful? Heck! I’d even accept Kiddo now.
Mumbling below my breath about the change of nicknames, I walk to the center of the dance floor and sit as we practiced, waiting for the first simple notes from the piano to cue me.
Once the music starts, I rise from the floor, ready to tell the sad story of two lovers’ last meeting before they need to part, with a vague and almost impossible hope of meeting again.
With a simple en pointe walk, I move from one side of the stage to the other, searching for my special somebody to join me. I place my hand over my eyes as if straining them to catch sight of my beloved. Then, I move to the other side, mixing the movements with some basic twirls and holding some of the positions to fit with the tempo of the music.
After the small piano solo, the cello joins in, and I stop, staring at him from a distance, wondering if he notices me. I wait there, hypnotized, and not necessarily because of his perfect movements.
When he turns toward me, he stops for a few seconds, his eyes softening when he locks them with mine, and a small smile reaches his lips. Softly he tilts his head toward me and extends his arms, inviting me to come to his side.
The soft piano notes cue me. We run to the middle of the dance floor, Samuel lifting me into his arms when he reaches me, happy to hold me again, seizing what is probably the last moment we’ll ever share.
The dance at times feels too personal: the way he looks at me, and how his hands move slowly along my body as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of it, so that when we part, he can always remember me. The way his beard tickles my ear, and how his soft, warm breath touches my face makes me gasp.
I don’t recall choreographing any of the kisses he places on my hair or the way his nose traces slowly down my forehead.
Wow, Big Guy. When Samuel asked to add some feeling to it, he meant it. I wouldn’t like to be left behind. After all, we seek perfection.
In the next move, when he lifts one of my legs while I have my arms around his neck, I make sure my body presses hard against his. He responds by gripping my leg tighter, pulling me closer. As he slowly dips me, his nose moves from my chin to the base of my neck.
Oh, Big Guy.
As choreographed, he needs to let go of me, which I reluctantly allow. Each ready to part the way we came from, we dance backward while facing each other, extending our last moment together as long as we can.
The way his face crumbles makes my chest ache. A series of questions pop up in my mind. Why does he need to leave? Why can’t he stay with me? And why does it feel as if we share the same feelings? And if so, what stops him from moving forward?
It seems my heart is in tune with the dance, the choreography, and the story.
My heart soars when I run back to him, and he catches me with open arms. His embrace lets me know that no matter what circumstances life brings, he’ll always miss me, but above all, he’ll always love me.
He turns around with me in his arms, his eyes never leaving mine, pulling me closer to him. Closing my eyes, I place my forehead against his, improvising this touch.
Or should I say needing it?
When he stops turning, I open my eyes, preparing to continue with the dance as he gently puts me down. He stops me from making the next move and instead touches my chin. With a small, subtle move, he gently directs it upward, making me lock eyes with him.
That look alone lets me know I’ll be the ghost who will haunt him day and night. I’ll forever be the what-if of his life. Always expecting the moment we can be back together again, even if the chances of that happening are close to none.
Or at least in the story, Big Guy, so please don’t take any inspiration from the dance for real life.
For a moment, my attention is on the emotion rather than the perfection of my lines or posture. Showing him how greatly I’ll miss him once he leaves becomes more important than anything else.
He embraces me firmly and rests his head on top of mine, the warmth of his body welcoming me, telling me I’ve found my home. A few seconds later, he slowly lets go, his eyes never abandoning mine.
We back up again, the gap between us growing, but the sad, desperate look on his face never changes. The light in his eyes dims with every step I take away from him because, this time, it’s for real—or at least that’s what the dance needs us to explain.
As we say our painful farewell, I put one of my hands on my heart. As if grabbing it, I bring my hand up, open it, and blow him a kiss, as if saying, It’s already yours, no point in keeping it. Take it.
He catches the kiss and places it on his heart, something we didn’t choreograph, but somehow, it feels right. He then mimics my move, and I do the same, placing his heart inside the gap mine left behind.
A tear escapes my eye when the music comes to an end. With the back of my hand, I wipe it away, keeping my gaze down, not daring to glance at Samuel, afraid of what I might find behind those beautiful dark eyes.
The spell of the dance lifts, bringing me back to reality, though my mind remains far away, wondering how much of the dance might have been real. I know that exposing my heart’s yearning to Samuel took little acting on my part.
When I turn to Maria, she holds a tissue, and a bawling Melissa stands on the sidelines.
Mission accomplished.
A loud bang scares the bejesus out of me, and my hand flies to my chest, distracting me from the ache in my heart. On instinct, I turn toward the source of the noise: the door of the studio. The idea of the wind shutting it crosses my mind until I notice Samuel’s no longer in the room.
“Sorry, I didn’t follow the choreography,” I mumble to Maria, knowing she might be mad about the few improvisations we did.
“Samantha,” she chuckles. “I loved the way Samuel and you modified it. It felt right and got the message to the audience.” She points at herself and Melissa, who still cries. “However, I highly doubt Pierre will ever get the same result when he puts it on a stage and makes Samuel dance it with anybody else.”
As I picture Samuel performing this piece with another girl, my heart screams at the preposterous idea.
Oh, Big Guy, please stop me from imagining this. I’m only hurting myself.
“Pierre is crazy if he believes he’ll ever get this kind of reaction out of Samuel with another dancer,” Melissa declares, earning a nod from Maria.
Who’s Pierre?
The door to the studio opens, and Samuel strides back in, shoving his cell phone inside his bag. “We’re not doing this dance.”
“But Pierre specifically asked—”
“No!” He shakes his head at Maria. “If he wants it done, he better choreograph the dance himself.”
Maria eyes Melissa.
“Hun, I’m not certain he’ll agree to do that,” Melissa intercedes.
“He just accepted, with the condition of me staying three extra days and performing the presentations during Thanksgiving week.”
Wait! No! That doesn’t sound like a fair deal.
My head snaps toward him, but he keeps his gaze on his aunt.
“We’ll be here by Thursday, Maria. Don’t worry about upsetting Mom.”
Not soon enough if you ask me, Big Guy. We just lost three days.
The Cat’s Out of the Bag
Afterward, despite Maria’s complaints, Samuel declares he’s no longer in the mood to keep dancing and practice is over.
I, on the other hand, have mixed feelings: A part of me wants to do the dance over, to experience the closeness again. Another part cheers, knowing he won’t perform this dance with anybody else, even if it costs us three extra days.
During the drive back home, he remains distant, lost in his thoughts. When he drops me off, he bids me farewell with a small smile, then drives back to his house.
The moment I step inside the house, Lyra greets me with the hateful textbook in her hands.
; Really, BG? Physics? Now?
“Samantha?” Lyra tries to get my attention back on the subject she’s explained for the tenth time. “You’ve been very distracted today.”
Bet you would also be after that dance.
“Sorry.” I rub my eyes. “It’s been a rather long weekend.”
“Well, you’re set up for our test tomorrow.” She closes the book. “We might as well enjoy whatever we have left of our Sunday.”
Lyra laughs when I jump up from my chair and make a run for it. She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I only have a couple hours left of the day, but I want some me-time.
“Here, Rasputin! Here, boy!” I call my little Sunday date, hoping to take advantage of Abigail not being in the house, since she drove off with Joy and Barb to pick up our dinner. “Time for a walk.”
The sound of his little paws approaching the door alerts me he reached the garage door. After I open it for him, he welcomes me by jumping up and down excitedly.
“Go get your leash!” I tell him and laugh when he runs off to where Archie stores it.
“Samantha, would you mind if I join you today?”
At the sound of Oliver’s voice, my back stiffens, finding his request odd.
Not that there’s something wrong with him—he usually takes my side in arguments with my family. However, we hardly spend any time together. Usually, he keeps himself busy with the bullying investigation or working on grading papers and preparing his classes.
“S-s-sure,” I reply.
We walk to the coat closet together, and he helps me put mine on. While he fetches his, I order Rasputin to stay still, allowing me to attach his leash. Over these last three weeks, he’s learned the dynamics of our walks and, at least with me, follows orders like an obedient little dog.
Oliver closes the zipper on his vest, and the sound makes me look over at him as he puts on a scarf.
Rasputin barks, clearly missing the spotlight, and steals a chuckle from me. I pat his head to calm him, then stop mid-movement, realizing the outside temperature will continue to drop when winter hits us. There will come a time when his fur won’t be enough protection. Ironic as it sounds, he needs a sweater and some small socks designed for dog or something to protect his little paws.