Come Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  Once I got in, I fell into bed, my whole body shaking. The image of Trina’s naked torso was seared onto my brain. The bastard was screwing around with her, after all! That’s why he didn’t want to have sex when he got back. Then suddenly it hit me: The blonde hair in his brush was hers. He’s been seeing her all along. Everything he’d ever said to me—all of that bullshit about trust—was a lie.

  Hours passed. I paced the room, sobbing, and collapsed on the couch. Then I got up to walk the floor again. Jack must have come home by now, and Trina would have told him what happened. The fact that he didn’t call meant he knew there was no use trying to talk his way out of it. God, what a gullible idiot I’d been! But at last I’d learned my lesson—the one I should have learned before. At least I could thank Jack for that: he’d taught me that I should never trust any man again.

  Nobody wants you, the voice in my head taunted me. Not even your own father. I spent a horrible, harrowing night, crying until my ribs were sore.

  Chapter 28

  Love Bites

  Four days later, I was reliving the scene in my mind for the millionth time when the phone rang.

  “Julia, it’s me. Listen, I really didn’t—”

  “Fuck you!” He thought he could call me after all this time and casually talk his way out of it? “You think I’m so naïve I’ll believe anything, don’t you! But I’m not like Suzanne, clinging to you for dear life. I have my own life—I don’t need you!”

  “I know you do. Let me explain!”

  Hot tears ran down my face. “You think you’re god’s gift to women, don’t you, Jack? I always knew you were lying about Trina, and all those other groupies like Nicole.” Suddenly, viciously, I wanted to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me. “They’re more your type anyway—dopey bimbos with tits for brains. So they don’t present too much of a challenge, right? Get what you came for and go? Well, at least I got something out of all this.”

  His voice was steely. “Oh, what was that?”

  “I went out to some nice places on your dime, and I finally got to see L.A. Even if I was bored with the level of conversation most of the time, at least the sex was decent.”

  For a minute there was silence. “I guess that’s all I needed to know.”

  “Fuck you!” I screamed, but he’d already hung up the phone.

  The next few weeks were pure misery. I kept thinking about Jack; what he was doing, who he might be with aside from Trina. I’d wake up in the morning expecting to feel his arm around my waist, his light rumble on the pillow next to mine. I missed the way his intense gaze softened when he looked at me. His wicked offbeat humor that made me laugh. I longed for his touch so badly that it was a tangible ache pulsing beneath the surface of my skin.

  What an idiot, to trust a guy like that. Why would you think he’d stay away from girls like Trina? All that time, I had believed we were getting closer. I had even let myself think he was falling in love with me. I’d gotten caught in the very trap I’d tried so hard to avoid.

  One morning on my way to work, I passed a taxi stopped at a corner. One of the Floor’s songs was pouring through its open window. I listened until the light changed, Jack’s voice fading away as the cab moved on. Feeling like I’d been kicked in the chest, I almost walked back home. I must have looked distraught, because even Harvey softened his usual curt manner. Several people asked me what was wrong, but I kept it to myself. My instinct had been not to tell anyone I was romantically involved with Jack, and it turned out to be right. That way, I only had to tell Vicky and Meredith that we’d broken up.

  Vicky tried to cheer me up over drinks. “Look, you’ve had an experience not many women get. You went out with a British rock idol! Try to go with that and move on. Just because he turned out to be a prick doesn’t mean you aren’t great.” She finished her vodka and waved the waiter over for the check.

  In my defense, I did try to think of it that way—but it did no good. I didn’t care that Jack was a superstar; I just missed the man I’d stupidly, hopelessly fallen in love with.

  Three weeks after I’d given Isabel’s chapters to Harvey, he called me in to discuss them. His dour expression made bile rise in my throat. “I know you’re champing at the bit to acquire something, but this didn’t grab me at all,” he said. “You have to wade through so much drivel about her childhood before she gets to Hollywood. Then it picks up somewhat, but these B-list celebs are a dime a dozen. I published a bunch of them at Esiness, and not one netted more than fifteen thousand copies.”

  All my hard work, all my visits to Isabel—my chances of getting promoted—were circling the drain. Frantically I tried to come up with a rebuttal. “I think women readers will respond to her mother’s abandonment. And so many people were fans of her show. You don’t think they’d want to read this?” I ended weakly.

  “I’m just not seeing it. Tell you what, have Briar take a look. She’s great at scoping out what the public wants, in terms of celebrities.”

  Slowly I returned to my desk. There was no way Briar would support my project, particularly since she was still waiting to hear if Pryce Rayner wanted to sign on the dotted line. Apparently he’d been awol for the past couple of weeks.

  “How’d it go?” Meredith came into my office.

  “He hated it. But he threw me a bone, saying I could let Briar weigh in since she’s the expert on all things celebrity.”

  Meredith scowled. “He’s so full of shit.”

  My jaw dropped; I’d never heard her curse.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said. “Make some copies, and I’ll give them to Charlie and Kate. She at least owes you for all the reading you’ve done for her. If they like it, they can help you defend it at the next meeting. If not, they can just zip their lips. Don’t bother giving it to Briar; she’ll just shoot it down.”

  I went to the copy machine, feeling like this was a waste of perfectly good paper.

  Art had been calling me, and eventually I decided to have dinner with him. Since I’d been picking up my phone on the weekends, he’d figured out that I was single again. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but told myself it might help to take my mind off of things. He looked handsome in a blue button-down shirt under a navy dinner jacket, his sandy hair cropped short from a recent haircut.

  “It’s great to see you,” Art said. As he pulled out a chair for me, I recalled his charming old-school manners. His gray eyes regarded me as I ordered sake along with a Japanese beer to calm my jumpy nerves. “You’ve been working hard lately.”

  I took a sip of the hot sake, letting it scald my throat. “I’ve had some catching up to do. How are your classes going?”

  “They’re great. I’m doing the survey of American Lit, and my usual Faulkner seminar.”

  “People used to rave about your seminar. I would have taken it if I’d gone for a Ph.D.” His courses were considered among the best in the department; it didn’t hurt that he was younger and cuter than most of the other professors.

  “Do you ever think of going back?” Art asked as our sushi came.

  “To school? Not really. Right now I’m focused on trying to get promoted.”

  “I’m sure you can do anything you set your mind to. You always underestimate how smart you are. And how beautiful.” His gaze took me in. “But you look like you’ve lost weight. Are you doing all right?”

  “I’m okay.” My eyes misted. I pushed my plate away and belted back my sake.

  “Hey. Let’s get out of here.” He signaled to the waitress and we stepped into the cool September night. I shivered in my jean jacket; I needed to make a trip to Alice’s soon and find a winter coat.

  “Come over for a brandy?” When I didn’t answer right away, he took my arm and drew me along Thompson Street. Stepping into his immaculate, smoke-free apartment after a year’s absence was strange, as if I were going back in time to my bright-eyed younger self. As Art went to pour the drinks, I scanned the titles on his built-in bookcases, all ne
atly ordered by subject. Suddenly I flashed on the piles of 45s spilling off Jack’s shelves; the overflowing ashtrays; his chaotic closet. I saw Jack standing in his kitchen, naked but for a frilly apron; Jack shirtless, eyes closed, strumming his guitar. As Art came toward me holding out a snifter, I blinked to rid myself of the image.

  “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the leather couch. Instead I perched on a chair. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Did you see I tiled the kitchen wall?”

  “It’s really nice.” Like everything else in his apartment, his kitchen looked like it could be in a home décor magazine.

  “Thanks. I’ve been teaching myself to make a few dishes. I get tired of eating out all the time.”

  “I should learn to cook too,” I replied thickly, the brandy numbing my tongue.

  “You don’t look very comfortable over there.” He patted the spot next to him.

  I sat on the sofa, and he moved closer. “You aren’t seeing that guy anymore, are you? The editor.”

  “We’re taking a break. Actually he wasn’t in publishing.”

  Art looked surprised. “What’s his line of work then?”

  I gazed into the honey-colored liquor in my snifter. “He’s a musician,” I said quietly.

  “Oh. What orchestra is he with?”

  “Not classical. Rock.”

  “Where does he play, those clubs on MacDougal?”

  I shrugged.

  Art frowned. “I can’t see you with someone like that. Did he read much?”

  “He was very smart. And a brilliant composer.” I tipped my glass and drained the remaining brandy.

  “Well, I’m composing a paper. Does that count?” Art asked with a smile.

  I tried to smile back, but I was too sad. “I’d better go.” Unsteadily I stood up.

  “Let me get you a cab. I don’t think you should walk home.”

  We took the elevator to the street. Art gazed into my eyes. “It’s good to see you, Julia. Can I call you again?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. Art put his hands on my shoulders. Before I knew it, he’d pulled me to him and was kissing me. I’d forgotten how nice it felt to be in his arms; his crisp clean scent of spicy cologne. “Why don’t you come back up?” he asked, holding me close.

  “N-not tonight,” I stammered.

  Art hailed a cab for me. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said before shutting the door.

  The phone rang as I was gulping my second glass of water, trying to dissipate the effects of the sake. Dot had been calling more often since Jack and I broke up, saying she was worried about me. Tonight she regaled me with her friend Paulette’s middle son’s girlfriend troubles, and then asked where I’d been earlier. “You’re seeing that professor again? I thought he got back with his wife.”

  “They’re getting divorced. Anyway, it wasn’t really a date; we were just catching up.”

  “I imagine it was a date in his mind. Most men don’t take you out to dinner just to be friends.”

  “Things have changed since you were dating, Mom.”

  “Who says I’m not dating?”

  “Are you?” Maybe it would be good if she were seeing someone; she’d seemed awfully solitary lately.

  “Not at the moment. But I could be.”

  I sighed. “I realize that. Anyway, I’m not sure what’s going to happen with Art.”

  “You’re really through with Jack? I liked him a lot.”

  “I know. You’ve told me that about six times.” And every time she said it, I felt even worse.

  “Maybe that woman in his apartment was just a one-time thing. People do make mistakes, you know.”

  “I don’t think that qualifies as a ‘mistake’. Anyway, he hasn’t even called me again. He’s probably forgotten all about me by now.”

  Chapter 29

  The Bed’s Too Big Without You

  I had planned to go to a movie with Erin, but I was so depressed I took a rain check. I put on Billie and stared at the pigeon convention on the rooftop across the street. Maybe Dot had been right; maybe I shouldn’t have come to New York, after all. Both my love life and my career seemed to have gone up in smoke. Midway through “Am I Blue?” the phone rang.

  “Julia, how are you? It’s Suzanne.”

  With mixed emotions, I managed to say hello.

  “Jack doesn’t know I’m calling you.” My spirits sank; for a second I’d hoped that he’d asked her to get in touch with me. “I just got back from visiting my Mum in England. I wanted to tell you about the thing with Trina; what a cockup. But it wasn’t what you think.”

  “How could it not have been?” I asked, hurt that she’d try to sweep it under the rug. “She was in his bed.”

  “Just listen to what happened. She used an old picture of her with Jack to convince the new doorman to let her up. She probably bribed him too. Anyway, he’s been fired. Jack had no idea she was there; he was over Sammy’s place. When he got home, she wouldn’t leave and he had to call the cops. It’s all on record, if you don’t believe me.”

  I could hardly take it in—Jack hadn’t been sleeping with Trina after all? “But why did he wait four days to call me?”

  “I know. He was being a sod. Then when he finally did call, of course you were furious. He’s been running around like a wild man lately, out until five in the morning, dragging Sammy and Mark from bar to bar, party to party. It’s like he’s having his last meal on death row.”

  Tears brimmed my eyes. For a second I felt much better, but then I thought about his waiting so long to call me. Letting me believe the worst all that time was unbelievably hurtful. And then when he did call, I’d implied I never really cared about him. Now he was off on a binge of partying, which meant he was getting hit on every time he turned around.

  “We had a pretty big fight on the phone. I said some awful things. But he deserved it.”

  “I told him he needs to get down on his knees to you and apologize. Look, I know Jack pretty well. He cares more about you than anyone else he’s been with, ever since I’ve known him. And that covers quite a lot of girls,” she added matter-of-factly. “If he loses you, he’s going to wind up regretting it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time. You really seem to love him for who he is, not what he can do for you. That’s why he’s being so skittish; he knows he needs to make a commitment to you, but he’s terrified to do it.”

  “If that’s true, then why he hasn’t gotten in touch with me?”

  “Why don’t you call him? I’ll bet deep down he’s hoping you will.”

  “Me call him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

  Suzanne sighed. “You know these guys and their pride. He mentioned that you said talking to him bored you. And you were only using him to take you places.”

  “I was really upset. I didn’t mean it.”

  “I told him that. I’ll try to get him to call you. The two of you have to work this out.”

  On the way back from my run the next morning, I came upon a messenger standing on the curb, gazing up at my building. I took the box upstairs, peeled off my sweaty clothes and tore it open. The first thing I saw was Jack’s face staring at me from the cover of his new album. He looked rakishly handsome in a torn shirt and frayed jeans, his arm around Sammy’s shoulder, Patrick and Mark pointing at something outside of the frame.

  Behind the record was another thin cover. Carefully I eased off the brown paper wrapping. It was a vintage Hank Williams album, protected by a sheet of opaque vellum. On the lower right hand corner Hank had inscribed his name. A piece of notepaper fell to my lap. I could barely read Jack’s slashing scrawl: “I began looking for this in July. Also wanted you to have a copy of our new one.”

  I ran to the phone; this was the perfect excuse to call him. Maybe there was hope for us, after all. But although I dialed his number again and again over the following week, he never picked up. Apparently he was sleeping somewhere else.

  Several days later
I was supposed to go with Art to his department’s annual cocktail party. I had been seeing more of him lately; he’d been so sweet to me, asking me how I was doing without prying into what had happened. And from the way he looked at me, it seemed that he really did care for me. I’d told him I wasn’t ready for a romantic relationship yet, but it would be so easy to slip back into it. We had so much in common; knowing the same people from the Lit program, loving the same books.

  This was the first time I’d been in the English lounge since I’d graduated. I was anxious about appearing with Art, but everyone was welcoming.

  “You remember Julia,” Art said to Phil, his best friend and racquetball partner.

  “Nice to see you again.” Phil shook my hand. “I hope we’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the future. Did you hear Chuck’s giving Farley tenure?” he asked Art.

  “Only because Farley covered his Dimensions of Diaspora course for the metacriticism conference.”

  “I’m going to check out the hors d’oeuvres,” I said. As a student I’d been in awe of the professors’ scholarly talk, but now it seemed a little removed from reality.

  After the party, Art and I walked to his apartment in the brisk late October wind. He poured brandies and we settled in on the sofa. “I hope that wasn’t too boring for you,” he said.

  “Oh no, it was great to see everyone.” I sipped my drink, feeling the pressure of his thigh against mine. His hair was growing out some; I liked the way it curled around his ears.

  “What were you doing the other day at work? You seemed in a big rush to get off the phone,” Art said.

  “Harvey needed a bunch of letters done right away.”