by Nicole Deese
Which was probably in the best interest of our members.
A lull in lobby traffic inspired me to stretch my legs and peek in on a certain brooding blue-haired girl. The midday break in fitness classes was when Alex usually cleaned the locker room, picking up stray articles of clothing, mopping the floors, and double-checking the lost-and-found bin for personal items that should be held at the front desk: phones, keys, wallets.
Because she’d spent the morning boycotting life, I’d figured that had included boycotting her responsibilities, too. But once again, Alex surprised me. The orange CLOSED FOR CLEANING sign was propped in front of the locker room door.
Pressing my palm to the cool metal, I pushed the door open slowly. Immediately my jaw went slack.
I couldn’t see her from where I stood, but I could hear her. Singing.
Not the kind of singing one does in the shower or while sitting at a stoplight or even while performing in the church choir. This was the kind of singing that could shatter a heart . . . only to stitch it back together again. The raw, youthful sound of her voice was infused with emotion, not just talent.
Not a note out of pitch, not a breath out of place.
I stood in the shadows, hidden behind a tower of lockers. My chest ached from the haunting melody, the lyrics like a sad, solemn lullaby.
“May you always sleep in peace
And never wake up somber
May you always find a path
And never stray or wander.”
She held the last note for several seconds and my eyes pricked with tears, the chorus forcing them to spill.
“When you start to lose your way
When you can’t find words to pray
Hope is just beyond the bend
Reaching out to lend a hand
Don’t give up, you’re almost there
God still hears unspoken prayers
God still hears unspoken prayers.”
The pounding in my chest swelled to the booming beat of a bass line. I wasn’t sure what I’d just experienced, but I knew that Alex’s gift was as unique as it was unexpected. I didn’t want the song to end, and yet it had. She’d gone quiet. The only sound in the room was the slosh of mop water against polished concrete.
I swiped at my damp cheeks. Just like the words in her lyrics, I understood the value of a silent prayer. In the deepest season of my grief, those wordless prayers had been all I had.
I wondered if they were all Alex believed she had, too.
I cleared my throat, doing my best not to startle her as I edged closer to the sink. My quiet approach backfired.
Alex whirled around and chucked the soggy mop at my feet, the long wooden handle clanging against the side of a metal bench.
Our eyes met. The flash of surprise quickly hardened into a defensive scowl, the line of her mouth angry and tight.
Still, I chose not to speak. Words are often the last thing a hurting person needs.
If Alex thought I’d come to scold her for sulking the day away, she was wrong. The girl in front of me didn’t need to be punished. She needed to be loved.
Whatever she was expecting from me died the moment I opened my arms and extended an invitation I wasn’t sure she’d accept.
Seconds passed; she didn’t move. Neither did I.
The war within her was palpable, a struggle of trust and fear. A battle I knew well.
And then her bottom lip began to tremble, her nostrils twitched, her throat bobbed in a sequence of swallows.
Alex rushed forward.
She slammed against me, the force knocking me back several steps. She crumpled against my chest. Her soul-deep sobs were a crushing weight that made my eyes sting.
She was only in my arms for a few minutes, but the way Alex wept, I wondered if these tears weren’t the first she’d cried in a very long time.
When her tears subsided into quiet hiccups, I lowered us to the bench.
Head cradled in her hands, she peeked at me through open fingers. “I haven’t . . . it wasn’t . . .” Another tearful shudder.
I waited.
“I tried . . . to take care of us both.” Alex’s tone was soft, breathy. “We had enough, you know? Enough to make it. She didn’t need him.”
“Who?”
“My mom’s ex—the washed-up football player. He screwed us—just like I knew he would.”
I held her closer. I didn’t need to know the details, I just needed Alex to know that I was here for her. To listen to whatever she needed to process.
She was quiet for a few seconds.
“Syd says I can’t stay here—that she doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of a teenager.” She lifted her head. “But I’ll run away before I get into that car with her on Saturday.”
“Let’s try and take it one day at a time, okay?” Even as I said this, I knew I hadn’t lived that way. I hadn’t allowed my tomorrows to be lived without yesterday’s baggage.
“What’s the point? Sydney thinks I’m just some troubled punk kid with blue hair and a fetish for tattoos—even though I only have one. She won’t listen to me.”
Maybe she wouldn’t listen to Alex, but maybe . . .
I patted her back one last time and stood up. “Why don’t you finish up in here, okay? I need to get back to the front desk.” And find a certain half sister of yours.
I was two steps away from her when I stopped midstride.
“And Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“You have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”
I pushed through the door quickly, before she had a chance to tell me otherwise.
I rapped on Sydney’s office door and then turned the knob without waiting for permission—or, presumably, a dismissal. Sydney sat perched in her black leather chair, peering at her computer screen.
She was alone and couldn’t fake a meeting or a conference call this time. Surely she could stand to take a few minutes to hear me out.
A flash of surprise crossed her face. “Willa? Is there a problem downstairs?”
This would have to suffice as an invitation to enter. I closed the door behind me.
“Actually, yes. There is a problem. With Alex.”
She sighed and returned to work. “This isn’t the place to—”
Alex’s confession fueled my determination as I approached Sydney’s desk. “I know you’re extremely busy and I don’t want to pry into your personal life, but sending her off to boarding school isn’t the answer.”
“It’s her best and only option.”
“Not in her mind it isn’t.” A steady and quiet boldness rose in my abdomen.
She twisted in her chair, a silent exchange playing out between us.
“She’s planning to run, Sydney. If you insist on taking her there, she’ll leave.”
Her eyebrows lowered. “She told you that?”
“Yes.” Another pulse of courage. “Leaving Lenox is not what she wants, and I think with a little guidance she could—”
Sydney shook her head. “I don’t have the time for guidance.” She spread her arms as if to indicate her office. “What you see here is only a fraction of what goes on in my world. Alex needs more time than I can give her.”
“Then let me help.” The words flew out without thought or plan. “Let me help you with Alex.”
Sydney snapped her mouth shut and pushed her back against her chair, confusion wrinkling her brow. “You haven’t even known her for two weeks, how could you possibly help?”
“If you enroll her at the high school I could—”
“Her transcript is a mess. She’s missing credits and has failed several classes due to lack of attendance.” Sydney glanced at the picture on her desk.
“There’s all kinds of options for seniors to make up missing credits, but she would have to get enrolled soon in order to have a chance to graduate with the senior class,” I said. “The counselors can help her make a plan and I could tutor her in whatever subjects sh
e’s fallen behind in.” I softened my voice. “She wants to stay with you, Sydney.”
“She hates me.” But the lack of conviction in Sydney’s voice told me she didn’t believe that. Not for a second.
“No, she needs you, in whatever capacity she can have you. Sending her away will only reinforce her belief that she isn’t valued. You don’t want her to grow up believing that, do you?”
Sydney swallowed. “No.”
She dropped her head to her hands and massaged her temples. “End of the year. I can postpone her enrollment at the academy until the end of the year, but I won’t make any promises beyond that. If it isn’t working here, then . . .”
“Okay.”
She lifted her head and again her eyes focused on the framed picture at the corner of her desk. I took a small step forward to see past the glare of the glass.
A middle-aged woman with short blond hair and a tired smile slung an arm around a much younger Sydney. I blinked, my heart squeezing tight. On the woman’s hip sat the toddler version of Alex.
“A second chance is one of the best gifts we can offer someone in need.” Though I spoke the words, I couldn’t help but think of a similar phrase Patrick had said to me the day I shook his hand at Cougar Mountain.
Sydney’s meditative silence broke as I turned to leave.
“I hope you’re right.”
Chapter Seventeen
Patrick was seven minutes late. Not that I’d checked the clock or paced the front room or obsessively smoothed the kinks from my freshly flat-ironed hair.
My heels clicked against the tile as I walked from the kitchen to the entry and back. Savannah had dug out my black pumps from her dress-up box, insisting that a woman must wear real dancing shoes to dance. The little fashionista had also chosen a flouncy black-and-white top to pair with my dark wash jeans. Sure, they were a few seasons old, but their fit was snug and still stylish, hugging the curve at my hips and lengthening my legs.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like a woman.
A car door slammed and my pulse spiked.
I held my breath while he knocked.
The numbing sensation that spread down my arm and into my fingers intensified as I twisted the doorknob and opened the door.
Patrick stood on my porch, his hands slack at his sides, his lips slightly parted as his gaze traveled the length of me. “You are, without a doubt, the prettiest dance partner I’ve ever had.”
Heat inched up my neck and bloomed in my cheeks.
Under the dim porch light, his hair looked slightly damp, like he’d raked his fingers through it only seconds before—a perfect kind of messy. The ends curled under at the base of his neck and behind his ears. His crisp, smooth shirt was a slate gray that made the transparent blue of his eyes shine in contrast.
“Thank you. I like your . . .” Everything. “Shirt.”
Eyes still locked on my face, he cleared his throat. “You may want to grab a jacket.”
I lifted my arm and my red coat swished around my elbow. “Your observation skills must be lacking tonight.”
He shook his head, chuckled. “No . . . they’re working just fine.”
After I’d locked up the house, he offered me his hand so I could maneuver the concrete porch steps without twisting my ankle. Ever the gentleman, Patrick opened the passenger-side door for me before walking around to the driver’s side.
Blakely, the town next to Lenox, was a thirty-minute drive, but so far, the first five minutes had been filled with nothing but road noise.
He merged onto the old highway that belted the mountain. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the strangely quiet Patrick. He was usually the one to carry conversation—to set me at ease with his lighthearted laugh and calming smile. But the persistent tapping of his finger on the steering wheel and his concentrated stare on the pavement ahead tugged at my nerves.
“Did something happen at the clinic today?”
The question snapped him out of his driving coma. “No, why?”
“You just . . . you seem distracted, is all.”
He shifted in his seat, eyes briefly flickering to my face. “Sorry. I guess I am—distracted.”
“And your parents? Their visit with your grandmother is going well?”
Even through the shadows of dusk, I could see his face soften and his lips twitch. “Everything is fine, Willa. I promise.” He glanced at me. “What’s the latest with your blue-haired friend?”
“That is far from a short conversation,” I mused.
“We have the time.”
Time—ironic from a man who lived his life out of suitcases.
I filled him in on the events of yesterday, careful not to violate her confidence, but curious as to his insight. Patrick worked with people for a living; his feedback would prove helpful.
“You offered to tutor her?” There was a hint of surprise in his tone. “And your boss agreed to letting her stay in Lenox?”
“Yes.” I nodded, smiling as I thought of my new teenage companion. “Alex comes with some complicated baggage, but she’s a good kid.”
The green sign on the right indicated ten miles to our destination.
“Why did you stop teaching?”
“How did you know . . .” I shook my head, realizing the answer before I finished asking the question. Weston. “Wow. My brother must really lack for conversation if he’s boring you with the details of my life.”
A single tap on the steering wheel and then, “He wasn’t. I asked him about you.”
My heart skidded up my throat. “Why?”
He tilted his head toward me, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Are you avoiding my question?”
“Are you avoiding mine?”
“Maybe,” he said with a sly grin.
I fingered the lock button on the side of my door and tried to figure out how best to explain why I’d left the career my heart had been set on since grade school. “I just . . . I needed to take a break.” I cringed internally. Seven years wasn’t a break from a career, it was a death sentence.
“So you’re planning to go back, then? To teaching?”
“Is this a life lesson test?”
Patrick flipped on his right turn signal and veered onto the Blakely exit.
“No.”
An unruly lock of hair curled over his temple, and I tucked my hands under my thighs to keep from reaching out.
I turned my attention to the blue hue of the streetlights. “Have you been here before? To Blakely?”
“First time. Are you offering me a tour?”
I laughed. “Don’t blink for the next twenty seconds and you’ll pretty much see the whole town.”
“Is that small-town sarcasm I hear in your voice?” He pulled into the parking lot of In Motion Dance Studio and put the car in park.
I feigned innocence. “Never. I love my small town.”
“Well, it does have its appeal.” Patrick winked before popping his door handle and stepping onto the sidewalk.
Weston and Georgia were inside the studio, along with three other couples. They were all speaking to a woman in her mid- to late sixties with an oversized red feather pinned in her hair. She wore a snug-fitting dance leotard and a flowy floral skirt to match.
She swiveled on the balls of her feet and stomped her right heel as the door chimed our entrance. “Oh, good. Our last couple has arrived. You two must be Patrick and Willa?”
A tiny thrill zipped through me at the sound of our names sharing a sentence. Stupid.
Patrick and I each shook the woman’s hand.
“I’m Louisa Cherry. You can call me Lou. And this,” she said, sprawling her arms out wide, “is your ticket to greatness—dancing greatness, that is. Although I’ve been dancing since I was a young girl, my tips and tricks can help anyone find passion in their dance steps.” She sashayed her hips.
No struggle with self-confidence here.
Patrick arched an eyebrow at me and I quickly glanced aw
ay, hoping to avoid an outburst of inappropriate laughter. Georgia trotted over to us and gave me a thank-you-for-showing-up smile while Weston offered Patrick a casual salute.
Lou clapped her hands together in a three-count staccato pattern. Patrick bit back another grin, although I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking: “Welcome back to kindergarten.”
“Please stand with your partner. Like this.” Lou stole Weston from Georgia and used him as a class demonstration. Weston’s cheeks pinked as Lou tugged him closer. “This position is called the closed dance hold.” After just a few seconds, she spun away from Weston and encouraged Georgia to take her place.
Lou’s heels clicked across the shiny hardwoods. “First things first. You must become an expert in the basics before you can move on. And ladies, please . . . let your partner lead. That’s his one and only job on the dance floor.”
Patrick stepped toward me and placed his right hand just above my left hip, his grip strong and secure at my waist. My left hand rose to rest lightly on his shoulder. Our opposite hands clasped into the classic ballroom hold. Either Patrick was annoyingly perfect at everything he tried, or this wasn’t his first time on the dance floor.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
“So have you.”
“Yes, but you already knew that.”
He glanced down at me, shrugged. “Well, you never asked.”
Lou checked each couple’s hold, giving Patrick and me a stiff nod.
Apparently we’d passed inspection.
There were a few more tedious instructions before a classical medley played through the studio’s corner speaker.
Without any prompting, Patrick led and I followed.
While the other couples bumped and groaned and argued about who was stepping on whose feet, we simply swayed to the music. We were both comfortable with the basic steps and comfortable with the standard eighteen inches of space between us. My black heels felt light on my feet, providing confidence in a skill I hadn’t used since Savannah was born.
“So . . . what don’t you do, Patrick?”
He pulled his head back slightly. “I’m not sure I understand.”