I grabbed her and pulled her to my chest.
“I can’t dance,” she laughed.
“Yes, you can. I’ll teach you.” And I moved her hips against mine, then stepped back. “See, I invite you into my embrace, and I do that by leaving space. Now you follow me.”
She stumbled after me for a few steps, nearly kneeing me in the balls as she trod on my feet. Maybe she was right—my wife really couldn’t dance.
“Anyway,” she laughed, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Sounds serious?”
“It kind of is, but in a good way. And I really enjoyed watching the auditions today. You were different.”
I picked up my towel and draped it around my neck.
“Yeah? How?”
“You were the boss out there. I hadn’t seen that before.”
I threw her a shocked look. “I’m the boss in the bedroom always.”
She flicked my stomach.
“I’m being serious! It’s like . . . two different people.”
I felt like that sometimes, like two different people. I got flashes of before-Ash, but mostly I was now-Ash. But I knew what she meant.
“I have two sides,” I explained simply. “The public side, being the choreographer out there, or pleasing the audience—whichever is needed.”
“And the other?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Was I lying? I didn’t know anymore. But I didn’t want to talk about the dark side, not to my sunshine.
“What’s this thing you wanted to talk about?”
She looked at me as if she knew I was changing the subject—she just didn’t know why, but she let me off the hook.
“Selma has come up with an interesting offer . . .”
Two days later, our first rehearsal with Gary, Luka and Oliver had been amazing. It was a bit freaky showing Oliver how to ‘be’ Sergei, but he was a nice guy, so I’d have to get over it, although my body was having a hard time understanding the difference.
And I was right about Sarah—she was going to be extraordinary. My mind exploded with the possibilities. Gary seemed equally excited.
“Oh my God!” he shrieked. “You are so right about her. Can the theater do wire work? We should use the harness to have her flying across the stage.”
Sarah must have heard the comment, because she walked over, her eyes wide.
“Oh no fucking way! I’m not doing wire work, Mr. Tinsel Toes!”
Gary’s eyes narrowed, and they were soon slugging it out. It was odds-even who’d win. At first, I thought they hated each other, but after a full day of rehearsals, it was just kind of how they were with each other. Whatever, it seemed to work for them, and they had a lot of amazing ideas sparking off each other.
It was the hardest I’d worked in my life, and because I was the lead and in every scene except one, my body took the brunt of it: strained muscles, bruises, taped up shoulders, ice baths and emergency stretching. All for the dizzying intoxication of hoping and praying for the standing ovation, the desperate need to avoid more scorn from the reviewers, the sucker punch of bad comments.
I felt broken, emotionally and physically, and everything hurt. Even after an ice bath and a deep tissue massage, I’d spend the rest of the evening walking like an old man. But the adrenaline, the rush—when I stood on that stage in front of Laney—that would be the second proudest moment of my life.
At least I didn’t suffer the lacerated feet of the female dancers. Sure, blisters and sore feet were an occupational hazard, but I couldn’t imagine what it was like dancing in high heels for hours a day. They all put white spirit on their feet to harden the skin.
It wasn’t glamorous, but if we got it right, it was going to be amazing.
I hoped.
Laney
It was after 11PM when I arrived at the dance studio. The janitor raised his eyes and tapped his watch, telling me that Ash had ten minutes to get the hell out.
I could hear music playing, something with a tango beat. Ash was standing in the middle of the empty studio, his hair black with sweat.
I pushed open the door and his head jerked up. I think he tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.
“Hi. It’s late. Are you ready to come home yet?”
“Soon,” he muttered, bending down to give me a quick kiss.
“Actually, now. The janitor is waiting to lock up. Anyway, you look like you’re hurting.”
He gave me a thin smile.
“I dance through the pain, that’s what I do.”
“Are you being dramatic, or do you mean that?”
“Both,” he smiled, but I could see how tired he was. Then he sighed. “I’ve been lifting all day.”
I was confused. “Weights?”
His eyes were closed but he smiled at that. “No, girls—dancers.”
A burn of jealousy heated my blood to boiling point. Such a stupid, wasteful emotion—and so potent.
Then he held out his hand and kissed my wrist slowly.
“Let’s go home, my love. Tomorrow is the first day where I’ll have everyone together.”
I tapped his forehead lightly.