Sweet Filthy Boy

  “God, so am I,” Harlow says. “I was losing serious sleep with all your middle of o’dark-thirty phone calls.”

  I throw a pillow at her. “Ha, ha.”

  “And what about a job? You know my dad would hire you to come sit and look pretty in one of his offices. Want to confuse the hell out of some middle-aged executives for the summer?”

  “Actually, I got a job.”

  “That’s great!” Lola grabs my hand.

  Always the more skeptical one, Harlow continues to watch me. “Where?”

  “My old studio,” I say. And that’s all I have to say, really, because barely a moment has passed before both Lola and Harlow are practically in my lap.

  “So proud of you,” Lola whispers, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders.

  “We’ve missed seeing you dance. Fuck, I think I might cry,” Harlow adds.

  I laugh, halfheartedly trying to push them away. “It won’t be the same, guys. I’ll—”

  “For us it will,” Lola says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.

  “Okay, okay,” Harlow says, and stands to look at each of us. “Enough of this sentimental business. We’re going to get something to eat and then we’re going shopping.”

  “You guys go. I’m headed to the studio in a little bit to talk to Tina. I need to shower.”

  Lola and Harlow exchange a look. “Fine, but after you’re done we’re going out out. Drinks on me,” Lola says. “A little welcome home for our Sugarcube.”

  My phone vibrates along the table and Harlow reaches for it, pushing me away with her long, glamazon arms. “Oh, and Mia?”

  “Yeah?” I say, trying to get around her.

  “Pick up the damn phone when he calls or call him yourself. You have ten voice messages and let’s not even talk about your texts. It doesn’t have to be today, doesn’t even have to be tomorrow, but stop being a wimp. You can go to school and work and pretend you’re not married, but you can’t fool us into thinking you’re not completely in love with this guy.”

  THE DRIVE TO the studio that afternoon is definitely weird. I expected to feel nervous and nostalgic, but realize almost as soon as I’m on the road that although I’ve made this drive hundreds and hundreds of times, Mom accompanied me on every single trip. I’ve never actually been behind the wheel for this particular journey.

  It unwinds something in me, to take control of a course I’d moved along so passively for so long. The unassuming strip mall appears just past the busy intersection at Linda Vista and Morena, and after I park, it takes a few minutes for me to process how different it looks. There’s a glossy new frozen yogurt place, a Subway. The big space that used to be a Chinese restaurant is now a karate studio. But tucked in the direct center of the row, and updated with a new sign, new smooth brick exterior, is Tina’s studio. I struggle to press down the tight swell in my throat, the nervous lurching of my stomach. I’m so happy to see this place—no matter how different it looks—and also a little heartbroken that it won’t ever be what it used to be for me.

  I’m light-headed with emotions and relief and sadness and just so much of everything, but I don’t want Mom or Harlow or Lola right now. I want Ansel.

  I fumble for my phone inside my bag. The hot air outside seems to press against me like a wall but I ignore it, hands shaking as I type my passcode and find Ansel’s picture in my favorites list.

  With breaths so heavy I’m actually worried I might have some sort of asthma attack, I type the words I know he’s been hoping for, the words I should have typed the day I left—I like you—and press send. I’m sorry I left the way I did, I add in a rush. I want us to be together. I know it’s late there but can I call? I’m calling.

  God, my heart is pounding so hard I can hear the whoosh of blood in my ears. My hands are shaking and I have to take a moment, lean back against my car to get myself together. When I’m finally ready, I open my contacts again and press his name. It takes a second to connect, before the sound of ringing moves through the line.

  It rings, and rings, and finally goes to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message. I know it’s the middle of the night there, but if his phone is on—which it clearly is—and he wanted to talk to me he would answer. I push down the thread of unease and close my eyes, trying to find comfort in how good it feels to even admit to myself and him that I’m not ready for this to be over.

  Pulling open the door to the studio, I see Tina standing just inside, and I know from her expression—jaw tight, tears pooled on her lower lids—that she’s been watching me since I got out of my car.

  She looks older, as expected, but also just as poised and delicate as ever, with her graying hair pulled back tight in a bun, her face bare of any makeup except her trademark cherry-red lip balm. Her uniform is the same: tight black tank top, black yoga pants, ballet slippers. A million memories are wrapped up in this woman. Tina pulls me into a hug and trembles against me.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Getting there.”

  Pulling back, she looks me over, blue eyes wide. “So

  tell me.”

  I haven’t seen Tina in four years, so I can only assume she means tell me everything. Initially, after I was discharged from the hospital, she came to the house to visit at least once a week. But I began making excuses why I needed to be out of the house, or upstairs with my door closed. Eventually she stopped coming by.

  Still, I know I don’t need to apologize for the distance. Instead, I give her the highly abbreviated version of the past four years, ending with Vegas, and Ansel, and my new plan. The story gets easier every time, I swear.

  I want this job so bad. I need her to know that I’m okay—I’m really okay—and so I make sure to sound strong, and calm. I’m proud that my voice doesn’t waver once.

  She smiles when I’m done and admits, “Having you join me here is a dream.”

  “Same.”

  “Let’s do a little observation before we dive right in. I want to make sure you remember our philosophy, and that your feet remember what to do.”

  She’s mentioned an informal interview on the phone, but not an actual instruction session, so my heart immediately takes off, rapid-fire beats slamming against my breastbone.

  You can do this, Mia. You lived and breathed this.

  We move down the short hall, past the larger studio reserved for her teen class and to the small studio at the end, used for private lessons and her beginner’s class. I smile to myself, expecting to see a line of little girls waiting for me in black leotards, pink tights, and tiny slippers.

  Every head turns to us as the door opens and my breath is pulled from my body in a sharp exhale.

  Six girls are lined up in the classroom, three on either side of the tall man in the middle, bright green eyes full of hope and mischief as they meet mine.

  Ansel.

  Ansel?

  What the . . . ?

  If he’s here, then he was in this building only a half hour ago when I called. Did he see that I called? Has he seen my texts?

  He’s wearing a fitted black undershirt that clings to the muscles of his chest, and charcoal-gray dress pants. His feet are bare, his shoulders squared just like the girls beside him, many of whom are stealing peeks and barely suppressing giggles.

  Lola and Harlow sent him here, I’m sure of it.

  I open my mouth to speak but am immediately cut off by Tina, who, with a knowing smile, sweeps past me, chin in the air as she announces to the class, “Class, this is Mademoiselle Holland, and—”

  “It’s actually Madame Guillaume,” I correct quietly and turn sharply to Ansel when I hear him make an involuntary sound of surprise.

  Tina’s smile is radiant. “Pardon me. Madame Guillaume is a new instructor here, and will be leading you through your stretches and your first routine. Class, will you please welco
me our new teacher?”

  Six little girls and one deep voice chant in unison, “Hello, Madame Guillaume.”

  I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. I meet his eyes again and in an instant I know he’s read my texts and is holding back his own excitement over being here, over hearing me refer to myself as his wife. He looks tired, but relieved, and we have an entire conversation with just that look. It takes everything in me to not go to him and let myself be wrapped up in those long, strong arms.

  But as if she’s read my mind, Tina clears her throat meaningfully, and I blink, straightening as I respond, “Hello, girls. And Monsieur Guillaume.”

  A few giggles erupt but are quickly squelched with a sweeping look from Tina. “We also have a guest today, as you have clearly noticed. Monsieur Guillaume is deciding if he would like to enroll in the academy. Please do your best to model good behavior, and show him how we conduct ourselves onstage.”

  To my absolute amusement, Ansel looks ready to dive right into the world of being a little ballerina. Tina steps back against the wall, and I know her well enough to know this isn’t any test at all; it’s only a surprise for me. I could laugh it all off, and tell them to start their stretches while I talk to Ansel. But he seems ready for action and I want her to see that I can do this, even with the biggest, most gorgeous distraction in the world right in front of me.

  “Let’s start with some stretching.” I turn on some quiet music and indicate the girls should do what I do: sit on the floor with my legs stretched in front of me. I curl down, reaching my arms out until my hands are on my toes, telling them, “If this hurts then bend your legs a little. Who can count to fifteen for me?”

  Everyone is shy. Everyone, that is, except Ansel. And of course he quietly counts in French, “Un . . . deux . . . trois . . .” as the girls stare at him and wiggle on the floor.

  We continue with the stretches: the bar stretch at the lowest ballet barre, the jazz splits that make the girls squeal and wobble. We practice a few pirouettes—if I live to one hundred, I will never stop laughing at the image of Ansel doing a pirouette—and I show them a straddle stretch, with my leg pressed flat against a wall. (It’s possible I do this purely for Ansel’s benefit, but I’ll never admit it.) The girls try, giggle some more, and a few of them become brave enough to start showing Ansel what to do: how to hold his arms, and then some of their made-up leaps and spins.

  When the class takes a loud, chaotic turn, Tina steps in, clapping and hugging me. “I’ll take over from here. I think you’ve got something else to take care of. I’ll see you here Monday evening at five.”

  “I love you so much,” I say, throwing my arms around her.

  “I love you, too, sweetheart,” she says. “Now go tell him that.”

  ANSEL AND I slip out of the room and pad wordlessly back down the hall. My heart is pounding so hard, it seems to blur my vision with every heavy pulse. I can feel the heat of him moving behind me, but we’re both silent. Out of the studio and past my initial surprise, I’m so overwhelmed that at first, I don’t even know how to start.

  A hot breeze curls around us as we push open the door to the outside, and Ansel watches me carefully, waiting for my cue.

  “Cerise . . .” he starts, and then takes a shuddering breath. When he meets my eyes again, I feel the weight of every ticking moment of silence. His jaw flexes as we stare at each other, and when he swallows, the dimple flickers on his cheek.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice tight and breathless.

  He takes a step up off the curb but still seems to loom above me. “You called me just before you arrived.”

  “I called from the parking lot. It was a lot to process, being here . . . You didn’t answer.”

  “No phones allowed in the studio,” he answers with a cute smile. “But I saw the call light up my screen.”

  “Did you come straight from work?” I ask, lifting my chin to indicate his dress pants.

  He nods. There’s at least a day’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. The image of him leaving work and heading straight for the airport—to me—barely taking enough time to throw a few things into a small bag is enough to leave my knees week.

  “Please don’t be mad,” he says. “Lola called to tell me you were here. I was on my way to meet you three for dinner. Also, Harlow mentioned that she would break both my legs along with any other protruding appendages if I didn’t treat you the way you deserved.”

  “I’m not mad.” I shake my head trying to clear it. “I just . . . I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

  “You thought I would just stay there and fix it at some random point in the future? I couldn’t be so far from you.”

  “Well . . . I’m glad.”

  I can tell he wants to ask, So why did you leave like that? Why didn’t you at least tell me goodbye? But he doesn’t. And I give him serious points for it, too. Because although my entrance into and departure from France were both impulsive, he was the reason both times: one blissful, the other heartbroken. At least he seems to know it. Instead, he looks me over, eyes lingering on my legs visible beneath my nude tights, below my short dance skirt.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. “In fact, you look so beautiful I’m a little at a loss for words.”

  I’m so relieved I burst forward. He curls into me and his face is in my neck. His arms seem long enough to wrap several times around my waist. I can feel his breath on my skin and the way he shakes against me, and when I say, “This feels so good,” he just nods, and our embrace seems to go on forever.

  His lips find my neck, my jaw, and he’s sucking and nibbling. His breath is warm and minty and he’s whispering in French, some words I can’t translate but don’t need to. I hear love and life and mine and sorry and then his hands are cupping my face and his mouth is on mine, eyes wide and fingers shaking on my jaw. It’s a single, chaste kiss—no tongue, nothing deeper—but the way I’m trembling against him seems to promise him that there’s so much more, because he pulls back and looks victorious.

  “Let’s go, then,” he says, dimple deepening. “Let me thank your girls.”

  I’m starving for him, for us to be alone, but somehow even more excited just to have him here, with my friends, like this. Taking his arm, I pull him to my car.

  ANSEL PUTS HIS dress shirt back on as he talks about his flight, the odd feeling of leaving just after work and arriving here at dawn and then having to wait all day to see me . . . all kinds of little details that skirt the edges of the bigger What Now? I steal glances at him as I drive. With the darkening sky behind him, he looks undeniably polished and gorgeous in his lavender button-down and slim charcoal pants. Even though I’m clearly just coming from a dance class, I’m not going to bother changing. If we went back to my place, no doubt we would stay there, and I need to see my girls, to thank them. And maybe more important, to let him thank them.

  I slip on some more functional flats and take him directly to meet Harlow and Lola at Bar Dynamite, pulling him through the crowd, smiling so huge that my person is with me, my husband, my Ansel. They’re sitting in a curved booth, sipping drinks, and Lola sees me before Harlow does. Dammit if her eyes don’t immediately well up with tears.

  “No.” I point at her, laughing. For all her tough exterior she is such a sap. “We aren’t doing that.”

  She laughs, shaking her head and sweeping them away, and it’s a strange blur of greetings, of my favorite people and husband hugging each other as if they’re the best of friends and merely haven’t seen each other for a while.

  But in a way, it’s true. I love him, so they do, too. I love them, so he does, too. He pulls two chocolate bars from the inside pocket of the jacket he has slung over his arm and hands one to Lola and the other to Harlow. “For helping me. I got them at the airport, so don’t look too excited.”

  They both take them, and Harlow looks down at hers and then
back at him. “If she doesn’t bang you tonight, I will.”

  His blush, his dimple, a quiet laugh, and the teeth pressing into his lip again and I’m done for. Fucking kill me now.

  “Not a problem,” I tell her as I toss his jacket onto the seat and drag him, wide-eyed and grinning, after me onto the dance floor. I honestly don’t care what song is playing—he’s not leaving my side the entire night. I step into his arms and press into him.

  “We’re dancing again?”

  “There’s going to be a lot more dancing,” I tell him. “You may have noticed I’m taking your advice.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers. He rests his forehead against mine before pulling back, meeting my eyes. “You just implied you’re banging me tonight.” His grin gets bigger as his hands snake around my waist.

  “Play your cards right.”

  “I forgot my cards.” His smile wilts dramatically. “But I did bring my penis.”

  “I’ll try not to break it this time.”

  “In fact, I think you should try your hardest.”

  The bass shakes up through the floor and we’ve been semi-yelling this playful banter, but the mood slides away, cooling between us, and the moment grows a little heavy. We’ve always been best at flirting, best at fucking, but we’ve had to pretend to be someone else for us to open up sincerely.

  “Talk to me,” he says, bending to whisper the words into my ear. “Tell me what happened that morning you left.”

  “I sort of felt like I had to step up and face what comes next,” I say quietly, but he’s still bent close, and I know he’s heard me. “It was shitty of you not to tell me about Perry, but really it just gave me the shove I needed.”

  “I’m sorry, Cerise.”

  My chest tightens when he calls me this pet name and I run my hands up and down his chest. “If we’re going to try to do this, I need to know you’ll talk to me about things.”

  “I promise. I will.”

  “I’m sorry I left the way I did.”