Sweet Filthy Boy(107)

I’m light-headed with emotions and relief and sadness and just so much of everything, but I don’t want Mom or Harlow or Lola right now. I want Ansel.

I fumble for my phone inside my bag. The hot air outside seems to press against me like a wall but I ignore it, hands shaking as I type my passcode and find Ansel’s picture in my favorites list.

With breaths so heavy I’m actually worried I might have some sort of asthma attack, I type the words I know he’s been hoping for, the words I should have typed the day I left—I like you—and press send. I’m sorry I left the way I did, I add in a rush. I want us to be together. I know it’s late there but can I call? I’m calling.

God, my heart is pounding so hard I can hear the whoosh of blood in my ears. My hands are shaking and I have to take a moment, lean back against my car to get myself together. When I’m finally ready, I open my contacts again and press his name. It takes a second to connect, before the sound of ringing moves through the line.

It rings, and rings, and finally goes to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message. I know it’s the middle of the night there, but if his phone is on—which it clearly is—and he wanted to talk to me he would answer. I push down the thread of unease and close my eyes, trying to find comfort in how good it feels to even admit to myself and him that I’m not ready for this to be over.

Pulling open the door to the studio, I see Tina standing just inside, and I know from her expression—jaw tight, tears pooled on her lower lids—that she’s been watching me since I got out of my car.

She looks older, as expected, but also just as poised and delicate as ever, with her graying hair pulled back tight in a bun, her face bare of any makeup except her trademark cherry-red lip balm. Her uniform is the same: tight black tank top, black yoga pants, ballet slippers. A million memories are wrapped up in this woman. Tina pulls me into a hug and trembles against me.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Getting there.”

Pulling back, she looks me over, blue eyes wide. “So



tell me.”

I haven’t seen Tina in four years, so I can only assume she means tell me everything. Initially, after I was discharged from the hospital, she came to the house to visit at least once a week. But I began making excuses why I needed to be out of the house, or upstairs with my door closed. Eventually she stopped coming by.

Still, I know I don’t need to apologize for the distance. Instead, I give her the highly abbreviated version of the past four years, ending with Vegas, and Ansel, and my new plan. The story gets easier every time, I swear.

I want this job so bad. I need her to know that I’m okay—I’m really okay—and so I make sure to sound strong, and calm. I’m proud that my voice doesn’t waver once.

She smiles when I’m done and admits, “Having you join me here is a dream.”

“Same.”

“Let’s do a little observation before we dive right in. I want to make sure you remember our philosophy, and that your feet remember what to do.”

She’s mentioned an informal interview on the phone, but not an actual instruction session, so my heart immediately takes off, rapid-fire beats slamming against my breastbone.

You can do this, Mia. You lived and breathed this.

We move down the short hall, past the larger studio reserved for her teen class and to the small studio at the end, used for private lessons and her beginner’s class. I smile to myself, expecting to see a line of little girls waiting for me in black leotards, pink tights, and tiny slippers.

Every head turns to us as the door opens and my breath is pulled from my body in a sharp exhale.

Six girls are lined up in the classroom, three on either side of the tall man in the middle, bright green eyes full of hope and mischief as they meet mine.

Ansel.

Ansel?

What the . . . ?

If he’s here, then he was in this building only a half hour ago when I called. Did he see that I called? Has he seen my texts?

He’s wearing a fitted black undershirt that clings to the muscles of his chest, and charcoal-gray dress pants. His feet are bare, his shoulders squared just like the girls beside him, many of whom are stealing peeks and barely suppressing giggles.

Lola and Harlow sent him here, I’m sure of it.

I open my mouth to speak but am immediately cut off by Tina, who, with a knowing smile, sweeps past me, chin in the air as she announces to the class, “Class, this is Mademoiselle Holland, and—”

“It’s actually Madame Guillaume,” I correct quietly and turn sharply to Ansel when I hear him make an involuntary sound of surprise.

Tina’s smile is radiant. “Pardon me. Madame Guillaume is a new instructor here, and will be leading you through your stretches and your first routine. Class, will you please welcome our new teacher?”