I walk over, sit down next to him, and ask, “So, when did you get into photography?”
“When I was in college I took some art classes. So, one day I just decided to buy a camera and started taking pictures. Like I said, I pretty much have no clue what I’m doing. Just a little hobby of mine I mess around with every now and then.”
“You ever do anything with them?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should,” I say, and he turns to look at me and repeats my words back to me quietly, “Maybe I should.”
“You sure you don’t want to come out to the bar tonight to see Mark play?” he asks.
“I told you, I have to work.”
“I just picked you up from work.”
“I know, but I have to go back. One of the girls quit and Roxy hasn’t hired anyone to replace her, so I’ve been picking up extra shifts,” I explain. “Plus, I’d probably be tired and no fun to be around.”
“I can’t imagine it not being fun to be around you,” he says as he looks at me intently, and I begin to feel uncomfortable with his words. “You ready to finish the run?”
A smile crosses his face when he stands up and reaches out his hand to me. I sit there for a beat before I hesitantly place my hand in his. When I do, he gives me a slight tug and pulls me off the couch. He never lets go of my hand as he locks up and we walk down the stairs and out to the driveway. This closeness has my nerves twisted up, and I’m sure he can feel sweat on my hand. As we walk out to the street, hands still connected, he asks, “Wanna make it a long run, or are you ready to head back?”
I take a hard swallow before saying, “Long.”
He gives me a squeeze before he unwraps his fingers from around my hand, and we begin to run.
Chapter Nineteen
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School has been really busy. It’s the last week of classes before finals. Aside from work, I have been buried in my books and getting everything wrapped up before the quarter ends. I’m going into all my finals with perfect grades, so I am sure I will still be able to maintain my four point GPA.
I did manage to meet up with Ryan Thursday morning for our run. I was starting to get really stressed out, so the run was just what I needed. Ryan was considerate and let me ramble on and on the whole time about my classes and everything that I needed to do to make sure I was ready for my exams.
But now that classes are officially over until January, I can start to wind down a bit. I only have three finals next week and a studio final. Everyone has learned the same routine, and we will perform in groups of four for our final grading. I have the dance memorized and perfected, so today when I go to the studio, I plan to just work on my solo. Ms. Emerson will be meeting me up there in a little bit to critique what I have so far. I am surprised that she offered to do this for me since she never gives anyone private instruction. So when she offered, I immediately said yes.
Ryan said he would meet me at the studio around four o’clock to grab a coffee before he has to go into work. I shoot him a quick text as I am heading out.
Leaving now. See you in two hours?
I’ll meet you in the parking lot.
OK, catch you later.
When I arrive at the studio, Ms. Emerson is already there waiting for me.
“Hi, I hope you weren’t waiting long,” I say when I walk in and set my bag down.
Walking over to the stereo, she says, “Not at all. I just got here. Did you stretch at home?”
“Yes, but I need to warm my muscles up a little more.” The cold temperatures make it hard to keep my muscles loose, so after my pointes are on, I slide on some leg warmers and loose long pants.
“Well then, let’s do a little floor work before we begin.” She flips on the music, and she joins me in the center of the room as we do a few adagio combinations.
I have never danced alone alongside Ms. Emerson. She is as focused as I am on arm placements and bodylines. We move gracefully together through the movements and repeat the combination a few more times before she asks for my music. I hand her the disc, and she gets the music set up as I take my spot on the floor in fifth position. When I hear the strings, I slowly relevè on my pointes and begin a series of chainès across the floor. I continue through my choreography, and when I get to the peak of my developè, I begin spotting my head as I go into a variation series of fouettès. I hear Ms. Emerson beating the counts by loudly clapping her hands. When I come to the end, all she says is, “Again.” She clicks the remote, and the music cues back up.