Sweet Filthy Boy

JULIANNE REALLY IS a goddess because she calls before eight in the morning. With the time change, I was awake before five, and have been pacing the tiny motel room like a madwoman, praying it would all work out and I wouldn’t have to spend another day apartment hunting.

“Hello?” I answer, phone trembling in my shaking hand.

I can hear the smile in her voice. “Ready to move in?”

I give her my most grateful—and enthusiastic—yes and then I look around the dingy room after I hang up, and laugh. I’m ready to move into an apartment ten minutes away from my parents’ house, and I hardly have anything to take with me.

But before I can go, there’s one more call I need to make. As much as my dad refused to acknowledge my passion for dance, or even be kind about it, there is one person who was at every dance recital, who drove me to every rehearsal and performance, and hand-sewed my costumes. She did my makeup when I was tiny and watched me do it myself when I grew older, and stubbornly independent. She cried during my solos, and stood up to cheer. I’m horrified to realize only now that Mom weathered my father’s disapproval for years while I was dancing, and she weathered it because it was what I wanted to be doing. She was there when I moved into the hospital room for a month and quietly drove me, when I was depressed and deadened, to the dorms at UCSD.

I wasn’t the only one who lost a dream after my accident. Of anyone in my life, my mother will understand the choice I’m making.

I can hear the shock in her voice when she answers. “Mia?”

“Hi, Mom.” I squeeze my eyes closed, overcome with an emotion I’m not sure I’ll be very good at articulating. My family doesn’t discuss feelings, and the only way I learned was through threat of torture by Harlow. But my awareness of Mom’s strength during my childhood and what she did to help me chase my dream is probably one I should have had a long time ago. “I’m home.” I pause, adding, “I’m not going to Boston.”

My mom is a quiet crier; she’s a quiet everything. But I know the cadence of her tiny gasping breaths as well as I know the smell of her perfume.

I give her the address to my apartment, tell her I’m moving in today and that I’ll tell her everything if she comes to see me. I don’t need my things, I don’t need her money. I just sort of need my mom.

TO SAY I resemble my mother is an understatement. When we’re together, I always feel like people think I’m the Marty McFly version of her that has traveled from the eighties to present day. We have the same build, identical hazel eyes, olive skin, and dark, straight hair. But when she steps out of her enormous Lexus at the curb and I see her for the first time in over a month, I have the sense that I’m looking at my reflection in some sort of fun-house mirror. She looks the same as she always does—which is to say not exactly thriving. Her resignation, her life settling, could have been me. Dad never wanted her to work outside the home. Dad never took much interest in her hobbies: gardening, ceramics, living greener. She loves my father, but she’s resigned herself to a relationship that doesn’t give her much at all.

She feels tiny in my arms when I hug her, but when I pull back and expect to see worry or hesitation—she shouldn’t be cavorting with the enemy, David will be furious!—I see only an enormous grin.

“You look amazing,” she says, pulling my arms to the side to take me in.

This . . . okay, this surprises me a little. I showered under the dull dribble of a motel shower, have no makeup on, and would probably perform crude sexual acts for access to a washing machine. The mental picture I have of myself falls somewhere between homeless shelter and zombie. “Thanks?”

“Thank God you’re not going to Boston.”

And with that, she turns and opens the back of her SUV and pulls out a giant box with surprising ease. “I brought your books, the rest of your clothes. When your dad calms down you can come pick up anything I’ve missed.” She stares at my surprised expression for a beat before nodding to the car. “Grab a box and show me your place.”

With every step we climb to my little apartment above the garage, an epiphany hits me directly in the gut.

My mom needs a purpose as much as any of us do.

That purpose used to be me.

Ansel was as scared to face his past as I was to face my future.

I push open the front door, giant box nearly tumbling out of my arms onto the floor, and I somehow manage to make it to the table in the living-dining room. Mom puts the box of my clothes down on the couch and looks around. “It’s small, but really sweet, Lollipop.”

I don’t think she’s called me that since I was fifteen. “I kind of love it, actually.”

“I can bring you some of the photographs from Lana’s studio, if you want some art?”

My blood buzzes in my veins. This is why I came home. My family. My friends. A life here that I want to make. “Okay.”

Without much more preamble she sits down and looks directly at me. “So.”

“So.”

Her attention moves to my left hand, hanging motionless at my side, and it’s only now that I realize I’m still wearing my wedding band. She doesn’t even look a little bit surprised. “How was Paris?”

With a deep breath, I move to sit beside her on the couch and unload everything in a tumble of words. I tell her about the suite in Vegas, about how I felt it was my last hurrah of sorts, the last fun I would have until some undetermined point when I would snap out of it and magically realize I wanted to be just like my father. I tell her about meeting Ansel, the sunshine of him, and how I nearly felt like I was confessing to him that night. Unloading. Unburdening.

I tell her about the marriage. I skip one hundred percent of the sex part.

I tell her about escaping my life to go to Paris, about the perfection of the city, and how it felt initially to wake up and realize I was married to a complete stranger. But also, that it went away and what came instead was a relationship I’m not sure I want to give up.

Again, I skip every detail of the sex part.

It’s hard to explain the Perry story, because even as I begin, she has to sense that it’s the reason I left. So when I get to the part about the party, and being cornered by the Beast, I almost feel like an idiot for not having seen it coming a mile away.

But Mom doesn’t. She still gasps, and it’s that tiny reaction that unleashes the flood of tears, because this entire time I’ve wondered how huge an idiot I am. Am I a minor idiot, who should have stayed to hash it out with the hottest man alive? Or am I an enormous idiot for leaving over something anyone else would consider minuscule?

The problem with being in the eye of the storm is you have no sense of how big it really is.

“Honey,” Mom says, and nothing else follows. It doesn’t matter. The single word holds a million others that communicate sympathy and a sort of fierce mama-bear protectiveness. But also: concern for Ansel, since I’ve painted him accurately, I think. He’s good, and he’s loving. And he likes me.

“Honey,” she repeats quietly.

Another epiphany hits me: I’m not quiet because I stutter. I’m quiet because I’m like my mother.

“Okay, so.” I pull my knees to my chest. “There’s more. And this is why I’m here, instead of Boston.” I tell her about walking the city with Ansel, and our conversations about school, and my life, and what I want to do. I tell her that he’s the one who convinced me—even if he doesn’t know it—to move home and go back to my old dance studio at night to teach, and to attend school here during the day so that I’m as prepared as I can be to run my own business someday. To teach kids how to move and dance however their bodies want. I assure her that Professor Chatterjee has agreed to admit me to the MBA program at UCSD, in my old department.

After taking this all in, Mom leans back and studies me for a beat. “When did you grow up, Lollipop?”

“When I met him.” Ugh. Stab to the gut. And Mom can see it, too. She puts her hand on my hand, over my knee.

“He sounds . . . good.”

“He is good,” I whisper. “Other than the secrecy over the Beast, he’s amazing.” I pause and then add, “Is Dad going to shun me forever?”

“Your father is difficult, I know, but he’s also smart. He wanted you to get your MBA so you have options, not so you’d be exactly like him. The thing is, sweetheart, you never had to use it to do what he wanted. Even he knows that, no matter how much pressure he puts on you to follow his path.” Standing, my mom makes her way to the door and pauses for a beat as I let it fully sink in that I really don’t know my dad very well. “Help me bring in the last couple of boxes and then I’m heading home. Come over for dinner next week. Right now you have other things to fix.”

I’D PROMISED LOLA and Harlow that they could come over as soon as I was moved in, but after unpacking, I’m exhausted and want nothing other than sleep.

In bed, I hold my phone so hard in my hand I can feel my palm grow slippery and I struggle to not reread every one of Ansel’s steady messages for the hundredth time. The one that arrived since I unpacked says: If I came to you, would you see me?

I laugh, because despite everything, it’s not like I can just decide to stop loving him; I wouldn’t ever refuse to see him. I can’t even bring myself to take off my wedding ring.

Looking down at my phone, I open the text window and reply for the first time since I left him sleeping in the apartment. I’m in San Diego, safe and sound. Of course I’d see you, but don’t come until it works for the case. You’ve worked too hard. I reread what I’ve written and then add, I’m not going anywhere.

Except back to the States while you lie sleeping, I think.

He replies immediately. Finally! Mia why did you leave without waking me? I’ve been going crazy over here.

And then another: I can’t sleep. I miss you.

I close my eyes, not realizing until now how much I needed to hear that. The sensation pulls tight in my chest, a rope wrapped around my lungs, smashing them together. My careful mind tells me to just say thank you, but instead I quickly type Me too, and toss my phone away, onto the bed before I can say more.

I miss him so much I feel like I’m tied in a corset, unable to suck enough air into my lungs.

By the time I pick it up again, it’s the next morning and I’ve missed his next three texts: I love you. And then: Please tell me I haven’t ruined this.

And then, Please Mia. Say something.

This is when I break down for the second time, because from the time stamp I know he wrote it in his office, at work. I can imagine him staring at his phone, unable to concentrate or get anything done until I replied. But I didn’t. I curled up into a ball and fell asleep, needing to shut down as if I’d unplugged.

I pick up my phone again, and even though it’s seven in the morning, Lola answers on the first ring.

ONLY A LITTLE over an hour later I throw open the door and rush into a mass of arms and wild hair.

“Quit hogging her,” a voice says over Harlow’s shoulder and I feel another set of arms.

You’d never know it hasn’t even been two months from the way I start sobbing onto Lola’s shoulder, holding on to both of them as if they might float away.

“I missed you so much,” I say. “You’re never leaving. It’ll be small but we can make it work. I was in Europe. I can totally get with this now.”

We stumble into my tiny living room, a mess of laughter and tears, and I shut the door behind us.

I turn to find Harlow watching me, sizing me up.

“What?” I ask, looking down at my yoga capris and T-shirt. I realize I don’t look red-carpet ready, but her inspection feels a little unnecessary. “Ease up, Clinton Kelly. I’ve been unpacking and then sleeping.”

“You look different,” she says.

“Different?”

“Yeah. Sexier. Married life was good for you.”

I roll my eyes. “I assume you’re referring to my little muffin top. I have a new unhealthy relationship with pain au chocolat.”

“No,” she says, moving closer to examine my face. “You look . . . softer? But in a good way. Feminine. And I like the hair a little longer.”

“And the tan,” Lola adds, dropping onto the couch. “You do look good. Your rack, too.”

I laugh, squeezing into the seat next to her. “This is what France with no job and a patisserie around the corner will get you.”

We all fall silent and after what feels like an eternity of silence, I realize I’m the one who has to address the fact that I was in France, and now I’m here.

“I feel like a horrible human being for how I left.”

Lola pins me with her glare. “You are not.”

“You might disagree when I explain.”

Harlow’s hand is already raised in the air. “No need. We know what happened, no thanks to you, you withholding asshole.”

Of course they’ve heard the entire story. More accurately, Lola heard it from Oliver who heard it from Finn who had the good luck of calling Ansel only an hour after he woke to find his wife and all her belongings gone. For a bunch of dudes, they’re awfully gossipy.

We catch each other up in the easy shorthand we’ve developed over the past nearly twenty years, and it’s so much easier to spill everything for the second time since I’ve been back.

“He fucked up,” Harlow assures me once I get to the part where we’re headed together to the party. “Everyone knows it. Apparently Finn and Oliver have been telling him to fill you in about the situation for weeks now. Perry calls him all the time, texts him constantly, and calls Finn and Oliver to talk about it nonstop. Their breakup didn’t seem to surprise anyone but her, and even that seems to be up for debate. I guess Ansel was worried it would spook you and is counting the days until he can move back here. From everything I’ve heard, he’s completely head over heels in love with you.”

“But we all agree he should have told you,” Lola says. “It sounds like you were blindsided.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The first time he takes me to a party this nice girl started talking to me and then her face melted and she turned into a vengeance demon.” I lean my head on Lola’s shoulder. “And I knew he had a long-term girlfriend so I don’t know why it was such a leap to tell me it was Perry, and that he lived with her, and even that they were engaged. Maybe it would have been weird but it made it weirder that it was this big secret. Plus, six years with someone you don’t love that way? That seems insane.”

Lola falls quiet, and then hums. “I know.”

I hate the small twinge of disloyalty I feel when I criticize him this way. Ansel was shaped by his experience growing up in the strange, possessive, and betrayal-filled relationship his parents had. I’m sure loyalty and fidelity mean more to him than romantic love, or at least he thought they did. I wonder, too, how much of his time with Perry was about proving he’s not as fickle as his father. I’m sure staying married to me is at least somewhat about that—no matter how much it was my insistence in the first place. I need to decide if I’m okay with it being both about proving something to himself and loving me.

“How is he doing?” Harlow asks.

I shrug and distract myself by playing with the blunt ends of Lola’s hair. “Good,” I say. “Working.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Well, from the whole game of telephone, you guys probably know more than I do.” Deflecting, I ask, “How is Finn?”

Harlow shrugs. “I don’t know. Good, I guess.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Didn’t you just see him?”

She laughs and makes tiny air quotes as she repeats the words see him under her breath. “I can assure you I did not go to Canada for Finn’s sparkling personality or conversation skills.”

“So you went up there for sex.”

“Yep.”

“And was it good enough to go back?”

“I don’t know. If I’m honest, I don’t particularly like him that much. He’s definitely prettier when he doesn’t speak.”

“You really are a troll.”

“I love that you act like you’re surprised. Finn and me? Not a thing.”

“Okay, Mia, enough avoidance,” Lola says quietly. “What happens next?”

Sighing, I tell her honestly, “I don’t know. I mean this is what I’m supposed to be doing, right? School? Figuring out what I want to do with my life? The irresponsible thing was going to France in the first place. The grown-up thing was coming home. So why do I feel like it’s all backwards?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Harlow hums. “Maybe because it sounds like you guys were figuring out a new plan together?”

I nod. It’s true. “I felt so safe with him. Like, my brain didn’t always know but my body did? I didn’t know his favorite color or what he wanted to be when he was ten, but none of that mattered. And the silly things I knew about Luke, the giant list of stuff in my head I thought made us compatible . . . it seems so laughable when I compare it to my feelings for Ansel.”

“If you could erase this one thing from your time with him, would you still be with him?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “Absolutely.”

“Look, I watched you lose the most important thing in your life and there was nothing I or anyone else could do to make it better. We couldn’t turn back time. We couldn’t fix your leg. We couldn’t make it so you could dance again,” Harlow says, voice uncharacteristically shaky. “But I can tell you not to be an idiot. Love is fucking hard to find, Mia. Don’t waste it because of some stupid lines on a map.”

“Please stop making sense,” I say. “My life is confusing enough right now without you making it worse.”

“And if I know anything about you, I’m pretty sure you’d already reached the same conclusion. You just needed someone smarter to say it first. I mean, I’m not downplaying what he did, it was a dick move. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.”

I close my eyes and shrug.

“So we’re talking the big L-word, aren’t we?”

“Lesbians?” I deadpan.

She levels me with a glare. Serious-getting-in-touch-with-her-feelings Harlow is not someone you want to mess around with. “What I mean,” she says, ignoring me, “is that this wasn’t just about banging the sweet, filthy French boy.”

“It never really was just about banging the French boy,” I tell her. “I think that’s what freaked you out.”

“Because it’s big,” she says, and then high-fives me as we all yell, “That’s what she said!”

But then her expression sobers again. “Even when Luke left,” she continues, “I knew you’d be okay, you know? I told Lola, ‘It’s hard now but give her a few weeks. She’ll bounce back.’ This is . . . different.”

“It’s almost laughable how different it is.”

“So you’re . . . what?” When I still don’t have any idea what she’s asking, she goes on. “You asked me to talk to my dad about the annulment but is that really what you want? Are you two talking at all? And don’t shrug again or I’ll jump across this couch and punch you.”

I wince and shrug. “We text.”

“Are you in high school?” Harlow asks, swatting my hand. “Why don’t you call him?”

Laughing, I tell them, “I’m not ready to hear his voice yet. I’m just getting settled. I’d probably get on the next plane to Paris if I heard him say my name.” Sitting up and turning so I can look at both of them, I add, “Besides, Ansel is out there climbing the ladder and I was like a hamster running in a wheel. I need to get my act together so if he does ever get here, he doesn’t feel like he has to take care of me.” I stop talking and look up to see them watching me still, expressions completely neutral. “I needed to grow up, and Ansel being an idiot pushed me out of the nest in a way. He’s the one who got me excited to come back here to school. I just wish I hadn’t left mad.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Lola says. “I’m just so happy you’re here.”

“God, so am I,” Harlow says. “I was losing serious sleep with all your middle of o’dark-thirty phone calls.”

I throw a pillow at her. “Ha, ha.”

“And what about a job? You know my dad would hire you to come sit and look pretty in one of his offices. Want to confuse the hell out of some middle-aged executives for the summer?”

“Actually, I got a job.”

“That’s great!” Lola grabs my hand.

Always the more skeptical one, Harlow continues to watch me. “Where?”

“My old studio,” I say. And that’s all I have to say, really, because barely a moment has passed before both Lola and Harlow are practically in my lap.

“So proud of you,” Lola whispers, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders.

“We’ve missed seeing you dance. Fuck, I think I might cry,” Harlow adds.

I laugh, halfheartedly trying to push them away. “It won’t be the same, guys. I’ll—”

“For us it will,” Lola says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Harlow says, and stands to look at each of us. “Enough of this sentimental business. We’re going to get something to eat and then we’re going shopping.”

“You guys go. I’m headed to the studio in a little bit to talk to Tina. I need to shower.”

Lola and Harlow exchange a look. “Fine, but after you’re done we’re going out out. Drinks on me,” Lola says. “A little welcome home for our Sugarcube.”

My phone vibrates along the table and Harlow reaches for it, pushing me away with her long, glamazon arms. “Oh, and Mia?”

“Yeah?” I say, trying to get around her.

“Pick up the damn phone when he calls or call him yourself. You have ten voice messages and let’s not even talk about your texts. It doesn’t have to be today, doesn’t even have to be tomorrow, but stop being a wimp. You can go to school and work and pretend you’re not married, but you can’t fool us into thinking you’re not completely in love with this guy.”

THE DRIVE TO the studio that afternoon is definitely weird. I expected to feel nervous and nostalgic, but realize almost as soon as I’m on the road that although I’ve made this drive hundreds and hundreds of times, Mom accompanied me on every single trip. I’ve never actually been behind the wheel for this particular journey.

It unwinds something in me, to take control of a course I’d moved along so passively for so long. The unassuming strip mall appears just past the busy intersection at Linda Vista and Morena, and after I park, it takes a few minutes for me to process how different it looks. There’s a glossy new frozen yogurt place, a Subway. The big space that used to be a Chinese restaurant is now a karate studio. But tucked in the direct center of the row, and updated with a new sign, new smooth brick exterior, is Tina’s studio. I struggle to press down the tight swell in my throat, the nervous lurching of my stomach. I’m so happy to see this place—no matter how different it looks—and also a little heartbroken that it won’t ever be what it used to be for me.

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?”

Six little girls and one deep voice chant in unison, “Hello, Madame Guillaume.”

I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. I meet his eyes again and in an instant I know he’s read my texts and is holding back his own excitement over being here, over hearing me refer to myself as his wife. He looks tired, but relieved, and we have an entire conversation with just that look. It takes everything in me to not go to him and let myself be wrapped up in those long, strong arms.

But as if she’s read my mind, Tina clears her throat meaningfully, and I blink, straightening as I respond, “Hello, girls. And Monsieur Guillaume.”

A few giggles erupt but are quickly squelched with a sweeping look from Tina. “We also have a guest today, as you have clearly noticed. Monsieur Guillaume is deciding if he would like to enroll in the academy. Please do your best to model good behavior, and show him how we conduct ourselves onstage.”

To my absolute amusement, Ansel looks ready to dive right into the world of being a little ballerina. Tina steps back against the wall, and I know her well enough to know this isn’t any test at all; it’s only a surprise for me. I could laugh it all off, and tell them to start their stretches while I talk to Ansel. But he seems ready for action and I want her to see that I can do this, even with the biggest, most gorgeous distraction in the world right in front of me.

“Let’s start with some stretching.” I turn on some quiet music and indicate the girls should do what I do: sit on the floor with my legs stretched in front of me. I curl down, reaching my arms out until my hands are on my toes, telling them, “If this hurts then bend your legs a little. Who can count to fifteen for me?”

Everyone is shy. Everyone, that is, except Ansel. And of course he quietly counts in French, “Un . . . deux . . . trois . . .” as the girls stare at him and wiggle on the floor.

We continue with the stretches: the bar stretch at the lowest ballet barre, the jazz splits that make the girls squeal and wobble. We practice a few pirouettes—if I live to one hundred, I will never stop laughing at the image of Ansel doing a pirouette—and I show them a straddle stretch, with my leg pressed flat against a wall. (It’s possible I do this purely for Ansel’s benefit, but I’ll never admit it.) The girls try, giggle some more, and a few of them become brave enough to start showing Ansel what to do: how to hold his arms, and then some of their made-up leaps and spins.

When the class takes a loud, chaotic turn, Tina steps in, clapping and hugging me. “I’ll take over from here. I think you’ve got something else to take care of. I’ll see you here Monday evening at five.”

“I love you so much,” I say, throwing my arms around her.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” she says. “Now go tell him that.”

ANSEL AND I slip out of the room and pad wordlessly back down the hall. My heart is pounding so hard, it seems to blur my vision with every heavy pulse. I can feel the heat of him moving behind me, but we’re both silent. Out of the studio and past my initial surprise, I’m so overwhelmed that at first, I don’t even know how to start.

A hot breeze curls around us as we push open the door to the outside, and Ansel watches me carefully, waiting for my cue.

“Cerise . . .” he starts, and then takes a shuddering breath. When he meets my eyes again, I feel the weight of every ticking moment of silence. His jaw flexes as we stare at each other, and when he swallows, the dimple flickers on his cheek.

“Hi,” I say, my voice tight and breathless.

He takes a step up off the curb but still seems to loom above me. “You called me just before you arrived.”

“I called from the parking lot. It was a lot to process, being here . . . You didn’t answer.”

“No phones allowed in the studio,” he answers with a cute smile. “But I saw the call light up my screen.”

“Did you come straight from work?” I ask, lifting my chin to indicate his dress pants.

He nods. There’s at least a day’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. The image of him leaving work and heading straight for the airport—to me—barely taking enough time to throw a few things into a small bag is enough to leave my knees weak.

“Please don’t be mad,” he says. “Lola called to tell me you were here. I was on my way to meet you three for dinner. Also, Harlow mentioned that she would break both my legs along with any other protruding appendages if I didn’t treat you the way you deserved.”

“I’m not mad.” I shake my head trying to clear it. “I just . . . I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“You thought I would just stay there and fix it at some random point in the future? I couldn’t be so far from you.”

“Well . . . I’m glad.”

I can tell he wants to ask, So why did you leave like that? Why didn’t you at least tell me goodbye? But he doesn’t. And I give him serious points for it, too. Because although my entrance into and departure from France were both impulsive, he was the reason both times: one blissful, the other heartbroken. At least he seems to know it. Instead, he looks me over, eyes lingering on my legs visible beneath my nude tights, below my short dance skirt.

“You look beautiful,” he says. “In fact, you look so beautiful I’m a little at a loss for words.”

I’m so relieved I burst forward. He curls into me and his face is in my neck. His arms seem long enough to wrap several times around my waist. I can feel his breath on my skin and the way he shakes against me, and when I say, “This feels so good,” he just nods, and our embrace seems to go on forever.

His lips find my neck, my jaw, and he’s sucking and nibbling. His breath is warm and minty and he’s whispering in French, some words I can’t translate but don’t need to. I hear love and life and mine and sorry and then his hands are cupping my face and his mouth is on mine, eyes wide and fingers shaking on my jaw. It’s a single, chaste kiss—no tongue, nothing deeper—but the way I’m trembling against him seems to promise him that there’s so much more, because he pulls back and looks victorious.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, dimple deepening. “Let me thank your girls.”

I’m starving for him, for us to be alone, but somehow even more excited just to have him here, with my friends, like this. Taking his arm, I pull him to my car.

ANSEL PUTS HIS dress shirt back on as he talks about his flight, the odd feeling of leaving just after work and arriving here at dawn and then having to wait all day to see me . . . all kinds of little details that skirt the edges of the bigger What Now? I steal glances at him as I drive. With the darkening sky behind him, he looks undeniably polished and gorgeous in his lavender button-down and slim charcoal pants. Even though I’m clearly just coming from a dance class, I’m not going to bother changing. If we went back to my place, no doubt we would stay there, and I need to see my girls, to thank them. And maybe more important, to let him thank them.

I slip on some more functional flats and take him directly to meet Harlow and Lola at Bar Dynamite, pulling him through the crowd, smiling so huge that my person is with me, my husband, my Ansel. They’re sitting in a curved booth, sipping drinks, and Lola sees me before Harlow does. Dammit if her eyes don’t immediately well up with tears.

“No.” I point at her, laughing. For all her tough exterior she is such a sap. “We aren’t doing that.”

She laughs, shaking her head and sweeping them away, and it’s a strange blur of greetings, of my favorite people and husband hugging each other as if they’re the best of friends and merely haven’t seen each other for a while.

But in a way, it’s true. I love him, so they do, too. I love them, so he does, too. He pulls two chocolate bars from the inside pocket of the jacket he has slung over his arm and hands one to Lola and the other to Harlow. “For helping me. I got them at the airport, so don’t look too excited.”

They both take them, and Harlow looks down at hers and then back at him. “If she doesn’t bang you tonight, I will.”

His blush, his dimple, a quiet laugh, and the teeth pressing into his lip again and I’m done for. Fucking kill me now.

“Not a problem,” I tell her as I toss his jacket onto the seat and drag him, wide-eyed and grinning, after me onto the dance floor. I honestly don’t care what song is playing—he’s not leaving my side the entire night. I step into his arms and press into him.

“We’re dancing again?”

“There’s going to be a lot more dancing,” I tell him. “You may have noticed I’m taking your advice.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers. He rests his forehead against mine before pulling back, meeting my eyes. “You just implied you’re banging me tonight.” His grin gets bigger as his hands snake around my waist.

“Play your cards right.”

“I forgot my cards.” His smile wilts dramatically. “But I did bring my penis.”

“I’ll try not to break it this time.”

“In fact, I think you should try your hardest.”

The bass shakes up through the floor and we’ve been semi-yelling this playful banter, but the mood slides away, cooling between us, and the moment grows a little heavy. We’ve always been best at flirting, best at fucking, but we’ve had to pretend to be someone else for us to open up sincerely.

“Talk to me,” he says, bending to whisper the words into my ear. “Tell me what happened that morning you left.”

“I sort of felt like I had to step up and face what comes next,” I say quietly, but he’s still bent close, and I know he’s heard me. “It was shitty of you not to tell me about Perry, but really it just gave me the shove I needed.”

“I’m sorry, Cerise.”

My chest tightens when he calls me this pet name and I run my hands up and down his chest. “If we’re going to try to do this, I need to know you’ll talk to me about things.”

“I promise. I will.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

His dimple flashes for the tiniest second. “Show me you’re still wearing my ring and you’re forgiven.”

I hold up my left hand and he stares for a beat before bending to kiss the thin gold band.

We sway a little, not moving much, while all around us people bounce and shake and dance on the floor. I lean my head into his chest and close my eyes, breathing in every part of him. “Anyway, we’re done with all of that. It’s your turn to babble tonight.”

With a little smile, he bends close, kissing first my right cheek, and then my left. And then he touches his lips to mine for several long, perfect seconds. “My favorite color is green,” he says against my mouth, and I giggle. His hands slide down my sides, arms wrap together around my waist as he bends close, kissing his way up my neck. “I broke my arm when I was seven, trying to ride a skateboard. I love spring, hate winter. My childhood best friend’s name was Auguste and his older sister was Catherine. She was my first kiss, when I was eleven and she was twelve, in the pantry at my father’s house.”

My fingers glide over his chest, up his throat, and link at the back of his neck.

“My greatest trauma was my mother leaving for the States, but otherwise—and even though my father is a tyrant—my childhood was quite nice. I was terrible at math in school. I lost my virginity to a girl named Noémi when I was fourteen.” He kisses my cheek. “The last woman I had sex with was my wife, Mia Rose Guillaume.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “My favorite food is bread—I know it sounds horribly boring. And I don’t like dried fruit.”

I laugh, pulling him in for a real kiss—finally—and Oh. My. God. His mouth is warm, already accustomed to mine. His lips are both soft and commanding. I feel his need to touch, to taste and fuck barely restrained, and his hands slide down over my ass, pulling my hips into him. His tongue barely touches mine and we both groan, pulling apart and breathing heavily.

“I’m not sure I ever made a woman come with my mouth before I met you,” he admits. “I love kissing you there. And I love your ass, it’s perfect.” With this, I feel his length stir against my stomach as his hands squeeze me. “I like any kind of sex with you, but I prefer being on top of you . . . You make missionary feel dirty the way you grab and move under me.”

Holy shit. I squirm in his arms. “Ansel.”

“I know the exact sound you make when you come; you could never fake it with me.” He smiles, adding, “Again.”

“Tell me everyday things,” I beg him. “This is killing me.”

“I hate killing spiders, because I think they’re amazing, but I’ll do it for you if you’re afraid of them. I hate being a passenger in a car because I prefer to drive.” He kisses his way to my ear, whispering, “We can live in San Diego, but I want to at least spend summers in France. And maybe we will move my mother here when she is older.”

My chest almost aches with the force of each heartbeat. “Okay.”

He smiles and I touch his dimple with the tip of my finger. “And you really are moving here?”

“I think in February,” he says with a little shrug. As if it’s so easy. As if it’s a done deal.

I’m relieved, and I’m torn. It makes me giddy to have it so easily settled, but it’s only July. February is so far away. “That seems really far away.”

“I’ll visit in September. October. November. December. January . . .”

“How long are you staying?” Why haven’t I asked this yet? I’m suddenly dreading his answer.

“Only until tomorrow.” My stomach drops and I feel suddenly hollow. “I can miss Monday,” he says, “but need to be in to work on Tuesday for the first phase of the hearing.”

There’s not enough time. I’m already pulling him through the crowd, back to the table.

“You guys—”

“I know, Sugarcube,” Harlow says, already nodding. “You have twelve hours. I have no idea what you’re doing in this place. Go.”

So not only did they know he was coming, they knew when he was leaving. They’ve talked through all of it. Holy hell I love my friends.

I kiss Harlow, I kiss Lola, and shove our way to the front exit.

SOMEHOW WE MANAGE to make it back to my apartment with our clothes still on. I pray we don’t wake Julianne as we trip, kissing, up the driveway, and then bang into the side of the garage, where Ansel slides his hands up under my dress and beneath my underwear, begging me to let him feel me. His fingers are warm and demanding, pushing aside the flimsy lace and sliding back and forth over my skin.

“You feel unreal,” he whispers. “I need you bare. I need to see you.”

“Then get me upstairs.”

We trip and crash our way up the wooden stairs to my apartment, slamming against the door as he kisses down my neck, his hungry hands grabbing my ass, pulling me into him.

“Ansel,” I laugh, weakly pushing at his chest so I can dig my keys from my bag.

Once inside, I don’t bother to reach for the lights, unwilling to drag my hands away from his body even long enough to find the switch. I hear my keys drop, followed by my bag and his coat, and then it’s just the two of us in the dark. He has to bend to me, wrapping his arms around my waist to lift me to his mouth.

“I like your place,” Ansel says, smiling into the kiss.

I nod against him, tugging his shirt from the waist of his pants. “Would you like the tour?”

He laughs when I grow frustrated as my fingers fumble with his dress shirt in the dark. Why are there so many damn buttons?

“This tour includes the bed, yes?” he says, and swats my hands away, making quick work of the last few and finally shrugging out of his shirt.

“And the table. And the couch,” I say, distracted by the miles of smooth, perfect skin suddenly in front of me. “Maybe the floor. And the shower.”

It’s only been a few days since I touched him but it feels like a year, and my palms slip down his chest, nails curving along the toned lines of his stomach. The sound he makes when I lean forward and kiss his breastbone is something between a growl and a needful moan.

He slips my leotard from my shoulders, pushing it down my arms until my hands are trapped at my sides. “Let’s start with the bedroom. We can make the circuit later.”

“We do have twelve hours to kill,” I say. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and I whimper, having missed him so much it’s like the band around my chest has been broken and I can breathe, deep and full.

The bed is the biggest thing in the apartment and even in the dark, he finds it easily.

He backs to the mattress, kissing me the entire way, and sits down, moving to pull me between his open legs. His hands smooth along the skin at the back of my thighs, up and down until his fingers reach the hem of my underwear. The streetlight down the driveway cuts a dim cone of light across one wall, and I can just make out his face, his shoulders. His pants are open and his cock is already hard, the tip peeking above the waistband of his boxers, the length pressed flat to his stomach.

He pulls me forward and I feel the heat of his mouth on my neck. “Twelve hours isn’t nearly enough,” he says, pushing the words into my skin. He licks a line between my breasts, sucks on my nipple through the lace of my bra. I struggle to free my hands and he takes pity on me, pushing my clothes the rest of the way down my body and letting them pool at my feet.

Finally able to move, I push my fingers into his hair and it’s just like I remembered—his sounds, his smell, the way my skin flashes hot when he sucks the skin below my collarbone—how did I think I could live a day without this?

“Want this off,” Ansel says, reaching behind me to unfasten the tiny clasps of my bra. His hands pass the straps, moving the opposite direction as they fall down my arms and his hands slide up over my shoulders and then down my chest, cupping my breasts. Leaning forward, he palms one, kissing the other.

He makes a small sound of approval and moves one hand down over my ass. “And these. Take them off.” His mouth closes over one nipple, tongue flicking against the peak.

This is the point where I would have needed to disappear inside of someone else, to quiet my mind with costumes and make-believe. But right now, the only person I want to be is me.

“You, too,” I say. “Pants off.” I watch with unrestrained hunger as he stands, and pushes the rest of his clothes to the ground.

Ansel doesn’t prompt me further, just inches his long frame to the head of the bed, lies down, and waits until I slip my fingers beneath the lace and push my panties down my hips. Wordlessly he reaches for himself, gripping his cock at the base and stroking up slowly.

I climb up the bed, hovering over him with my thighs bracketed on either side of his hips. He releases his cock, and it juts up, hard against his stomach, his eyes wide and focused on the diminishing space between our bodies. With impatient hands, he grips my hips, pulling me higher, positioning me over him.

His jaw is flexed, neck arched back into the pillow, and he growls out a Touch me.

I run my hands up his chest and lower, sliding my fingers down his length and cupping his balls, his hip. There’s something so dirty about being above him this way. I’m bare for him to see, exposed. I can’t hide my face in his neck and disappear beneath the weight and comfort of his body.

This is new for us, seeing him here in my apartment and my bed, his messy head of hair in the center of my pillow. His eyes are glassy, his punch-colored lips red from my kisses, and it makes me possessive in a way I’ve never known before.

“You’re so warm,” he says, reaching between my legs. “So ready.” His fingers slip easily along my skin, exploring, before he grips his cock and moves it against me. I can’t look away from his face, from his focused concentration where our bodies are touching, and it’s like the air has been sucked from the room, incinerated with a single gasp.

He pushes forward with every small flex of his hips upward, closer, closer, until he’s there, finally, pressing barely inside. I sink down on him slowly, breathing so hard and fast and unable to close my eyes because his expression is unreal: eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, cheeks splotchy and red as he gasps beneath me, overcome.

It’s too full, too much, and I give my body a second to get used to the feel of him so deep. But it isn’t what I want; I don’t want to be still; I want to feel the thick slide of him and his rough hands growing hungrier. I want to feel him all night.

I start with just gentle rocking over him, lost in his reactions as much as he seems lost in the feel of me. His hands grip my hips, anchoring but letting me drive, and finally he opens his eyes, looks up at my face, and smiles, showing the pure essence of Ansel: bright eyes, playful dimple, and his sweet, filthy mouth.

“Give me a little show, Cerise. Break me.”

With a grin, I lift my body and slide down, and then a little faster, and a little faster, mesmerized by the tiny wrinkle between his brows as he watches my face, concentrating. He angles his hips, satisfied when I gasp, and reaches between us to touch me, pet me, stroke me, and quietly whispers to ride him faster and rougher.

“Let me hear the fucking,” he growls, pushing up into me. “Let my little wild one out.”

He watches with rapt attention as I start to come—and he whispers, “Oh, Mia, that’s it”—my hands planted on his chest, my eyes focused on his parted lips and I beg him, “Please, oh, please.” I feel my head begin to fall back as the pleasure climbs. “I’m there, I’m there.”

He gives me a tiny nod, a tiny smile, and presses his fingers harder against me, watching as I shatter into pure sensation, bucking on him and finally closing my eyes against the intensity of it, the silvery, blinding release as I collapse against his chest.

The world tips, the soft sheets are at my back, and I feel his hand between my legs, touching me before guiding himself back inside and then he’s moving on top of me—long, sure strokes—his chest pressed to mine. He’s warm and his mouth moves over my neck, to my mouth, where he sucks and tastes, growling low curses and words like wet and come and sweet wet skin and deeper, so deep, so deep.

I slide my hands down his back, gripping his ass and relishing the bunching of the muscle in my hands as he moves, curling into me and moving hard when I spread my legs wider, dig my nails into his skin, and buck up beneath him, feeling another orgasm take shape at the edges.

I gasp his name and he speeds up as he glances at my face, grunting out a quiet Yes. Fuck.

His brow is sweaty, his eyes on my breasts, my lips, and then he pushes his body away just enough that he can watch where he’s moving in me. He’s wet from me, so hard everywhere—muscles tense and ready to snap, ready to explode. The position has always been our best, the friction, the fit of him against me, and he circles his hips, looking between our bodies and then at my face, back down and up again, finally exhaling a tight burst of air as I whisper, “Oh.”

He groans in relief when I push my head into the pillow, wild beneath him and coming with a sharp cry.

“I’m close,” he growls, arching his head back and closing his eyes. “Oh, God, Mia.”

He collapses on me, hips pivoting so wild and deep in me that we’re nearly pressed to the headboard, his hands curling into fists around the pillow beside my head. He cries out as he comes; the sound echoes off the ceiling and the quiet, still-blank walls.

My senses come back to me one at a time: first the feel of him still inside me, the weight of his body, warm and slick with sweat. My own body is tender, leaden with pleasure.

I hear the sound of his labored breath in my ear, the quiet I love you.

After that I can taste and smell the salt of his skin when I kiss his neck, and I begin to make out the shape of his shoulders above me, the slow rocking as he begins moving again, just feeling.

He brushes the hair from my face and looks down at me. “I want to pretend,” he says.

“Pretend?”

“Yes.”

He pushes up to hover above me and I run my hands down his sweaty chest, touching where he disappears inside. A tremor moves up my spine and I feel the heat of his gaze, the pressing weight of his attention as he scans my face, dissects my expression.

“Pretend what?” I ask.

“That it’s six months from now.” His fingers comb through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. “And I’m living here. I want to pretend that I’m through with the case and we’re together. Permanently.”

“Okay.” I reach up and pull his face to mine.

“And maybe you have a showgirl costume and have finally learned how to juggle.” He kisses me and then pulls back, brows drawn in an expression of mock seriousness. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“That’s your fantasy?”

He tilts his head, his smile a little mischievous. “It’s certainly one of them.”

“And the others?” I ask. I’d wear anything for him, but I know I could be myself for him, just as easily. I want to spend every night loving as much as I love right now.

For the hundredth time I wonder if the words I haven’t said are written above my head, because his smile widens, reaching his eyes in that way that sucks the breath straight from my lungs.

“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”