Dance With Me

by Heidi Cullinan

  The conversation ended there, thankfully, as by some miracle there was a free parking spot outside of Newsroom, and Oliver gave the tricky parallel parking job his full attention. All he could talk about from the sidewalk to the door was how lucky he'd been to score the space, and by the time the hostess seated them, Laurie was relieved at what he thought was a change of subject.

  “So how are things otherwise?” Oliver asked as an overture once the waitress had brought them their drinks. “I know you're driving your mother up a wall, so you must be doing something interesting.”

  “Well, it could be my refusal to perform for her gala, or it could be the fact that I'm dating. Take your pick. It could be either or both.”

  Oliver nudged Laurie's glass with his finger. “You should bring your boy by. Christopher and I will host a little party. We can hunt up dating sites together, if you're up for it.” When Laurie's blush became so acute he had to touch his cheeks to be sure they weren't literally flaming, Oliver laughed and eased back in his chair.

  “Oliver, you're supposed to be a benevolent philanthropist, not a dirty old man,” Laurie whispered, then drained his water.

  “Why can't I be both?” Oliver rested his arm on the table. “But I doubt you called me to lunch so I could tease you about your boyfriend. What's on your mind?”

  Laurie dove into the explanation about the center, of what it was and what had happened to the funding and what he wanted to do to help. Oliver nodded, looking sagely at him as he digested everything, but when Laurie explained how he wanted to have some of his classes move there, he shook his head.

  “You can't save the center with ballet classes, Laurence. What they need are sponsors.”

  “But they're set against sponsors,” Laurie said. “They worry about outside influence.”

  “They're going to have to decide if they'd rather worry or think about the center that used to be. It's the sort of place that will never make money, and it's always going to need support. If they want to keep control, they need to have the center's profile raised as public service. Help people see this is a place that helps, not drains. These nice boys and girls and little old ladies and families it services need to be highlighted and propped up on posters and pushed in front of people with money. And there, Laurie, you can help. You can give it a profile. What grants are they using currently?”

  “I don't know. I think it's just the city. Or something. I don't know anything. I just thought—”

  “You thought you could come in and save it. And you can. Just not the way you're thinking. Do teach. And plan for a benefit in...oh, let's say April. It's a bit fast, but it can be done. See if you can put together some sort of showcase. Local people performing. Kids would be wonderful. Having it at the center itself would be best, but I'll have to tour it to be sure. We'll want you to perform, though. That will draw people, and you'll move them to donate.” When Laurie started to protest, Oliver just smiled and spoke over him. “I'll guide you through it, Laurence. We'll discuss it, perhaps in hot-tub meeting with your boyfriend along to relax your nerves.”

  The latter was meant to tease him, Laurie knew, but he wasn't in the mood for it now. “Oliver, I don't want to perform.”

  Oliver sighed. “I know. But you'll need to. That will be the draw. Right now you appear to be tucking your tail between your legs, working at a suburban center, not performing. Volunteering at a center, teaching the kids how to dance, performing with them, for them—that has panache.”

  “I don't have my tail between my legs,” Laurie replied hotly.

  Oliver raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing more on that point. “You're right about doing less in Eden Prairie. We've all been waiting for you to move on from that little studio. Do you need the income from teaching, though?”

  Laurie shook his head. “I own the studio. I could teach nothing at all and still live very comfortably. And this is to say nothing of my investments or savings.” He lowered his eyes as he added, “I haven't done much but let money pile up for years. I could make no income for a long time and still be very comfortable.”

  “You should consider your mother's franchise idea, you know. And have Maggie be the director. As you said, they'd lease to use your name. You could even make the center a branch of your operation, if you wanted to teach classes from there. Though you'd almost do better to have a designated space, something you can control. We could make it nonprofit, funneling money to the center on a permanent basis.”

  Laurie snorted a laugh. “Maggie would have a coronary, and they'd hospitalize her next to my mother.”

  “Excellent. They'll have company.” Oliver sipped at his drink. “I'll hook you up with a friend of mine who has a great deal of property in St. Paul. Likely he has something in the same neighborhood as your center. I'll convince him to give you a deal. Could you meet him tomorrow?”

  Laurie blinked. “I—tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow. No time to waste. I haven't seen you this lit up about something in years. I'd like to capitalize on it.” Oliver smiled. “Unless it's the boyfriend causing this glow? Though likely it's both.”

  Laurie sighed. “Maggie will hate this.”

  “Of course she will! But she's had you longer than she should. And you aren't married to her. You're business partners and nothing more.”

  “My mother called me Maggie's wife,” Laurie said tartly.

  Oliver's eyes danced. “Yes. Take heart there—your mother will be pleased you're moving on.”

  “And furious that I'm helping urchins.”

  “Yes. At first. But I suspect we can get her to come around. She does love you. She just...has her ways.”

  “I know.” Laurie sank back in his chair. He felt dizzy. He'd come to Oliver hoping to hear how to inflate a bake sale, and now he was considering leaving the studio. What frightened him was, even though it was all crazy, he was eager to do it.

  “Very productive lunch,” Oliver declared, “and we haven't even eaten yet. Let's skip dessert, though. After, we'll head over to LaSalle and visit Candyland. I'm in the mood for some caramel corn.”

  That made Laurie laugh. “Caramel corn?”

  “Yes.” Oliver winked. “You can take some home to your football player. Let him eat it off your chest.”

  “Ed,” Laurie said as he blushed, realizing he hadn't before. “His name is Ed Maurer.”

  “Can't wait to meet him,” Oliver said and signaled to the waitress that they were ready to order.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  jazz split: a split executed on the floor with the back leg bent up from the knee. The knee may be held and/or head arched toward it.

  Ed sat on the couch with an ice pack propped behind his neck, staring at Tim's stupid “pain goal” sheet.

  If he could, he'd crumple it into a ball and toss it into the garbage like he'd done all the other sheets Tim had given him in the past twelve months. But after his last burst of temper in the therapy room, Dr. Linnet had “happened” to stop by to see how he was doing, suspiciously after Tim had ducked into his office for just about the time it would take to make a phone call over to the clinic. And after a few minutes of watching Ed's frustration, Linnet pulled him off to the side and gave Ed an ultimatum: He either turned in his pain goals sheet to Tim by the next session, or he was going to go on antidepressants. Ed could take his pick.

  The declaration upset Ed. Linnet had talked about using antidepressants before, and it wasn't entirely about being depressed, he knew that. There was something about how chronic pain patients could get side effects from the drugs, taking the edge off some of the lower-level aggravation to the nerves. At the time, they'd ruled it out, and Ed had thought they were over that, but apparently not.

  He knew too that this time Linnet wasn't just after the side effects. He was after the main effects too.

  Ironically, the news that he was a hairsbreadth from going on antidepressants made Ed more de
pressed than he'd been yet. He wasn't that bad. And he wasn't in chronic pain either. Occasional pain. More frequent than occasional, lately, yeah, but if they'd just leave him alone, he knew it would go away.

  Except this time it wasn't. He'd done jack shit for two weeks. Linnet had cleared him for work but with great reluctance. The doc himself this time had brought up going on disability.

  Disability! Him!

  He took out fucking three-hundred-pound guys! He could still bench one-seventy-five! Sometimes one-ninety!

  Disability!

  And antidepressants.

  Glowering, Ed stared down at the paper in front of him.

  What are your physical activity goals for one month? For one year?

  Ed tapped his pencil against the paper and glanced over at the clock. It was almost six. Laurie usually stopped by about now on Fridays. Something must have come up with one of his classes. Or traffic was bad. But he usually called to let him know when he was leaving. Or that he would be late.

  Had Ed been a shit to him too, like Tim said he'd been to all the staff lately? Was Laurie sick of putting up with a banged-up, cranky boyfriend? Had he found something better to do?

  Someone better to do, who wasn't making up reasons not to make love to him because he was afraid his neck would give out midstroke?

  Ed gripped his pencil more tightly and returned to the form.

  What are your physical activity goals for one month? For one year?

  His eyes darted around the room as he tried to think of something to write down that would get Tim off his back. He spied a pile of laundry on the edge of the counter, neatly pressed and folded. Laurie had done that. Twice—twice in one week—he'd taken Ed's dirty clothes and brought them back clean. It both touched Ed and made him embarrassed. His eyes passed beyond the laundry to the sink where the dishes had begun to overflow onto the counter. Laurie washed those too, when he came over. And he made dinner, or he ordered it. And Ed's mom was going to the store for him lately.

  Did that mean he was depressed?

  Ed pushed the paper aside and rose, moving stiffly to the kitchen. He'd do the dishes, in case Laurie still came by.

  But at the thought of “in case,” Ed backtracked and cued the stereo up to Britney.

  He hummed under his breath as he worked, but his heart wasn't in it. When he finished his chore, his neck hurt, and it was almost seven. Turning Britney up a little louder, Ed went back to the couch and pulled the notebook back into his lap.

  What are your physical activity goals for one month? For one year?

  Ed grimaced at the paper. What were his goals? To be normal. To play football. To not think about his neck all the damn time. That was what he'd told Tim the time Tim had tried to fill the worksheet out with him. Tim had given him “To not think about his neck all the time” as a fair start, but as the answer for question number four (Where do you want your pain management to be in one month? In one year?), not question one, and only for the year part of the question. And after that, Ed had refused to so much as look at the sheet.

  But he was looking at it now.

  To be normal enough for Laurie, he thought. But like hell he was writing that down.

  Another half hour went by, form still blank, and Laurie had not arrived. Ed shoved the paper away again, got up, and paced. When his head started to pound, he fished the gel pack for his neck brace out of the freezer and strapped it on before lying back on the couch to stare up at the ceiling.

  What are your physical activity goals for one month? For one year?

  When the door opened, Ed bolted upright, then swore because that hurt his neck like all hell.

  Laurie dropped his duffel and the bags in his hand and hurried over. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Ed snapped, then tried to gentle himself, but it was hard. He ripped off the neck brace and rubbed at his hairline, feeling like one big jagged edge. “You scared me is all. I forgot you had a key.”

  “Sorry. Your mom gave it to me, to make things easier. Do...do you want me to give it back?”

  Oh fuck. “No.” Ed found Laurie's hand and squeezed it. “Sorry. I'm just—” Cranky.

  Depressed.

  Because of my chronic pain.

  Laurie squeezed his hand back and smiled. It was a shy smile, and it made him look alluring. He also, Ed noticed, looked breathless. Happy.

  “Hungry?” Laurie asked, rising. “I brought things to make a steak salad, unless that doesn't sound good to you.”

  God, but Ed hated it when Laurie was careful around him. “It's fine.”

  Laurie was frowning at the coffee table. “What's that?”

  He was looking at Ed's pain-goal sheet. Fuck. Ed scooped it up quickly. “Nothing. Just this thing I have to fill out for PT.”

  “I'll just put this together while you finish it, then,” Laurie said, and he headed to the kitchen.

  But Ed knew there was no way he'd be able to focus on the sheet with Laurie in the room. He made a pretense of it for a few minutes, balancing the sheet on his knees as he tracked Laurie through the kitchen out of the corner of his eye. He could tell Laurie was forcing himself to look relaxed, just like he had every other day he'd been over the past few weeks. Sometimes he'd glance over at the couch, and Ed knew Laurie was waiting for Ed to give him a clue as to what they were supposed to do now.

  That was the problem. Ed had no idea.

  Eventually Ed shoved the paper away again, rose, and went to stand at the edge of the kitchen. When Laurie glanced at him, he waited until he held his gaze.

  “I'm sorry,” he said gruffly.

  Laurie set down the bowl he was holding. “For what?”

  “For this. For me. For—” He gave up and leaned his head against the cupboard.

  Some of Laurie's guard went down, and he looked relieved. “I thought maybe I'd done something. Am I...am I coming over too much? Doing too much? Too little?”

  Jesus. “It's not you!” Ed's hands tightened at his sides. “Fucking hell, Laurie, it's not you. It's nothing to do with you at all.”

  “What's wrong?” Laurie asked.

  Ed lifted his head and looked at Laurie like he was crazy. “What's wrong?” Anger rose up without warning, and Ed gestured angrily at his neck. “This. This is what wrong. I don't want to be like this. At all. But I especially don't want to be like this with you.”

  Laurie frowned, looking confused. “What do you mean, with me?”

  Ed swore and pushed away from the counter. He paced for a few seconds, then swore again and braced himself against the back of a chair, staring into the living-room area.

  “I don't know why the hell you're here,” he said at last. He realized that sounded bad. “I mean—what the hell is good about this, Laur? Even when this settles down, it'll just happen again.” He glared at the pain-goal sheet. Chronic pain. Rage swelled inside him, and he stormed over to the table, picked up the worksheet and wadded it up before hurling it across the room. “It's fucking worthless. There's no fucking point.” He wiped a hand over his face and turned away. “And you deserve better than this.”

  Ed wanted to call the words back as soon as he said them. He meant them, but he didn't want to say them. He was so confused, so miserable. He watched, rigid, terrified, as Laurie crossed to the paper Ed had hurled across the room. Laurie picked it up and uncrumpled it.

  “What does it mean, ‘physical activity goal'?” He looked at Ed, questioning. “What you'd like to be doing in a month?”

  “I'm supposed to write down something I can't do now because of the pain but want to do. But it's worthless, because I don't know when it's going to hit or what it's going to do, so I don't know—” He stopped because Laurie had sat down on the couch, picked up the notebook and pen Ed had discarded, and he was writing something down. Ed tried to peer closer to see, but his neck got mad at him, and then he swore. Which made Laurie look up at the clock.

  “Have you been taking your meds?”

  “What did you write
?” Ed tried to take the notebook from him.

  Laurie pulled it out of his reach. “Did you take your meds?”

  “No!” Ed barked. “Now give me my notebook!”

  Laurie took the notebook with him as he went to the counter and poured out the pills. “Do you want a Vicodin?”

  “No.” Ed sank onto the couch because he was feeling dizzy. “It's not that bad. And I didn't eat enough. I'll feel sick.”

  “What about your TENS unit?”

  Ed's jaw tightened, and wanted to tell Laurie to fucking leave it alone, but then he thought, Depression.

  He forced himself to relax. “I'll take a Vicodin.”

  Laurie rose, taking the notebook with him. “Juice or soda?”

  “How about a beer?” Ed asked, his tone mocking despite his resolve to be good, but to his surprise, Laurie came back with one and a plate of wicked-good-looking salad with a piece of whole grain bread on the side. When Ed looked at him in surprise, Laurie just smiled.

  “You're actually talking to me, telling me what's wrong for a change. I thought it was reason enough to celebrate.”

  Ed winced, but not from pain. He took the beer, but it was heavy, weighed down by the pain-goal sheet. “You know, I'm Catholic, so I should know about guilt, but Jesus God, nobody does it quite like you, Laur.”

  “Wait until you meet my mother.” Laurie sat down and picked up his notebook again. “So what does the ‘social goal’ mean?”

  “What'd you put for the first one?” Ed demanded. When Laurie ignored him, he popped the pills and took a long sip of his beer. “Just what it says. I'm supposed to have a social goal. It's dumb, because I'm not one of those sad sacks who are so wrapped up in their pain that they don't get out. You can cross that one out. Even Tim said so. I swear.”

  But Laurie was scribbling again. Ed tried to read it, but it was at an angle, and Laurie was a little too far away.

  “What is ‘ADL'?”

  “Active daily life goal. Like, be able to do my laundry or something. Something the pain keeps me from. These aren't for me, Laurie. They're stupid. They're for really fucked-up people who are so down about their pain they never leave the house, not for me.”