Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  She eyes me with suspicion. “What aren’t you saying?”

  And I can’t help it. She wins my smile. “Nothing important. There’s more, but we’ll get there when we get there, and we aren’t behind schedule.”

  She stews, clearly unsatisfied.

  “Don’t worry, Iris.”

  She rolls her eyes, full on drama-queen, but somehow I don’t mind it. “Yeah, like that’s an option.”

  “It’s always an option,” I coax her.

  A look flashes across her lovely face. It’s not belief, but I’m pretty sure it’s the wish to believe. Poor girl. For someone who makes other people laugh so easily, she’s wound pretty tight. Maybe if we work on the dancing enough, it’ll become something she enjoys. Something that allows her to let loose. Be free to express herself.

  That’s what it’s supposed to be. The ultimate artform of the human body.

  “Ready to get started again? Or do you need a bite to eat?” I ask, nodding to my platter of snacks.

  She glances at the spread, her gaze appreciative. “No, no. I’m good. Let’s get back to it.”

  I nod and start the music, this time choosing Cajun All-Stars. Their two-step rhythm is just a little faster than the Bonsoir Catin song, but I think she’s ready for it.

  We begin, and she trips up at first, but then she finds her footing, and we start a measured, counter-clockwise revolution around the parlor.

  “Thank you for the food, by the way. I was beyond hungry.”

  “You’re welcome.” And I mean it. I’m not going to let what happened that first night happen again. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How pale she looked and then how quickly and hungrily she ate the PB&J.

  I keep snacks in my classroom for my kids who can’t count on getting a meal at home on the regular. I don’t like it, but I’m used to it. And I know I’m doing what I can. No one is sitting in my class, trying to learn while their stomach growls.

  But they’re hungry because there isn’t anything in the pantry. Or there isn’t a pantry. Period.

  That’s not Iris’s deal.

  Maybe she was just having an off day, but by the way she and Ramon were talking about it, it sounded like it happens pretty often. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s hypoglycemic and she needs to eat all the time.

  But I have a hunch that’s not the problem.

  Whatever her problem is, it’s not my business, but I’m still not keen on having one of my students too hungry to learn what I have to teach.

  So I’ve put something out every night, and when they said they’d be late, I figured she’d need more tonight. More of a meal than a snack.

  And she seemed to like it. I have to admit, it was kinda fun watching her try the boudin. It’s crawfish season. I wonder what she’d make of that.

  Too bad I won’t find out.

  I’m supposed to teach her how to dance. That’s all. And she’s keeping up with the faster pace.

  “You’re doing great,” I whisper.

  A soft smile plays on her lips. “It’s going okay,” she agrees.

  “Ready to add something to it?”

  You’d think I’ve asked her for a kidney. Her eyes get big and her lips disappear between her teeth.

  “We’re just going to do a simple turn.”

  The look in her eyes doesn’t ease. “You’re talking to someone who maimed her teacher. Nothing’s simple for me.”

  Even though I know she’s scared, I can’t help but laugh. She’s too damn funny. And when I laugh, the crease between her brows fades. If I had to guess, I think she wants to make me laugh.

  “You didn’t maim him for life,” I say, recovering. I want to make her feel better, but I see I’ve made it worse when that crease returns.

  “How is he? Your uncle? I haven’t seen him around since the week after his surgery.”

  She hasn’t seen him around because he hasn’t been around. Aunt Lorraine used his surgery as an excuse to kidnap Nonc and take him home with her where she could fuss over him properly. I haven’t heard him complain about it.

  “He’s fine. He’s better than fine,” I say, smothering a grin. “And I will be too. Just a simple turn like I said. I promise. It’ll be okay.”

  She looks unconvinced. “If you say so.”

  I smirk. “I say so.”

  Finally, I win a smile from her.

  “It’ll be easy. You’ll see.”

  I break down the components of the outside-arch-under, the way I’ll step back, queuing her to step back too, our hands clasped, arms like a chain between us for one two-step. Then I’ll raise her right hand, pulling her in for an easy twirl, moving around her as we essentially switch places.

  At first, she makes a fuss about how she can’t do it, how she can “screw up walking to the mailbox.”

  But I’m learning that this is just her fear talking. “We’re going to do it so slowly and repeat it so many times, you’ll be able to do it in your sleep,” I tell her, shoving aside the image of Iris twirling in a nightie. “I’m in no rush.”

  “Hmph. You say that now,” she mutters, but I see relief behind her eyes.

  “Okay, then. Without music, let’s walk through it.” I position us back in the Two-Step stance. “Step-together-step-touch. Step-together-step-touch.”

  She’s comfortable here. No missteps or wrong footing. I keep it up for a few more repetitions.

  “Now, step-together-step-back,” I say, moving my grip to her hands, stepping back on my right foot and waiting for her to mirror me. Then I make a trellis of my left and her right arm. “Then step-in-step-around-step-together-step-back.”

  Iris takes one step and stops, looking up at me from under our arms. “Like this?”

  She’s all wide-eyed and beautiful. Damn, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  I swallow hard and nod. “Yep. Keep turning. Think of it as turning ninety degrees with each step, so you end up facing me from the other side.”

  “Geometry,” she murmurs with a glint in her eye, moving easily through the rest of the turn. “That was my jam in high school. Way better at that than algebra.”

  My grin breaks free, followed by a rogue thought. If she would have been in my geometry class, I would have learned nothing about angles. Just curves.

  I clear my throat, grasping for something else to think about. “Where was high school?”

  Iris rolls her eyes. “All over, really. Freshman year was in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. Sophomore year was in Tarzana, and then I did my last two years online because I was working.”

  My brows draw together. “Acting?”

  “Yep. Modeling and acting.”

  I blink. “You mean you’ve been working since you were—”

  “Sixteen,” she says with a nod.

  “Full-time?” I can’t hide my surprise.

  She executes a little back and forth head tilt. “Mostly. When I was lucky.”

  We should be dancing, but instead, we’re standing still because I can’t stop asking questions.

  “So you’ve been acting professionally for how many years?”

  “Six,” she answers, grinning.

  This makes her twenty-two. My God, she’s a baby.

  A baby who has been working in her career longer than I’ve been teaching.

  “That’s incredible.” I mean it. I’m a little in awe. And what the hell am I doing? I get us back on track. “Again. Step-together-step-touch. Step-together-step-back.”

  And we go through the lead up and the turn again. Again. Again. And again. Each time at the slowest possible pace. We move too slowly for any mistakes because I want her to feel successful.

  It works.

  “This isn’t so hard,” she says, coming out of, oh, probably our twelfth turn.

  I fight my grin. “Maybe it’s time to add some music.”

  Her eyes go wide. “I mean, we don’t have to.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, chère, we do.”

  �
��Sha?” she imitates me, frowning. “What’s that mean?”

  My chuckle evaporates. I should not be calling her chère or any other endearment. She’s one of Nonc’s students, she’s an actor, and she’s not someone I should be flirting with.

  “Let’s focus on dancing. We’ll start with something slow, okay?”

  Her brows lower. “Really slow.”

  “I have just the thing,” I promise, taking out my phone. I’ve loaded a playlist with some practice songs. I select “Matilda” by Cookie & The Cupcakes.

  Iris’s face reads like a book, and suspicion is written all over it. “This isn’t Cajun music.”

  I shake my head and tease her. “No fooling you. It’s Swamp Pop.”

  “But I need to learn to Cajun Dance. Why are we listening to this?”

  “Because the tempo’s right for our first try.” Then I shrug. “Besides, I thought you’d like it better.”

  Her expression clears. In fact, she looks surprised. “I do like it better.”

  She slips easily into the Two-Step in time with the song. When Cookie sings, I want my baby back again, I take her hands, signaling the turn, and we move though it slowly, and if I do say so myself, flawlessly.

  “That’s it.” Excitement pitches my voice. “That was perfect.”

  Iris gazes up at me in stunned surprise. “I did it!”

  I squeeze her hands. “You did it!”

  “Let’s do it again,” she says, sounding breathless.

  I can’t help but laugh. But we do it again. And again.

  “Now you can tell your friends you spent your Friday night two-stepping in Louisiana.”

  Without missing a beat, Iris looks over her shoulder. “Hey. Sally. Ramon. I spent my Friday night two-stepping in Louisiana.”

  The two of them—whom she’s clearly disturbed mid-ogle—look at us like we are crazy, and I laugh again. Iris is so damn funny.

  “I didn’t mean them,” I say, chuckling.

  She shrugs. “They’re my closest friends.”

  This doesn’t surprise me. They’re always with her, but something about the wistful look in her eyes makes me curious.

  “But I’m sure you have lots of friends.” She’d have to. She’s warm. Funny. Thoughtful. Generous. She must be surrounded by people who are crazy about her.

  But Iris wrinkles her nose. “I mean, I have friends on set and friends from the show, but I don’t have a lot of time to socialize.”

  Naturally. She probably works all the time. “I’m sure your work keeps you busy.”

  Her eyes pinch, but she says nothing.

  The song switches to “Sassy Drunk” by Horace Trahan, which is a little faster, but she doesn’t falter, so we move with it.

  “What? The job doesn’t keep you busy?” I’m not sure why I’m asking. I shouldn’t be curious about her, but I am.

  She bunches her lips to the side, considering my question. “Some days are longer than others, but I’m on a pretty strict schedule after hours.”

  This makes me frown. “Like how?”

  “Well, exercising, going over my lines, meeting with my manager…” She trails off, but I swear she grimaced a little on that last one. Her manager. The notorious Moira. “Besides, she doesn’t really like it when I go out and stuff.”

  Wait, what?

  “But what do you do for fun? How do you unwind?”

  Judging by her eyes, my question has surprised her. “On the daily? Cardio works. And I have my dog, Mica. Playing with him is great therapy.”

  “Therapy’s good.” The words come out slowly because I’m weighing my next ones. “But therapy’s not what you do for fun.”

  She blinks up at me, again as if she’s reconsidering something. “Well, I love the outdoors, and my favorite hobby is hiking, but I don’t have tons of time for that.”

  Now I’m the one who’s surprised. I’ve hiked a little of the Canary Islands in Spain and Lysefjord in Norway. I haven’t done too much stateside but enough to know what it takes out of you, and I wouldn’t have pegged Iris Adams as the outdoorsy type.

  Another way I’ve misjudged her.

  “Where was the last place you hiked?”

  Grinning, Iris tilts her head in the direction of her friends. “Sally and I did two weeks on the AT earlier this month.”

  I’m not surprised. I’m stunned. “Two weeks? You did two weeks on the Appalachian Trail?”

  That’s not simply hiking. That’s a way of life.

  I picture her with a backpack and hiking boots, her hair in braids and a bandana tied around her neck. It’s not an image I can easily reconcile with the GIFS I’ve seen of her Hexed character. Not at all.

  But it’s one I like.

  In fact, I’d fucking love to see her like that.

  She smiles, her eyes lighting up. “Yeah, I’d love to go longer. We covered a hundred and fifty miles this time, but I’d love to be able to spend all summer at it.”

  A hundred and fifty miles? I was totally wrong about her. Iris Adams is no princess. She’s a beast.

  “You’re hard core.”

  One dark brow arches gracefully. “You sound surprised.”

  “Hmm.” I work my jaw, choosing my words carefully. “Maybe I’m realizing you’re full of surprises.”

  The brow climbs higher, but her smile ignites. “Maybe?”

  I like the way she’s watching me. My smile answers hers. “I’m definitely impressed.”

  She purses her lips together, seeming to mull over my answer. Then she gives a decisive nod. “Impressed is good.”

  I chuckle. “I’m glad you approve.” I move her through another turn, grateful for how easy and relaxed she is now. “You’re really getting the hang of this.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe I have a good teacher.”

  I hiss through my teeth, mock censure in my gaze. “Oh, Miss Adams, flattery will get you nowhere.”

  She gives me a pretend pout. “Not even directions to a good place to hike this weekend?”

  I drop my jesting. “Yeah. A few places. How far do y’all want to drive?”

  “Oh,” she murmurs, her face falling. “It’s just me, so not far at all. More like, somewhere I could go in an Uber.”

  “An Uber?!” I nearly choke. Then I remember. She doesn’t drive. I frown. “Why can’t Ramon—”

  She interrupts me with a whisper. “He’s off this weekend.” And the way she colors when she says it ensures that I won’t ask any follow-up questions. Because Sally could probably drive her even if her PA is off-duty. Unless Sally won’t be around either.

  Which would mean Iris is going to be alone this weekend.

  “I don’t really think you could get to any of them in an Uber. And even if you could, you probably wouldn’t have much luck getting back.”

  What I don’t say is that she really shouldn’t be hiking anywhere alone. Anything could happen. Louisiana forests are home to feral hogs, black bears, and snakes. Wildlife usually keep their distance, but a lone hiker can still find herself in a bind with a mama bear or a one-hundred-seventy-pound hog.

  And animals are one thing. Human predators are another.

  “Oh well.” Disappointment clouds her face for just an instant, and then she’s shaking her head. “I’ll just have to save it for another ti—”

  “But I could take you.” The offer is in the air between us before my judgement or sanity even has a say.

  Her mouth opens and closes. She blinks at me like I’ve just told her I see dead people. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m a French teacher and part-time dance instructor in Lafayette, Louisiana. She’s a movie star. Not to mention she’s known me for all of ten minutes. She doesn’t want to go into the woods with me.

  I need to amend my words. “You probably don’t—”

  “You’d want to do that?” she asks, disbelief clear in her eyes.

  Without warning, I picture her in shorts and hiking boots, grinning up at me with the cypress trees of Chicot State
Park surrounding us. No one else around. Just listening to her talk about damn near anything.

  Hell, yes, I want to do that.

  “It would be fun,” I admit, “if you’re interested.”

  My words and my tone are casual. Because this is nothing. Nothing. It’s certainly not a date. She’s a client. And a celebrity. And—just—no.

  “Yeah,” she says, beaming. ”I’d love that.” Her tri-colored eyes spark. One look at them, and I know I’ll have to be careful with her in the woods. Sparks like those could start a forest fire.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IRIS

  “I’ll admit, he’s not the jerk I thought he was when we first met him, but I still can’t believe you’re going hiking with him,” Sally says to her reflection in the hallway mirror. She’s touching up her lip gloss while Ramon loads their bags into the car.

  I snort. “Well, I can’t believe you’re going to New Orleans with him,” I toss back. “So we’re even.”

  Mica sniffs my hiking boots as I lace them. He’s wagging his tail because he knows. He knows what the boots mean. We’re going to have fun in the woods.

  With Beau Landry.

  Who’s picking me up any minute. And, no, butterflies are not descending in my stomach in dizzying droves. Not at all. Not even a little.

  Sally turns from her reflection, her brows drawn together, a sultry look on her face. “Yeah, but I want to…” she trails off and shrugs pertly, “do things in New Orleans—”

  “Thank you for not elaborating,” I interject in a rush.

  She rolls her eyes at my squeamishness.

  “I don’t get it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I see the way he looks at you—“ I want to grab her by the shoulders and interrogate her: How? How does he look at me? But I stifle the urge because that would be ridiculous. Beau doesn’t look at me in any special kind of way.

  “But you’re the life of the party wherever you go. He’s…” She trails off, wrinkling her nose.

  Thoughtful?

  Insightful?