She rubbed the back of her right thigh through her black leggings. “I’m fine, just pulled it a little too tight. I forgot how complicated this routine is.”
Complicated and so sexy it was difficult to keep his hands to task.
He motioned for a break. They rested on the metal bleachers, the cold soothing his sore muscles and—other sore parts. Whenhe was in high school, he had always wondered if cold bleachers were somehow a method of enforced abstinence. It was not entirely unhelpful at the moment.
Anita sipped deeply from her water bottle. “Can I ask you an awkward question?”
Do I love you? Yes.“Shoot.”
She looked down at the ground, her long ponytail falling over her shoulder. “Do you think it’s too…I don’t know, risqué? For a memorial showcase?”
The air sparked around them. Did she remember? Did she remember how the world had contracted to just the two of them, the air between them so electric it felt like firecrackers on a hot summer’s night? They had been so young. He had found himself outside her room later that night, trying to work up the courage to knock on her door, but never doing it.
Missed possibilities and timing. He was an idiot.
“Honestly, Nikita would have liked it.” He smiled at her in a way that he hoped was reassuring. “She would have loved the burlesque aspect.”
Anita laughed. “The costumes would definitely have appealed to her.”
“You don’t still have that dress, do you?” He vividly remembered the lines of her body in the crystal bustier, the feel of the red satin negligee skirt whispering through his fingers. God, he hoped she had kept it. And also no, because he needed to be an educator to impressionable youths in a very short period of time.
“Nope. It was Gabriella’s dress. I gave it back to her.”
Something tickled the back of his memory. Gabriella had torn apart her dorm room after that weekend, looking for that costume but never finding it.
Anita tilted the water bottle to her mouth, and the memory faded before he could analyze it. That curve in Anita’s throat, like Nefertiti. She had tasted of mocha and buttery shortbread.
Get a damn grip. You are a professional.
Maybe there was something about high schools. All of the hormones just leeched into the air until you were as powerless around them as the adolescents who actually attended the school.
Fortunately, at that moment, the school bell tolled like a military call to arms. The gymnasium doors clanged open with a squeak and squawk, and four teenagers in various attire interrupted.
Showtime. Repressing the ache in his glutes and back, Patrick clapped his hands boisterously. “Jess! How are the jive flicks coming along? Tim! You ready for Friday? You guys are going to be great.”
Before the second bell rang, the group swelled to eight, five girls and three boys, all eager, hormonal, looking for somewhere to fit in and finding it here.
This was the best part of his week. Apart from every single moment spent with Anita, obviously.
“Should I head out?” Anita packed her bag. She didn’t seem to notice how the kids all stared at her, murmuring excitedly in their tightly knit group. So he might have built up her skills a little. He had not been exaggerating.
“No.” He reached for her hand. “Come on, let’s show them what ballroom is all about.”
He pulled her beside him in front of the kids. “Everyone, a lot of you already know Ms. Goodman, from Lewis Dancesport downtown.” Anita waved shyly, somewhat uncertain. If she believed in herself the way he believed in her, she would be a world champion. “She will be heading to Keystone as well on Friday, and so we will see ALL of you there.” He gave them alla fake stern look. They all already had their tickets, even if they weren’t going to be competing. He made sure his group knew how to support one another. “Ms. Goodman and I will also be competing there this year, for the first time. Up to now, she has always refused to dance with me.” A few of the kids tittered politely. “I thought maybe today we could give you guys a little preview.”
“Patrick, what are you doing?” Anita hissed at him.
“Go put your skirt on.” He pulled out his phone and cued the sound system. “Hurry up.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, but did as he had asked, pulling a black skirt with an asymmetric frill out of her bag and over her leggings.
Patrick smiled wolfishly at her. “All right, kids, enjoy! The ssssssamba.”
The drum beat of Sergio Mendes thumped through the gym, filling the wood floors and metal bleachers with rhythm. Anita and Patrick both posed, smiling, moving their hips, until the song began in earnest and they did batucadas reversing away from one another. As the song sped along, Patrick swirled closer to Anita. Nothing brought out her inner goddess like samba. The bass of the drumbeat seemed to control her hips, her arms, the staccato punctuations of her head movements and flicks. He ducked her into a samba roll, promenade and counter promenade runs, turn-turn-turn-cruzado walks. Dimly, he could hear the kids cheering, but he was too in the zone. The music moved too quickly to think. Patrick relied on muscle memory and the electrical hum of Anita, spurring him onward.
The dance finally ended with a huge dip, and as the drums faded away, Patrick realized he and Anita were laughing, and his kids were on their feet for a standing ovation.
****
