13. Dancing Through His Mind
thirteen
Dancing Through His Mind
Emma
When I got home, I found two packed dinners on the kitchen counter. It meant that Dean hadn’t eaten yet, or probably hadn’t even returned. But when I went upstairs to change, I saw that the light was on in his study.
To avoid troubling him with my issues, I changed my clothes quickly, putting on a pair of airy linen pants and a top. Despite the heating inside, I still felt cold, so I grabbed a knitted cardigan and put it on before heading to the bathroom. There, I thoroughly washed the running mascara off my cheeks, fixed my eyeliner, and added a touch of pink lip balm.
Setting my phone on silent—since I was in no state to receive calls—I walked over to the study to check on Dean. As soon as I knocked on the door, I heard the usual “Come in, Emma,” though in a slightly more welcoming tone than the usual.
Pushing the door open, I peeked through with my head. “Hi. How was your evening? ”
Shutting the book in his hands, he gave me a bright smile. “Come on in. Mine was good. How was yours?”
“It was okay.” I quickly nodded.
“Your friend? Did you guys have a good time?”
I tittered, stepping inside. “Oh, it was that kind of thing.” Sighing, I let my eyes gaze up at the ceiling. “Some people never grow up, I guess. They never seem to remember that others, too, have problems in their lives.”
“They think the world revolves around them?” Tilting his head, his smile didn’t falter.
I shrugged, trying to keep my own smile alive. “In a way, I guess.”
“Sleepy?”
“Gosh, no.”
Putting aside the book, he stood up. His movements were relaxed, as if we had been living together for a year. The smile on his face was serene and calming—or perhaps I needed to see him smile to feel good at the moment. I watched him walk over to the bottles, his hand hovering over the glasses. “Join me for a drink?”
“Okay.” I nodded, stepping toward the little sofa—loveseat—in the corner near the fireplace. “I love how warm this room is.”
“It’s because it’s relatively small, and the fire’s big.” He paused. “What would you like to drink?”
“What are you having?”
“I’m feeling… Brandy. They say it cures.”
“A sore throat.” I laughed.
He shrugged. “Oh, well.”
“Let’s try that brandy.” I paused. “What are we curing tonight?”
“Oh, I think… uh…” He proceeded to pour. “I guess the memory of this painfully stiff scene I just read. ”
Laughing, I watched him strut back to me with two glasses, extending his arm with mine. As I took it, I asked, “What’s it about?”
Sitting back down, he placed one leg over the other. “You know how a writer should jump on any opportunity to give deeper meaning to the scene at hand?”
“I guess?” I took a sip. “I’m no writer.”
“Well, okay.” He cleared his throat and gestured with a hand. “So, the main character is this dangerous guy—he’s big, armed, mysterious, and dabbles in all sorts of danger.”
“Like a gangster?”
“Of sorts, we can say that.” He nodded. “But then, in the middle of this dry life he leads… you know, meetings in dark alleys, mostly men who speak in code, always looking over his shoulder. And finally, there’s this scene where he meets this beautiful little woman—like, literally, she’s described as petite, delicate, and gorgeous.”
I nodded. “The opposite of everything he deals with?”
“Basically! Right?” He gestures toward me with his hand in agreement, raising his eyebrows. “And me—as a reader—I’m expecting some kind of emotion when he asks her to dance. I’m not saying something flashy or corny, just… it’s the first scene in the book where you get to see the human side of this man, yeah?”
“Hmm,” I nodded again, listening.
“And… nothing .” He shrugged, removing his leg from off the other, placing down his feet next to each other on the floor. I noticed that he was barefoot, his slippers next to the chair just a few inches away.
“And that disappoints you? Maybe it’s meant to be a one-time thing. Maybe they don’t fall in love.”
“But here’s the thing—he does fall in love at some point in the book. Now, I don’t know if that’s the woman in question or not. I’m not there yet. But …” He lifted a finger, his eyes widening a little. “As a reader, this far in the book, I should be given some reason to sympathize with this cold-hearted fella, right? Anything!”
Since this was the first time that we’d spoken about anything besides work, I was beginning to enjoy the conversation. “How would you have put it?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes roamed aimlessly around the room, a faint smile on his face, the meaning of which I couldn’t decipher. “Say, maybe… some nonsense about the music inspiring their bodies to let themselves be taken by the beautifully mundane moment in sweet unison… or her eyes carrying some comfort in the midst of his dark, dangerous world… or…” His eyes momentarily returned to me as he smirked, instantly looking away again. “Or some garbage like that.”
My lips let a half-chuckle escape. “If you think it’s garbage, why are you even thinking it? Could it possibly be something you wish to read about? In which case, why a gangster story? Why not pick up a romance?”
Taking a sip, his eyes fixated on me as his eyebrows wrinkled inward. Licking his lips after the drink, he lowered his hand, staring at it. “Did you want to grow up and be a therapist?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I consumed a mouthful of my drink, not particularly enjoying the flavor.
“Good,” he said with a laugh that was aimed at lightening the blow. “Because it’s not that.” Pausing, his eyes seemed to examine me, as if to ensure that I was worthy of what he was about to share. “Pearl taught me how to dance. It was before my high school prom. Besides the fun-loving woman that she was, she was also graceful and patient. She tried to teach me—through dance—to summon enough confidence so that I could go after what I wanted, without being afraid of failure… or embarrassing myself. She used to say that dance is an experience invented entirely to be felt and enjoyed, not performed. So, as long as I felt that, I couldn’t dance wrong.”
“Sounds wise.” I thought back to the time he had taken me to the dance floor to keep my father from ruining my evening and wondered what he’d felt while he did it.
“She was.” He nodded. “And I know how Freudian it all sounds, but she raised the bar so high.” Looking into my eyes, he grinned. “You’ll have a field day with that, won’t you?”
My grin reflected his. “Depends what you’ll say next.”
“Well, to hell with it, right?” Raising his glass, he challenged me to do the same, so I did. And then we both took large sips before he said, “I don’t think I’ve met any woman who made me think, ‘ Yes! This is the woman I can live with and fear nothing .’ Fear, you see, acts like a God in most of our heads, even though we may not know it.”
Fear… a God. My eyes grew narrower. That was a disturbing thought, although it sounded about right. Feeling slightly exposed, I decided to shift the dynamic, as if to defend my own sanity. “What are you afraid of?” I knew he had all the right to throw my question in my face, refusing to answer.
But then, he surprised me. “Actually finding her.” He looked away, busying himself with feeling the paper cover of the book. “Having the chance to experience the kind of love my mother had described to me. To love someone so purely that all you want is for them to be happy.”
“Are you afraid of giving it? Or having it?”
“I find both possibilities disheartening.”
“Why?”
A sad smile painted itself on his lips, while his eyes remained on the book. “Because nothing lasts forever. Especially the things you delude yourself into believing.” He paused. “Don’t you realize that every fire ends in ashes? And every dream ends in waking up? And every life ends in death?”
Looking at the fireplace, I murmured, “But every fire serves its purpose. And dreams give us joy. And lives matter, don’t they?”
“That’s lasting in your book?”
“You’ll never forget Pearl, will you? Wasn’t her life and her love worth it while they lasted?”
He scoffed. “You speak like her… again.” He gave me a look laden with meaning, as if he knew about the conversation between me and his mom in the hospital before she had died.
Had he overheard us? Had he spent all this time carrying that knowledge without confronting me? And what did it matter now? I remained loyal to my promise, whether he liked it or not. The bottom line was that he was opening up to me more than ever before. Was his grief taking on a different form?
Deciding to change the subject, I eyed the book with which his fingers fiddled. “So, who wrote this, anyway?”
Catching my drift, he smiled and nodded. “Some new author here in New York. Her dad was a friend of my dad’s. He gave us copies when it came out, and I never got around to reading it.”
“Aside from the anticlimactic dance scene, is she any good?”
“If I’m being honest, she would never make it to my top ten.”
“Care to share? I could use something new to read.”
“You’ll be disappointed. All my heroes are long gone.”
“Such as?”
“Albert Camus, Vladimir Nabokov, Martin Heidegger.”
I sighed deeply. “I can’t claim to be familiar with all their works, but I’ve read Camus’ The Stranger; Nabokov’s Lolita, and Heidegger’s Being and Time.”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah? What did you think? ”
“Well, they all have something in common. They’re all pretty dark, even when they address happy subjects.”
“Everyone has a dark side, even those who won’t admit it.”
“I agree.” I paused, examining the drink in my hand as I gently shook the glass. “But we all have to find a silver lining somewhere. Otherwise, why don’t we just lay down and die, and get it over with?”
After a moment of silence, he asked, “Have you ever gone sailing?” prompting me to look at his face.
“Never had the chance, no. Why?”
“It’s one of my silver linings,” he confessed with a cheery smile. “Do you have plans this Saturday?”
“No.” I then realized that I hadn’t looked at my phone the entire time. Flipping it over, I checked the time. “Wow, it’s getting late.”
“Would you like to go on a boat with me Saturday morning?”
Looking into his eyes, I felt my heart beat faster. The tone in which he asked was hopeful, almost joyful. And the thought of being alone with him on a boat felt dangerous. I was standing on the edge of falling for this man, and something that sounded like a mainstream romance trip could be the last straw. But someone like Dean Allen couldn’t possibly go sailing all alone. Hesitantly, I nodded. “I’d love that.”
Again, I went against my instincts to cheer him up. Who knew what Dean’s fun side was going to look like after four weeks of anguish? I promised myself not to ruin his excitement. After all, he was finally taking the initiative at enjoying something he loved.
Besides, there was still a secondary purpose. Perhaps, for a little while, I could forget all about Kyle and his sudden reemergence in my life. I could soak up the sun and maybe even take a dip in the deep blue ocean.
Maybe the salty water would drown my demons.