I sign up with Jody for the intermediate West Coast course that’s starting on Saturday mornings in July.
I sign up for Thursday evening lessons at a smaller dance studio in lower Manhattan, and I bookmark another ‘Hot and West’ night near me in Brooklyn.
I sign up for four one-hour private lessons with Hank so I can learn how to do Jack & Jill improvs. I keep going to the Friday night open practice sessions at Manhattan Swing Workshop, too.
I even sit through an entire lesson taught by Eliana at one of our Manhattan Swing nights. She seems to have literally no idea who I am, but she has a lot of useful tips about pop-outs andfootwork. Jody finds Eliana annoyingly perky, which I take as a sign of loyalty.
Jody tells me she has finally made a plan to see Téa.
“Meh,” Jody says. “It probably won’t work out anyway.”
“No sparks?”
“I don’t know if I believe in sparks.”
Ben still hasn’t returned to class, though Jody texts him again to check in.
I seeOllie now and then, and each time a crushing wave of feeling washes over me. We spot each other twice in the hallway at work, and he looks ridiculously handsome and not at all like he is going through a break-up, which I hate him for. The first time, I smile politely but do not wave, a flat, empty, polite smile that he doesn’t return. The second time, he waves once but does not smile.
When I see him for a third time, this time in the hallway at Manhattan Swing Workshop, he walks straight toward me. Something in my chest turns into a gymnastics routine, all flips and spins and landing hard.
“Laura,” he says. “I um…”
I feel it sharply then: the little mythical string that still connects his chest to mine, tugging. “Yes?”
“I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that by phone.”
Oh,that’swhat he wants to apologize for? The method of delivery?
“But you had to do it, right?” I feel anger rising inside me. I want to shove at him, to scream, but I keep my voice even. “It had to be done?”
He takes a shallow breath. “I was just waiting for you to…” The words trail off.
“Me to what? Break your heart? So you had to do it first?”
“No, I —” He looks appalled. “No.”
I wait. He says nothing. He shakes his head; I can’t believe he has the gall to look frustrated with me.
“I was trying to give you space—” he begins. The doors to the main classroom swing open and a throng of sweaty, cheerful dancers pour out.
“To give me space?” Am I hearing this correctly?
He looks pained.
“Well,” I say, “mission accomplished.”
He winces, and I turn and walk past him into the classroom.
A coupleof days after that, Brant approaches me at my desk and asks whether my ex-husband is still staying with me.
“No, he’s back to drifting wherever the winds of pop music take him.”
“Good,” Brant replies with a frown. “I was a little worried about you.”
I don’t love that Brant feels comfortable saying that.
“You know, Laura,” Brant adds, “one of these days I hope we’re both ready to date again.”
