25. A Body-Contact Thing
A BODY-CONTACT THING
SAWYER
On my Saturday-morning run with Banks, I replay in my mind the dancing videos that I watched last night. And again this morning while doing laps in the pool at the gym. I try to remember the moves now as we pass the horse farm, where a majestic chestnut creature nibbles on grass.
We’ve reached the part of the run where silence cloaks us, and that’s fine by me.
I picture taking a step forward, a step back—then what’s next?
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud bark.
Banks laughs affectionately. “Hudson, he’s twenty times bigger than you,” he says to the black-and-white dog he’s running with—Ripley’s dog. Though maybe it’s his dog now too.
Hudson barks again at the horse, who whinnies and wanders off in his pasture, even though we keep moving.
“Twenty? Not sure if your math is mathing,” I say.
“It’s artistic license. Deal with it,” he replies, then nods at Hudson. “Right, buddy?”
Hudson offers a hopeful look at Banks, who pats Hudson’s flank as they keep running. Yup. I was right.
“So, safe to say Hudson’s yours now too?”
“Fuck yes,” Banks says, no questions asked. Then he shoots me a serious look. “And what about you?”
I blink, unsure what he means. “Is…Captain my dog?”
Banks nearly stumbles. A rare sight—the man is fast on his feet. But he slows at the street sign, Hudson slowing, too, and turning to look at Banks with doggy concern.
“I was thinking more about whether you were going to get a dog, not whether Chloe’s dog was yours…but way to connect the dots, bro.”
Ah, shit. That was a Freudian slip. “Sorry. Morning brain,” I mumble, trying to cover it up, stat.
He scoffs—or maybe it’s a laugh. Probably both. “Or…wishful thinking?”
But those are things I can’t want. Can’t wish for. I wave a hand. “Just got dogs on my mind.”
“Yeah, you should adopt one. But more to the point—are you and Chloe a thing now?”
No. That can’t happen. I won’t date a co-worker. That’s asking for trouble. But even if I was okay with it, there’d be that whole love never works out thing. “No. I’m not dating her or anyone. Love sucks, and then it chews you up and spits you out,” I say.
“Not always,” he says, and sure, easy for him to say. He didn’t almost get married to someone who cheated on him. But I’m not going to compare heartbreak. Especially with a man who’s very happily attached.
“Most of the time,” I say, then swallow my pride—and man, does it taste bitter going down. But I better own up to what the thing with Chloe really is. “Anyway, I said that because…I have to do this whole…thing with her.”
“Thing? What thing?” he asks, still seeming a little lost. Understandable, since I’ve done a terrible job explaining I’m now crooning the finale in her mom’s show.
My chest tightens, and I bristle a little inside.
But the whole town’s going to know soon anyway.
Might as well get it out with a friend first. “Perform a song,” I manage to say, “at a fundraiser.”
Banks shoots me a what the fuck look. Yep, this is why I’ve kept my hobby to myself.
Because it doesn’t fit the image I’ve carefully cultivated.
The image I needed when I ran the firm with my dad.
The way he taught me to behave in business.
When being a professional professional—I fight off a smile as I think of Chloe’s words—was my job.
“It’s nothing,” I add quickly, then tug at my T-shirt. It feels too tight. Too hot. Or maybe it’s the knot of tension in my chest growing tighter.
“That’s not nothing. I just had…no idea,” he says.
“Her mom needed help, so she asked me, and I said yes,” I say, making it seem like no big deal that I’m performing a number in front of the whole town. And yes, I leave out the part about the soft blackmail. The karaoke. The whole Sam Silversmith thing. How am I going to tell him that?
“So you can sing?”
I shrug as we run. My version of an admission.
He’s quiet for a few houses as we jog past a row of Craftsman homes, then he says, “I can do origami.”
I shoot him a curious look. “You…can?”
“Yeah. Real elaborate stuff. It’s like…a party trick,” he says.
And the knot inside me loosens, eases up. I give a small smile. I guess we all have hidden talents. “That’s cool,” I say.
“Same for you,” he replies, then clears his throat and nods. “But get that dog, will ya, man? And figure out what the fuck you’re feeling for this woman. Or what you want.”
Dance lessons? Another night at Prohibition Spirit? An evening with her like the one we had in San Francisco, and even the morning after we never had?
What I want is all of the above. But want leads to heartbreak. And I’ve had more than enough of that.
* * *
I’m heading to the door in the late afternoon when my phone rings with a FaceTime call from my sisters. Hmm. I don’t want to be late, but I never turn down a chance to connect with them.
“What’s up?” I say when I answer.
Rachel peers behind me. “Are you watering Pucker?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom.”
“You named your plant Pucker?” Juliet asks.
“No!”
“You did,” Rachel says. “Well, Pucker Up is the plant’s full name.”
“It’s not, and you did,” I point out.
“I hate the word pucker,” Juliet says.
“I hate the word moist,” Rachel adds.
“Why did I answer the phone?” I ask the universe.
“Because you love us,” Juliet says.
“So much,” Rachel seconds.
True. But I glance to the door. “I need to…”
Do I tell them what I’m doing? A dance lesson? The teasing will be endless.
“Do what?” Juliet asks, jumping on my unfinished comment.
“Get to…a thing,” I add. Since thing is apparently my word of the day.
“Oooh, what kind of a thing?” Juliet asks.
I clench my jaw but then bite the bullet. If I told Banks, I can tell them. At least they know I can hold a tune. “Chloe roped me into doing a fundraiser,” I grumble. “I have to sing.”
I can’t not invite them to the fundraiser though. I’d face their side-eyes for the rest of time if I didn’t give them the chance.
“Are you going to do ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’?” Rachel asks.
“No,” I say quickly, then tell them the song.
“Oh, I love that one,” Juliet coos. “Will it be karaoke-style?”
“No. And don’t tell anyone I do karaoke,” I say. “I don’t need the whole town knowing.”
“Is that your way of inviting us?” Juliet asks.
“Yeah, thanks for inviting us,” Rachel adds, acting all butt-hurt.
“It literally just happened last night. I was going to.”
“Good. You’d better,” Juliet says. “And your karaoke secret is safe with us.”
At least they don’t know about Sam Silversmith. I only ever shared my alter ego with Katya since, well, I thought I was going to marry her. “Thanks,” I say, then open the door and head to my car. “But what’s going on?”
“Oh, I was just telling Rachel about the pretty woman I introduced you to at the dog party, and then I realized we hadn’t done a dating welfare check on you for a while.
And lo and behold…the woman from the party was named Chloe.
And so is the woman who roped you into this fundraiser,” she says, shooting me a tell me more smile. “Ergo…”
“It sounds like your dating welfare is good,” Rachel says, real enthusiasm in her tone.
My heart squeezes with that wish once more. “I’m not dating her. She’s actually my…co-worker,” I say, then hop into my car and give them the condensed version of how I met Chloe again.
“But it sounds like you want to date her?” Rachel asks.
I sigh, thinking on that topic once again but then reminding myself it doesn’t matter. “I want to settle into my new life in this town where my plans don’t get ripped to pieces by a romance that’s a lie.”
Juliet smiles sympathetically. Rachel nods and says, “I hear you.”
“And right now, I need to get to a dance lesson with Chloe.”
“You’re dancing with her?” Juliet squeals. Yes, squeals.
“Yes,” I bite out.
“You’re going to be dating her before you know it,” she says.
“Goodbye, Juliet. Goodbye, Rachel.”
I hang up and head to the dance studio. It’s not a date. It’s a dance lesson.
* * *
I can run. I can bike. I can swim. I can sing. How hard can it be to dance? And the answer is…
“Ouch!”
Chloe’s hopping on one foot on the hardwood floor of the dance studio. And it’s all my fault. Still, I say, “Your fault, sweetheart.”
“I know,” she hisses.
“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
“Yes, Sawyer, kiss my foot,” she whispers, but then she takes a deep breath, pins on a smile, and says, “doesn’t even hurt.”
“Liar,” I say, maybe because it’s easier than saying I suck at dancing.
Only, I hardly need to say it. It’s obvious here at our first dance lesson.
Mirrors don’t lie—the reflecting glass across the entire wall is mocking me.
We’re thirty minutes into the beginner steps for the waltz, and already I’ve stepped on her toes three times.
But the teacher—Chloe’s dad—has assured me that’s normal.
In tight pants and dapper lace-up shoes, he sweeps by again as I hold my arms out at a precise angle in the so-called starting position, the one I’ll assume during the instrumental bridge of “Fly Me to the Moon.”
“You’re doing great,” he assures us as other couples move around the dance floor, some with more grace, some with less.
I scoff. “You must be mistaking me for someone else.”
“No, you are, Sawyer,” he says again. He’s emphatic and passionate, and he clearly believes anyone can dance—that’s the name of the studio he owns and runs.
Those words are etched on to the front door in a scripty font, with a silhouette of someone twirling.
Man, woman, who knows. Either way, it’s an invitation to all.
“You are doing great,” Chloe adds, sass-free this time, a rarity for her.
I appreciate the compliments, but they’re not necessary. “You don’t need to butter me up.”
“No butter here,” she says. “I mean it. Dancing is hard, and stepping on your partner’s toes is a rite of passage.”
Her dad goes thoughtful, tapping his clean-shaven chin. “Your movements are perhaps a tiny bit rigid. Instead of thinking of it as a waltz, or a swing, think about it like…partner dancing. Dancing with the person you want.”
Well, then.
I sneak a glance at Chloe, admiring the way her black top shows off her arms and offers a peek at the tops of her breasts, feeling only minimally guilty I’m checking her out in front of her dad.
“Can you do that?” he asks me.
My lips twitch as I smother a dirty grin. “I’ll give it a shot,” I say.
“Good. Posture is key. You should be relaxed yet engaged,” her dad says, then forward, backward, and side steps. I watch as he solo dances with an imaginary partner to a sophisticated jazzy standard.
This time, I don’t try to memorize the moves. I try to feel the dance.
“Face each other with both arms connected, a little body contact,” he instructs.
Body contact—the thing I’ve been trying desperately to avoid for the last few weeks. Body contact—the thing I want most in the world with her.
I do as instructed, placing my right hand on her left shoulder blade. There. Right there. Where she loves to be touched. A tiny tremble runs through her, and it lights me up. She drapes her left hand on my right shoulder, and that move sends a wave of heat coursing through me.
“With your left hand, hold her right,” her dad says.
I comply.
Her breath catches, and I want to kiss that sigh away. Swallow it down. Crush my lips to hers once more. Pull her close.
Dangerous thoughts. But then again, those things aren’t the same as dating. Not at all. That’s just science. A simple chemical reaction.
“You’ve got this,” her father says, and as the music builds and he drifts off to help others, I focus less on the footwork and more on the feeling.
On moving in opposite directions while holding this position.
On keeping my hand on her shoulder blade.
On guiding her through the dance steps I hardly know, but feeling them anyway.
“Good job,” she says, her voice soft and private, just for me.
“Yeah?”
“I mean it.”
“We’ll see.”
“I do mean it, Sawyer. I have a good partner.” Gone is the usual teasing from her tone. She’s surprisingly…encouraging, and maybe that’s what I needed. What I hardly ever let myself need.
But this time, I choose to take it. “So do I,” I say, speaking from the heart too.
I’m not a natural dancer. I don’t love it. But with her body melting into mine, with her breath hitching with each sway, the hair on her arms standing on end, I might like dancing for the first time ever.
Or maybe it’s just that I like dancing with this partner.
So much that I don’t want the music to end. Or the lesson. I’m too buzzed, too hopped up on this closeness to her. The feel of our hands linked, our bodies brushing, our goals the same.
And speaking of goals, she doesn’t want to date. She’s said that from the start. So have I. But we’ve fucked twice, and here we are. Still working together well enough. Still getting along…well enough.
Maybe I don’t need to be so rigid about certain rules.
When we’re done, she says, “See? You just got off on the wrong foot. But now you’re all about the right one.”
I’m not so sure about that. But I am sure about this. Impulsively, I reach for her hand and tug her close, then with a firm hold on her, I dip her back, my face hovering inches from hers.
Her lips part in an invitation for a kiss. A hot, wet kiss that would last all night.
I shouldn’t be thinking about kissing her. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about fucking her.
It’s five forty-five, and I’m free till my eight-thirty dinner with a social media agency. I should probably go home, review my marketing plans for Dog Tails, crunch some advertising expenditure numbers, and scroll through the socials for even more ideas from other dog daycares.
But that’s what the meeting is about, so the agency can do that.
Besides, when we leave the studio, dancing is on my mind, not dogs. On the sidewalk, under the streetlamps and the steamy summer sky, the math isn’t too hard to do. I have a window right now, and there’s only one place I want to be. “Invite me over, Chloe.”
She grabs the collar of my shirt. “Come over, Sam Silversmith.”
I say yes in a heartbeat, since it’s not dating. It’s horizontal dancing.