Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  “Arms up. Breathe deep. Rooted in the heels.” The four of us stand in a line, facing our reflections, our movements slow and flowing. I’m watching Iris’s posture like I should be. As her teacher.

  But when Sade reaches the refrain about no ordinary love, my eyes snap to her gaze in the mirror. She’s looking right back at me.

  Goddamn.

  Sade sings:

  When you came my way

  You brightened every day

  With your sweet smile.

  And I can’t look away. At least I can move. Instead of standing frozen with my arms over my head, I sweep them down. “Come down,” I manage to say.

  The three of them follow, and I make myself look at Ramon and Sally, but that’s a mistake too. They’re basically eye-fucking each other in the mirror. I look back at Iris.

  The ballet dancer in me wants to sweep her up in a modern routine. As her arms come up with the next breath, I want to stand behind her, thread her fingers with mine, press my legs against the back of hers, and lead her with my touch. Open our bodies like twin star lilies, arms and legs spread wide. Angle my head to the right and wordlessly guide hers back against my shoulder, her neck long and sensual. Arch her back until I could run my hands down to her waist. Turn her to face me. Lift her in my arms and spin the two of us in a revolution with the music. I choreograph the whole slow, seductive masterpiece in my head.

  If she could trust me to lead her, it would be beautiful.

  Somehow, I get through the warm-up without touching her. I don’t dare put on the Bonsoir Catin song. If I think about feeling like this at home, I’ll spontaneously combust.

  Maybe I’m not alone. In the silence before I start our first Two-Step, I’m pretty sure I hear Iris mutter, “I’m warmed-up now.”

  Blood hot and nerves raw, I start the music, The Southern Ramblers’ “Creole Stomp”, and we begin. Iris’s eyes are locked with mine, and we move with flawless precision. All the way through the first circuit of the room. Through the first turn and then the second.

  We’re in the second circuit when she asks in a whisper, “Are you okay?”

  The question—with all its honesty and acknowledgement—hits me with unexpected force.

  Am I okay?

  Honestly, no. Today was hard. And even without that, my answer would still be no. Iris has awoken something inside me, and being this close to her isn’t making it easier. So, no, I’m not okay. But I can do a better job of hiding it to make this easier for her.

  “Sorry. I’ve just had a shitty day.” Truth. “Family stuff.”

  A pretty frown creases her brow. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.” That’s also true.

  Iris nods, accepting this. “You need a distraction. What should we talk about?” Then her hazel eyes brighten. “We could talk about the weather. I hear we’re going to get a hurricane.”

  The eagerness in her voice makes me laugh. “We’re not going to get a hurricane. It’s just a tropical depression.”

  Her eyes widen. “No. It’s a storm now.”

  “She’s right,” Ramon says. I look over to see him wearing a frown of concern. “Tropical Storm Addie. They’re predicting a hurricane making landfall somewhere along the Gulf Coast sometime Saturday.”

  “The Weather Channel said somewhere between Galveston and Mobile,” Sally adds, sending Iris a look of warning. She and Ramon have stopped dancing, but she still holds onto him. “You shouldn’t sound so excited, Iris. It could be serious.”

  Iris trips. I steady her. Then she plants her feet and looks to Ramon, eyes wide with remorse. “Ray, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m so sorry.”

  My gaze snaps between Iris and her two friends. She looks horrified. Ramon’s expression is edgy, and Sally watches him with compassion. And then it hits me. Ramon is from Puerto Rico.

  He grips the back of his neck. “I know you didn’t, Iris. It’s okay.”

  “Were you there?” I ask. “For Hurricane Maria?” The Category 5 storm in 2017 nearly wiped Puerto Rico off the map.

  Ramon shakes his head, but his eyes are clearly pained. “No, but my sister and brother-in-law lost their home, and my parents’ house took serious damage. I went back to help as soon as I could get a flight—” He shakes his head with a haunted expression. “You wouldn’t believe how fucked up everything was.”

  I would believe it. But I don’t tell him that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans when I was twelve, and Mom’s cousin and her two kids evacuated and wound up living with us for two months. I saw what was left of the city three weeks after the storm when they started letting people back in. Nonc and I went to help our cousins clean up. But there’s no such thing as clean up when your house has taken on nine feet of water. All you can do is tear down and build back up.

  “How are they doing now?” I ask.

  Ramon shrugs. “Better, but they still aren’t back to normal. Small businesses and rural areas take a long time to come back. I visit twice a year. Progress is happening, but it’s slow.”

  I think about Camelia Court’s severe weather flier in my back pocket. If we ever have to face down a Cat 5 storm, a lot of that planning and preparedness wouldn’t even matter. I give a shudder at the thought.

  I’ll have to keep an eye on the weather. Even with a Category 1 storm, I don’t want to be in my tiny house in the middle of a floodplain. Not a good idea. Nonc will let me crash here. That’s not an issue.

  But I glance down at Iris. If a storm really is headed our way, she needs to be prepared—for an inconvenience if nothing else.

  “Has the studio said anything about their contingency plans if a storm hits?”

  She blinks up at me like I’ve startled her out of a daydream. And not a very nice one. I recognize her expression. She’s still upset with herself for something as innocent as getting excited over a hurricane—and possibly offending Ramon. She looks the same way she did the night Nonc broke his elbow. And I know she beat herself up for that for days.

  She’s so hard on herself. About everything.

  I watch as Iris focuses on my question. She frowns. “Nothing yet. Jonathan said they’d let us know in the next day or so about any changes to the filming schedule.”

  Iris doesn’t look concerned about that. Instead, her eyes cut to her friend. But one look at Ramon lets me know he’s just fine. Sally is consoling him plenty, stroking his hands and leaning in close to whisper into his ear.

  Yeah, he’s fine. It’s Iris I’m worried about.

  “Let it go,” I whisper, taking a lesson from Sally and leaning in just a little. I silently cue her to resume our dance, and she follows my lead, but her gaze flits up to mine. Her innocent eyes are so full of regret.

  “You didn’t mean anything by it.”

  She blinks before her brows draw together in self-chastisement. “I should have thought before I said anything.” She gives me a no-nonsense look. “I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.”

  “That’s not true.” But I can’t help my grin.

  Iris arches a brow. “I said you had a dick face.”

  Laughter punches out of me. “O-Okay. I’ll give you that one.” At least my laughter makes her smile a little. But I can do better than that. “But with you, there’s no artifice. What you see is what you get. I like that.”

  Her eyes soften before she makes fun of herself. “You like that I’m a freak who gets excited about natural disasters?”

  I laugh again. “People around here kind of have a reputation for getting excited about hurricanes. We’ve even named a daiquiri after them.” Despite the laughing, we’re speaking in low tones. I don’t think it matters, though, Ramon and Sally are deep in their own conversation.

  “So I’ve heard,” she says, looking a little relieved.

  “And every time there’s a storm, people throw hurricane parties.” I force a disapproving frown. “Not that I endorse those.”

  This t
ime she laughs. Mission accomplished.

  “If there’s a hurricane,” she says with mock seriousness. “I promise I won’t accept any party invitations.”

  If there’s a hurricane, I’m suddenly certain, I won’t want her out of my sight.

  She narrows her gaze at me. “There you go, looking all serious and somber again. I think I failed at trying to cheer you up.”

  I want to tell her that I feel a lot better now than I did this morning. Being with her always makes me feel better. I just want more of it.

  “What can I do?” she asks, her gaze sincere.

  Instead of pulling her in to kiss her like I want to, I force a smile. “How about learning the last part of this routine?”

  Chapter Twenty

  IRIS

  On Thursday, the National Weather Service narrows Tropical Storm Addie’s projected path to south central Louisiana. Pretty much right where we are. It’s predicted to reach hurricane strength by Friday night and make landfall Saturday night as a Category 1 or 2.

  That’s not too bad, right?

  At least, this is what I’m thinking Thursday afternoon when the studio cancels filming for Friday and instructs everyone to “follow the advisories of the local authorities” and “do whatever is necessary to prepare for the storm.”

  And it’s their disassociation with liability that makes me a little nervous. That and the fact that communities along the coast have issued a mandatory evacuation in anticipation of a storm surge.

  Evacuation? Should I be thinking about that?

  I ask a few people on set, but no one I talk to is from Louisiana, and most of them are distracted because Jonathan wants us to get further along in the scene than scheduled tonight because of tomorrow’s cancellation.

  We only break long enough for me to get word to Ramon to cancel dance lessons and figure out what doing “whatever is necessary to prepare for the storm” actually means. In the two minutes we talk, I notice that the lines around his mouth are tense and his eyes are shuttered.

  He’s nervous. I don’t blame him.

  I wish I could check in with local news stations myself and figure out how bad it’s supposed to be, but Jonathan has a rule about no phones on set. Mine is in the trailer. I’m about to ask Ramon to do some digging for me and brief me on our next break when Moira bulldozes our conversation.

  “We need to talk,” she says, grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me away from Ramon. She pulls me from the glow of the set into the shadows that surround the sound stage.

  When she speaks, it’s in a hissed whisper. “Have you made any progress on the front we discussed a couple of weeks ago?”

  Moira and I have discussed countless items in the last few weeks. A commercial campaign for a national car rental chain. A booking to appear on Jimmy Kimmel Live! Analytics about my Insta posts. The list goes on. But I know without asking what she’s referring to.

  Still, I pretend ignorance. “What do you mean?”

  The look she gives me could fry bacon. To a crisp. “You know what I’m talking about.” She slides her jaw from left to right, giving me a speaking glare. “Improving relations with management.”

  I’ll be honest. I am a coward. This is a well-established fact. I’m not a fan of confrontation, and I don’t enjoy disappointing people. Especially Moira. But what she’s asking makes my skin crawl.

  I can’t bring myself to flirt with my director.

  I haven’t even tried. Acting is one thing. Faking is another.

  But I also haven’t told her that I can’t—and won’t—do it.

  So I equivocate. “I think Jonathan and I have a good working relationship, but I don’t see it ever being more than that,” I say, forcing my chin up to mimic some self-respect.

  She expels a frustrated breath. “Because you haven’t tried. This storm is the perfect opportunity. You should just mention to him that you don’t want to be alone during a hurricane. That house the studio set him up in must have five or six bedrooms,” she says, eyes bugging. “You should stay there this weekend.”

  I have to stop myself from staggering backward. How did we get here?

  “Mom—” I almost never call her Mom, especially not on-set, but sometimes it just slips out. Her scowl is immediate. “Moira,” I correct, “That’s—not—I-I-m not going to be alone during the storm, and even if I were—”

  She arches a superior brow and eyes me like the cat who ate a fuckton of canaries. “Oh, are you sure about that? By the sound of it, your good friends are about to head out of town.”

  “What?” I look back to the spot where we left Ramon, but he’s not there anymore. I scan the space for either him or Sally, but neither is in sight. Nerves bunch my stomach, but I willfully talk myself down.

  I don’t know what Moira is talking about, but Ramon and Sally would never just up and abandon me without a word. They know what that would do to me. Neither one of them would walk out on me like that.

  “I’ve given you enough time to get this done,” Moira says, drawing every atom of my attention back to her. “I see I’ll need to get involved—as usual.”

  “What?! Moira—No. No.” I almost never come out and tell her no, straight up, but this is ridiculous. “Whatever you’re planning? It can’t hap—”

  “Relax,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I know to talk to people so they give me exactly what I want and think it was their idea.”

  No. Just no. I can attest firsthand that when my mother gets me to give her what she wants, I never think it’s my idea. I only do it when resistance seems futile.

  Right now, for my career, my integrity, my sanity, resistance seems vital. “Moira, please, don’t do this,” I beg. “This is embarrassing and wrong. This isn’t who I am—”

  “Iris Miranda Adams!” she yells.

  I freeze, horrified.

  Oh.

  God.

  The soundstage falls absurdly still. I can feel—actually feel—people listening. I want to collapse in on myself like an aluminum can in a vacuum chamber. My skin blisters with humiliation.

  Moira’s eyes, a menacing green, flare like a predator’s. But she hears the silence too, takes in our sudden audience, and lifts her chin with tight-lipped pride. When she speaks, her volume is controlled, thank God.

  “Don’t you dare say I’ve embarrassed you, girl. I am the reason you are standing here. I’m the reason you have this role. This paycheck. This life.” She jabs a finger toward the ground as if to indicate that everything I know of earth itself is because of her.

  Nausea assails me and the walls threaten to close in because she’s right. I wouldn’t be here without her. None of this would have come to pass without Moira at the helm of my life. She has driven me here.

  Like a jockey drives a racehorse.

  Her eyes narrow to slits. “Do you think after all this—after everything I’ve done to get you where you are—do you think I don’t know what’s good for you now?”

  I say nothing, banking on history. Moira’s rhetorical questions should go unanswered. But I bet wrong.

  “Answer me.” Her hiss may as well be a scream.

  Just get her to stop. Tell her she knows what’s best, my survival instinct begs.

  This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong, my conscience insists.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. It’s just a whisper, and it’s weak, but it took the whole of my meager supply of courage not to give in.

  “What?!” She scowls at me with disgust in her eyes.

  “Two minutes, everybody!” Jonathan’s assistant calls, signaling the end of our break.

  I’m shaking, wishing those two minutes were up. Two minutes is an eternity when you’re burning alive.

  “What. Did. You. Say?” Moira grinds out.

  I take a quaking breath. Saying it a second time doesn’t seem possible. “I don’t—”

  “You don’t know,” Moira growls, twisting my words. “You don’t know what’s best. Good thing you have
me.” She squares her shoulders, making her five-foot-five stature seem enormous to me. “I’ll see to everything. Like I always do.”

  She turns on her heels, leaving me eviscerated. There’s no time to fall apart. No time to cry on someone’s shoulder.

  But an image of Beau Landry’s broad shoulders flashes through my mind. Thinking of him makes my eyes sting, but I don’t have time to go back to make-up. I chase thoughts of him and the feelings they bring back into the shadows.

  I do a quick scan for Ramon or Sally, but there’s no sign of them.

  I step back onto the empty set, illuminated under the spotlights for all to see. I gather my character’s bearing like an invisibility cloak and hide behind her.

  By the time we break for the night, it’s after nine, and I’m numb. I meet Ramon and Sally at the trailer, but I don’t say a word. As soon as they see me, they know. I must have that chewed-up-and-spat-out look, and their silence in return is a gift.

  When I settle into the backseat of the Rover, Ramon hands me my phone. I have a ton of messages. A quick scan shows me that most of them are from friends in L.A., freaking out that a hurricane is headed my way. But the most recent messages are the ones that snag my attention. The latest one is just two minutes old.

  Jonathan Reynolds: Hey kid, Moira says you need a safer place to stay for this storm. Can’t let my star blow away! My place has a generator. We’ll hunker down together.

  I can barely look at the three messages before that one:

  Moira: It worked! You’re in, baby! Make the most of it.

  Ten minutes before that:

  Moira: Jonathan’s assistant got me five minutes with him. I told her it was an emergency.

  Three hours before that:

  Moira: If you ever embarrass me the way you did today, there’ll be hell to pay. If anyone asks what that was about, you tell them it was about finding you better shelter for this storm.

  Spots cloud my vision after I read this one. I shut my eyes and press my hand to my pounding head. I can’t read any more messages.