“Name?”
“Ash Novak.”
“Well, Mr. Novak, all our auditions slots are filled for tonight . . .”
My face must have shown how I felt, because her own expression softened.
“However, I will put you down for 10am tomorrow. Come with your music and a prepared piece of dance for us. And please, don’t wear those monstrosities on your feet.”
I leaned forward and kissed her papery cheek.
“No, ma’am!”
I’d run the rest of the way home. Home to Laney.
I spent most of the night listening to music and planning a routine. I tossed out several ideas before I was passably happy with the result, then slept for two restless hours until I heard Laney moving around in her bedroom.
She opened the door slowly, and peered cautiously into the living room. She’d been doing that ever since she saw me jerking off.
“Do you know what you’re going to dance?” she asked.
Not ‘good morning’ as usual, or even ‘hi’. She’d woken up thinking about my audition—same as me. I scooped her up and swung her around.
“Yes! I think so!”
She laughed, tugging on my t-shirt so I’d put her down.
“What music did you choose?”
“Either Raise Your Glass by Pink for a Cha-cha—Paso combo, or . . .”
“Or . . . ?” she asked, her voice excited.
“Hunter by Pharrell Williams: a samba—hip hop mash up.”
Her face fell slightly.
“What? You don’t like that?”
I’d been so sure. Laney’s lukewarm response affected me more than I wanted to think about.
“No, it sounds fine,” she said, with a weak smile.
“Laney!” I gripped my hair. “Please, what is it?”
“I’m not the dance expert, Ash.”
“But you have an opinion!”
“Okay, fine, but if it’s a bad idea, promise me you won’t do anything dumb.”
I stared at her impatiently, and she sighed.
“You should do a rumba.”
I didn’t reply and she bit her lip.
“Why should I do rumba? It’s . . . not showy.”
“That’s exactly why!” she said, wringing her hands together. “Whenever I watch ‘Dancing With the Stars’, it’s the one dance male celebrities never do well. But you’re so . . .”
I wasn’t following her thinking. What did a show about amateur dancers have to do with, well, anything?
“I’m so . . . ?”
“Macho!” she said, her cheeks turning pink.
I broke into a smile at her answer.
“Thank you,” and I winked at her.
“Stop it!” she laughed. “I’m being serious. A super-macho rumba would be . . . sexy.”
Her cheeks were glowing now, and I was sure that if I reached out and touched her, I’d feel the heat.
She snapped her fingers.
“James Bay, Let It Go.”
“Play it for me,” I said quickly.
She plugged in her iPhone and scrolled through while I waited impatiently. Then the first guitar chords flooded through the room and I knew she was right.
I will be me . . .
I could see it in my mind, how my body would move, the emotion I could show through my face, my arms, the tips of my fingers.
“It’s perfect, Laney! Thank you!”
I cupped my hands around her soft cheeks and kissed her full on the lips.
She gasped slightly and wobbled.
“Okay?”
“Yup,” she nodded breathlessly.
“I’ll go shower,” I said, jogging to the bathroom. “Then I need to practice.”
“Ash!”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t shave.”
I turned to look at her.
“Just . . . the woman yesterday—she thought you were a construction worker, right?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Remember what we said about stereotypes? A construction worker who dances a rumba—they’ll definitely remember you.”
My eyebrows shot up and I grinned at her.
“No shaving.”
I spent the next hour using Laney’s living room as a rehearsal space. I even asked her to video me on her phone. I was used to rehearsing in dance studios that had mirrors so I could check my technique—it was frustrating not being able to see how I looked. The filming helped.
Itching to get to the theater, I ran through a checklist in my head: big bottle of water, check; towel, check; ballroom shoes, check; bananas—I’d buy some on the way. Laney had typed out a résumé for me and took a photo on her phone that she printed out. It looked professional by the time she finished. I didn’t have kneepads or Latin shoes or any sheet music, so I had to hope they didn’t penalize me for being unprepared. I’d just have to blow them away with my show piece.
But when I came out of the shower, Laney was sitting on the couch. Usually, she was in the kitchen making breakfast or already at her computer working.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a bit stiff. I’m fine.”
I stared at her. She’d been well for weeks.
“Ash, I’m fine! Go! Or you’ll be late.”
She made shooing motions with her hands, so I grabbed one and kissed her knuckles.
“Wish me luck!”
“Luck!” She laughed. “But you don’t need it. You’re amazing!”