It’s getting late and eventually, the girls have to leave. Ansel takes my hand, smiling, and I glance over my shoulder as we walk away. I feel like I could have watched them all night.
“That was fun,” he says.
I look over at him, still smiling. “What part?”
“Seeing you dancing like that.”
“That was one turn, Ansel.”
“It might be the single sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. That is what you should be doing.”
I sigh. “Ansel—”
“Some people go to business school and run movie theaters or restaurants. Some own their own bakery, or dance studio.”
“Not you, too.” I’ve heard this before, from Lorelei, from Harlow’s entire family. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that.”
He makes a point of looking over his shoulder, back in the direction we just came. “I respectfully disagree.”
“Those things take money. I hate taking money from my father.”
“Then why do you take money from him if you hate it?” he asks.
I throw the question back at him. “You don’t take money from your father?”
“I do,” he admits. “But I decided long ago it’s the only thing he’s good for. And a few years ago, when I was your age, I didn’t want my mother to feel like she needed to support me.”
“I don’t have enough money to live in Boston without his help,” I tell him. “And I guess in a way . . . I feel like he owes me this, since in the end I’m doing what he wants.”
“But if you’re doing what you want—”
“It’s not what I want.”
He pulls us to a stop and holds up a hand, not even a little fazed by the weight of this conversation. “I know. And I’m not really thrilled at the idea that you will leave me soon. But putting that aside, if you went to school, did something you wanted to do with it, you would make the decision yours, not his.”
I sigh, looking back down the street.
“Just because you can’t dance professionally doesn’t mean you have to stop dancing for a living. Find the spot in the distance and don’t look away, isn’t that what you told those girls? What is your ‘spot’? Finding a way to keep dance in your life?”
I blink away, back down the block to where the girls are still twirling and laughing. His spot is teaching law. He hasn’t taken his eyes off that point since he started.
“Okay, then.” He appears to take my silence as passive agreement. “Do you train to be a teacher? Or do you learn to run your own business? Those are two different paths.”
The idea of having a dance studio makes a warring reaction explode in my belly: elation, and dread. I can barely imagine anything more fun, but nothing would cut off my relationship with my family more thoroughly than that.
“Ansel,” I say, shaking my head. “Even if I want my own studio, it’s still about getting started. He was going to pay for my apartment for two years while I got my degree. Now he’s not speaking to me and there is no way he’d get on board with that plan. There’s something about dance for him . . . it’s as if he doesn’t like it on a visceral level. I’m realizing now that, whatever I do, I’ll have to make it work without his help.” I close my eyes and swallow thickly. I’ve taken such a profound mental vacation from the reality of my future that I’m already exhausted after only this tiny discussion. “I’m glad I came here. In some ways it’s the best decision I ever made. But it’s made things more complicated in some ways, too.”
He leans back, studies me. I adore playful Ansel, the one who winks at me across the room for no reason, or talks lovingly to my thighs and breasts. But I think I might love this Ansel, the one who seems to really want what’s best for me, the one who is clearly brave enough for both of us. “You’re married, no?” he asks. “You have a husband?”
“Yes.”
“A husband who makes a good living now.”
I shrug and look away. Money talk is exceedingly awkward.
As playful and goofy as he can be sometimes, there is nothing but sincerity in his voice when he asks, “Then why would you need to depend on your father to do what you want?”
UPSTAIRS IN OUR apartment I follow him into the kitchen and lean against the counter as he reaches into the cabinet for a bottle. Ansel turns, shakes two ibuprofen tablets into my palm, and hands me a glass of water. I stare at my hands and then up at him.
“It’s what you do,” he says, offering a tiny shrug. “After two glasses of wine you always take ibuprofen with a big glass of water. You’re a lightweight.”