Tremor

by Tonya Plank

  “Delicious,” I admitted.

  “And the champagne.” He laughed, noticing the bottle.

  “Mmhmm.” Downing a glass all at once had made me a bit tipsy.

  The waiter exchanged our salads for entrees. They looked heavenly. The buttery gnocchi melted in my mouth, the same as the caviar.

  “So, enough about dance. How do you like L.A.?” he said. “Is it true what they say about the traffic?”

  “What do they say?”

  “Oh, come on. That it’s horrible and makes you feel like your life is stuck because you can’t get anywhere, and when you finally manage to, you just have to turn around and go back because there’s nowhere to park.”

  I felt put on the defensive. Truth was, I lived near the studio and didn’t drive all that much in L.A. “It’s easier than on the Strip.” I shrugged.

  He looked toward the door as if thinking about outside. Then he gave his head a little shake and emitted a light laugh, turning his attention back to his food. “Okay,” he said after another bite.

  I took another swig of the champagne, figuring if I hadn’t spilt yet, I likely wouldn’t. He eyed my jittery hand when I did so. Now more confident—likely due to the alcohol—I shot him a don’t even think about bringing it up look, and he didn’t.

  We finished our meal with pleasant conversation. I told him what it was like to work in Hollywood and about the studio’s clientele, and he told me stories—some, rather funny—about some of the Las Vegas characters he’d met. If we kept the conversation light, he could be an okay guy. Okay, a really hot okay guy who kept sending liquid heat to my nether regions. But I couldn’t get it out of my head that he’d given up ABT because he was supposedly bored by it and preferred to be here. He was a womanizing show-off who thought he was too good for the greatest dance company in the world.

  Then the check came. I knew as a modern woman, I should pay half. But I also knew there was no way I could afford to. I grabbed my purse by its strap, from the back of the chair.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, seeing what I was doing. “I invited you here.”

  Made sense. He knew how expensive this place was and hadn’t told me. I smiled and thanked him. But the way he threw a credit card down as if it was nothing unnerved me. Throwing around money like that? He was definitely careless. I thought about him flying through the air, well above the ground—with no net to catch him—using only the tops of his feet to support himself. Yes, reckless was definitely the word. Careless with his bank account, careless with his life. I felt a bit sick thinking about it.

  I told him he didn’t have to walk me all the way to my room once we were in the lobby of my hotel.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” I said. His brown eyes really were dreamy. I hadn’t looked into them all that much.

  “Well, thank you for joining me for dinner. I loved getting to know about you and Hollywood and the world of ballroom dancing, and all. I had a really nice time.”

  It was sweet, even though we’d gotten off to a rocky start and never entirely left it. “Yes, me too. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “You’re most welcome.” He took my hand, reaching into his pocket with the other, and withdrawing a business card. “If you’re ever in Vegas again, don’t hesitate to give me a call,” he said. He pressed the card into my palm, and held my hand warmly between his palms. The heat radiated throughout my body. He looked me in the eye, flashing that smile that oozed boyish charm, melting me with those baby browns. He gave my hand one final squeeze, turned away, and then turned back. When he did so, he caught me still looking at him. “I’m serious. If and when you’re in Vegas again, I want to hear from you.” He gave me a wink and was off.

  I rubbed the card with my fingers. ‘I want to hear from you.’ Yeah, so I can be another one of your fuck buddies. Ugh. I felt like tossing the card in the trash. But I didn’t.

  * * *

  “Come on, tell me all about it!” Lucia nudged me on the ride home.

  “Not much to tell.” I shrugged. It still gnawed at me that they tried so hard to set me up. Lucia had been asking me ad nauseam over the past six months when I was going to start dating again. I’d told her repeatedly I didn’t know, but I’d know when I was ready.

  She’d sigh and say, “Belle, you know he’d want you to go back to living. He knows you love him. He knows you’ve mourned him. Look at how he lived life to the extreme.”

  And I’d get annoyed and wonder who she was to tell me when I was ready to date again. And more, to tell me who Willem was. No one knew Willem more than I did, of course. And even though I knew in my heart of hearts she was right about him, I never said anything. I needed to be in control of my grief, of my pain, of my decision to let go of it all. I’d let it grate on my nerves for too long without speaking up. And maybe now that she’d gone behind my back to arrange this thing with Jett, I was on the verge of letting loose.

  “It went horribly,” I spat.

  “No! Really?”

  “He’s a total pompous ass, not to mention a man-whore.”

  “Belle!”

  “I’m serious. He totally looks down on ballet dancers, dissing the biggest ballet company in the world because ‘It was boring,’ he said. I would have killed for an apprenticeship there. And just so he could come out here and be a total show-off. He tosses around money like it’s dirt. He bought the most expensive champagne, and ordered the most expensive appetizer and entree on the entire menu.”

  “But, Belle, he spent all that money on you! Doesn’t that tell you something? Like, he cares about you?”

  “No. It tells me he likes to show off. The same way he dances for himself and doesn’t take care of his partner at all.”

  “Mandi says that’s all an act. That he’s actually a really good partner.”

  Oh right. I blew that right off. “And he flirted with just about every woman we encountered. And it was more than obvious he’d slept with at least half of them. He’s a man-whore, Luce.”

  “Okay, okay, stop. This isn’t helping my hangover.” Lucia held her palm toward me. But there was lightness in her voice. Then she laughed.

  “What?”

  “It just seems like you’re trying way too hard to hate him. I’ve never seen you so worked up over anyone, Belle.”

  “What do you mean trying way too hard?”

  “Please.” She laughed again. “Ouch, headache. Can’t laugh right now.”

  “What’s so funny, anyway?”

  “The way your face totally lights up, the way you squirm in your seat like your pants are on fire when you talk about him, and then the way you insist to high hell he’s a total jerk. The way you take pains to insist he’s a jerk.”

  My face lights up when I talk about him? Because I’m fuming red with anger, that’s why! Argh. It wasn’t worth talking about this with her. I sighed. It’s not like I’d be in Vegas again for a while. I’d never see him again, anyway.

  Chapter 6

  Arabelle

  When I got home, Arabesque met me, circling my feet with her angora-like soft fur and sweet, cold, wet nose. I was so glad we’d gotten her; she was part of what kept Willem’s presence alive for me.

  “Hey Bessie.” I parked my Pullman in the foyer and set my handbag on the table, then sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to me. Like a puppy, she jumped right up, found a place on my lap, and began kneading my tummy. Her purr vibrated throughout my body, the proverbial music to my ears. After enough of a cuddle-fest for my abdomen to feel like a porcupine had had its way with me, I picked her up and placed her on her cat bed, put a small can of tuna into her little sky-blue kitty dish, and made myself some chamomile tea. I was semi-hungry but it wasn’t yet dinner time, so I made myself a bowl of strawberries, grabbed the mail, and sat back down on the couch where I flipped on the TV.

  I didn’t have much in the way of mail; mostly bills and junk. My heart didn’t stop this time, as it used to, but merely threw in
one extra beat when I saw a piece of junk mail addressed to Willem from an animal rescue wanting donations. After he’d died I’d moved out of our old one-bedroom into a small studio. I’d had a hard time affording it, especially after I took the dance hiatus, but it was harder dealing with the constant reminder of his absence. And yet I still received mail for him at the new address, even though the new apartment was registered in my name only. Los Angeles post offices are odd. Anyway, I tossed it into the trash, as I did with a coupon for a new hair salon, an advertisement for a new dental practice in Beverly Hills, and a take-out menu for a local pizza joint.

  And then I saw it. The piece of junk mail that actually did make heart did stop. For a split second, anyway. I noticed the front image first. It was of a near naked man flying through the air on a swing, way the hell above the audience, their heads tilted far upward. I recognized the body right away: the taut, defined muscles of the chest, the long legs, the narrow waist, and the strong biceps. The, yes, perfect balletic line he made with his body. The image was focused on the body, not the face. But I knew right away it was Jett. I read the flier. Yep, Beauty in Motion, same company we saw in Vegas. Apparently it was touring and would be at a Hollywood theater for an entire month. I examined the flier closely. It didn’t give the names of any of the dancers; only said the company’s main base was Las Vegas. Why hadn’t Jett said anything to me about it? Was he going to be here? I’d told him where I lived. The theater he’d be at was just down the street. Well, not all dancers toured. He was so happy sleeping with half of Vegas, he’d probably want to stay put. Why on earth was my heart pounding so?

  I tossed the flier into the trash along with the other junk mail.

  * * *

  I met Drew, my Latin dance partner, the following night after my last class. We were training to compete at Blackpool, several months away. The studio gave us full use of the main practice area to rehearse after all the teachers’ private lessons were over.

  Drew was the perfect partner for me. I’d initially trained to dance with Sasha, the current reigning Latin ballroom champion. He was a gorgeous dancer, but man, was he difficult to partner with. Can you say “perfectionist?” He ended up with partnering with the love of his life, Rory. They won Blackpool together last year, and are now married. I partnered with Drew, a soft, gentle, gay guy who was perfect for me. I did so much better with him. He was attentive and caring, always asking me my opinions about the choreography, and whether anything felt too harsh. He insisted he couldn’t feel my tremor at all. But I knew he told me that in large part to keep my anxiety at bay and my confidence up. I loved him for his little white lies.

  At the last Blackpool, we’d placed third; it was amazing since we were a new partnership. But I often wondered if that was partly because the judges felt sorry for me – both for losing my husband and partner the prior year, and because of the nasty fall I took. Drew assured me it wasn’t pity the judges felt. If anything, it was a reward for powering through despite the pain I felt all over my body after that spill. Well, even if the judges had given us accolades for our resilience, would it be enough to do well this year too?

  “Happy belated birthday, dear!” Greta, our coach, wrapped her long swan arms around me with all the grace of the queen she was as a ten-time Latin Blackpool champion.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “How was Vegas?” Drew followed her in.

  “It was good.” I nodded. “It was…interesting.” Ridiculously, my mind shot immediately to Jett, as if he was the only thing that happened to me during the whole trip. I mentally chastised myself for not thinking more immediately of Lucia or the lovely lunch she and Mandi treated me to, or even the fun show itself—sans pompous ass.

  “Interesting?” Drew raised his brows, his voice rising at the end as if I’d laced the word with some kind of sexual innuendo. “As in, hot guy interesting?” Drew, fabulously gay but as-yet unspoken for, was always on the prowl and always asking me to keep a lookout for a cute male dancer who might swing his way.

  “I…no, I mean not that I met,” I lied.

  “That you saw then? Come on, any good shows?”

  I took a breath, not really knowing what to say.

  “You did, and you don’t want to say! Come on, where did they take you for your birthday? Thunder From Down Under? Men of Experience? Chippendale’s?” His face looked orgasmic.

  “No! They didn’t take me to any of those!” I laughed. “No, no, no, we just went to see Lucia’s sister’s show.”

  Drew’s eyebrows were raised practically to his hairline. I could feel my face redden. What was wrong with me?

  “And this show was called…” He would not let up. I should have known.

  “I can’t even remember,” I said, dismissively, waving my arm about.

  “Oh come on, Lucia’s not going to like that.”

  “Okay, it was called ‘Look of Love.’”

  “I’ve heard of that. Some aerial show, huh? It got great reviews.”

  I nodded. My cheeks just kept getting hotter and hotter. I must have looked like a tomato.

  “So, did you actually meet this guy you saw dance in it?” Drew could read me better than I knew myself.

  “We just all had drinks together,” I lied again. “Wait, I mean, what guy?” Greta and Drew cracked up. I was ridiculous.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t ask, honey. What happens in Vegas…well, you know the rest.” Drew held his palms up toward me.

  “Nothing happened in Vegas!” I stomped my foot. “I’m not kidding. There is no guy.” I was getting perturbed.

  “Okay, seriously guys. I think it’s time to start.” Greta, thankfully, eyed the clock. “Let’s do the rumba routine.”

  Our music started and we began with a nice, slow, seductive basic, with Drew holding me close in his arms. Then, he swung me out into a series of spins, and pulled me back in. I was a little out of practice from the long weekend, but the steps were in my muscle memory. We did a pretty spiral, followed by our first beautiful trick. He lunged toward me, lowering himself to one knee. I pulled away from him, and lifted one leg high in back of me. I was flexible thanks to ballet, and had developed long, sinewy limbs, so it was a good look for us. But the second I had my leg high in the air, the tremor in my hand returned. I was standing in a split position on the ball of one foot, so maintaining my balance meant leaning on Drew’s hand and him returning that force. My shakiness sabotaged that. Still, Drew was strong enough that he managed to keep me in balance. I lowered my leg in time with the music.

  I spiraled out and walked away from him, doing slow sensual rumba walks. Drew followed me. I held my arms out and moved them in line with the walks, and, as I did, I felt my right hand tremble again. I glanced at myself in the mirror, which I hated doing. You do that in ballet—fixate on yourself—to the point that it can drive you crazy. Sometimes literally. I closed my eyes and looked inwardly instead. I felt the music, the beat, my movement, the mood of our dance, its story, and Drew’s body approaching mine from behind, catching me, spinning me into him again. When he reached me and took my hand in his, my jitters were still there. So badly my whole arm began to shake. How unsexy could that be to an audience? I could feel that Drew felt it. I could sense his nervous energy resulting from mine. This had to stop.

  We finished the dance. I didn’t even want to look at Drew. He was a wonderful partner, as I said. But this was making even me nuts.

  I looked at Greta. She cocked her head thoughtfully, raised one eyebrow, and twisted her lips as if she didn’t like what she was about to say. “I mean, you’ve got the steps down,” she began, trying to start out with the positive, like a helpful coach. She took a beat to consider what to say next. “I think you’re just getting back into the flow of things after a long weekend. I think you need to practice a few more times. I don’t think it’s fair of me to judge you at all on this first try. Let’s do it again.” Gracious, I thought.

  We did, and had the same problems.
Now it was worse because I was shaking the whole way through. My nerves had definitely gotten the better of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what’s…I’m trying.” I needed to stop saying I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t, but that was no excuse. I was seeing a shrink, though probably not as often as I should. Insurance only reimbursed me for half, and she was expensive. I don’t even know that she was helping all that much. But she’d suggested the tremor was a way of preventing myself from doing the same kind of dance I did with Willem. It was my mind’s way protecting myself from the pain that may come from feeling like I was replacing Willem with another partner. But that didn’t explain why was it still happening long after I switched dance styles. “I’m trying hard to get it under control,” I said.

  “I know you are,” Greta said. “But, even apart from that... Well, it’s hard to separate that from the rest of your dancing, actually.” She scratched her head, took a breath, and paced.

  “It’s really okay,” Drew said. “I mean, I can still support her even when her arm shakes. It’s not like we’re doing any dangerous lifts or anything.”

  “It’s not just about lifts,” Greta said. “The nerves affect the whole body. They radiate out through the arms, during port de bras, through your legs when you take a simple step. Those walks need to be earth-shatteringly gorgeous. They’re your chance to show the judges you’re a master at this dance, at the technique, and that you can use your artistry to bring something extra special that makes the onlooker’s mouth water. Instead, I see you and I get nervous.”

  Her words hit me hard. As I knew deep down, the tremor didn’t just affect my hand, but my whole being.

  “Really? You think? I mean, it doesn’t feel that way to me,” Drew insisted.

  “I know, but you’re not watching,” Greta said sharply.

  I sensed Drew’s eyes on me. I looked down. I was sabotaging us. He walked over to me and wrapped his arm around my back.