Sweet Filthy Boy (27 page)

“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.