The Light of Day

by Kristen Kehoe

  I need this to stop, but I know that’s going to take almost as much choreography, if not more, than Miguel has already used on the night. Not because he won’t hear the word no, he will, but the way he hears it is imperative to our continued dancing relationship. Which is why I’ve always given the sly no when faced with a steamy look from him—I know better than to mix business and pleasure, because there are always repercussions. In this case, if Miguel thinks I’m rejecting him, he’ll be mopey, devastated, and then transition to angry and our chemistry onstage will suffer. I need him to want me, even in a limited fashion, or our ability to connect and portray lovers is gone. But I also need him to get the hell off of me, because the way he’s grinding and stabbing around down there is definitely going to leave bruises.

  “Preciosa,” he whispers as he fingers begin to slide to my nether regions. Looks like the music has cut to the bridge and we’re working our way toward the finale. Cue the tremble.

  It might make me a bad person to admit it, but acting on stage for so long has given me a kind of edge when it comes to the people around me. I know what they need to see or feel from me in order to believe the words that come out of my mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of pathological liar, just a realist who uses her talents to avoid hurting people and/or my relationship with them. When something isn’t working—and this night is definitely not working—I give the other person what they need to be satisfied with the way we end things. With some people, like Miguel, it’s a story they can believe that indicates no fault on their part whatsoever. Right now, that story is the overwhelmed, scared, almost-virgin who just isn’t ready for the feelings her body is consumed with. Hello, Latin ego, my name is the helpless damsel, and I need you to protect me from your big, bad self.

  “Miguel, wait.” My voice is breathy, pitchy, as the words tremble out in tune with my body. I put my hand on his shoulder and nudge gently. A shove would be too obvious, too bold, when what I want him to feel is a fear of feeling, not a fear of him. I know, I may as well major in psychology for all the shit I’ve begun to understand about humans.

  “Se mio,” he murmurs against my throat, his hands now gripping and massaging my inner thighs, and I add more trembles, biting the inside of my cheek until tears spring to my eyes.

  “Miguel, por favor, please. Wait.”

  On cue, he lifts his head, his eyelids expertly lowered, his gorgeous golden depths almost liquid as they stare at me. To someone who doesn’t know him, he looks like a man consumed by passion, a lover ready to give himself over to the craving of his body. But I do know him, which is why I quickly note that his hair is still perfectly parted and styled, and his breathing isn’t heavy nor uncontrollable, which is his tell when he’s really worked up about something. No, Miguel isn’t any more into this than I am, he’s just a man, which means that any finish line is there to be crossed, whether or not the desire accompanies it.

  Ah, well, time to do us both a favor.

  “Posie, mi amor, what’s wrong?”

  His accent is thick, but I think it’s more contrived than anything. Unlike his older brother, Miguel didn’t emigrate from Puerto Rico to the United States, he was born here after his parents made it big on the ballroom dance scene, and although he speaks fluent Spanish, I have a sneaking suspicion that the language of his heart is actually English, which disappoints him enough to have him faking a connection with a place he’s never really been that connected to. Since I’m no poster child for a normal family—hippie mommy, old school daddy—I don’t judge him.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for this. It’s so much, so fast.”

  I add a few more trembles, blinking rapidly as if to stave off the tears, when in reality the irritation to my contacts has the moisture spilling over. Thanks, Miss Kenny, for all of the acting tips when I thought theater was my calling instead of dance.

  “Oh, did I hurt you?” He’s crooning to me now, shifting and sitting up, tugging on me until a flow naturally onto his lap in where he holds me comfortingly. The move reminds me of one from our last dance where he held onto me and we rolled from laying to sitting in two perfect motions, intertwined and desperate to never let go.

  “No, but I’m…I’m just not sure I can do this. I haven’t ever felt like this before, all these things, and what you were doing…I’ve only been with one other person and it wasn’t like this.” I’m not lying when I say any of this. I have only had sex with one other person, and it wasn’t like the moment I just shared with Miguel; instead, it was mind blowing, which is probably why I haven’t slept with anyone else in the almost three years since. I’ve wanted to, even come close a few times, but nobody has every captured my attention, or my body, the way it was that first time, and all of those other times that came in the six weeks following.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought I was ready, thought I could do this and everything would be…” Interesting? Definitely the wrong word of choice when saving a fragile ego. “Different. But it’s not. I hope you’re not mad.”

  “I know how you feel. Feelings, they’re hard, and sometimes the timing is just wrong.” His accent is less now, so I know he’s being honest, and for a minute, I think he’s got a little bit of heartbreak in his voice. Before I can ask him, he grins down at me seductively.

  “This sexual tension will just have to fuel our dancing, never to be explored beyond the music.”

  I smile honestly this time, and press my lips to his cheek. “Sometimes, the dance is all we have.”