Life After Taylah
Page 22

“It’s quarter past!” I bark.
She crosses her arms. “Did you stay at the beach, or did you go elsewhere?”
I raise my brows. “You’re not going there, are you?”
“Well, you’re late and I know how the women are with you. They see you and they go crazy.”
“I was at the beach with the guys. There were no women.”
“Avery is a woman.”
I grunt. “Avery is their family.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s not an extremely attractive woman.”
I turn and walk down the hall. “I’m not having this conversation.”
She mutters something, but I don’t stop to listen. I walk into the room, slam the door and sit on the bed. My heart aches. I can’t explain the feeling of coming home to a woman that makes your heart throb in the worst possible way. Depression sinks deep into my soul when I’m here, and it’s slowly eating away at me. How do you find happiness when you’re so consumed by darkness?
I don’t know a way out.
I’m trapped.
CHAPTER 8
AVERY
Three weeks later.
Nate: No.
Avery: Yes.
Nate: Dancer. No.
Avery: Nate. Yes.
Nate: N.O.
Avery: Y.E.S.
Nate: Are you always so bossy?
Avery: Mostly. Is that a yes?
Nate: No.
Avery: Don’t be such a baby.
Nate: Bite me.
Avery: Come here so I can.
Nate: Nice try.
Avery: You’re being difficult.
Nate: You would have to kill me before I dressed up like a fuckin’ ballet dancer and spun you around.
Avery: You don’t have to dress up. I just need you to help me so I can practice.
Nate: No.
Avery: Fine. This friendship is over.
Nate: I’m so heartbroken. Hold me.
I laugh out loud.
Avery: You’ll regret this, Nathaniel Alexander.
Nate: I’m quaking in my boots.
Avery: I’m going now. Probably to pick a poor homeless man off the street to beg him to be my dancing partner for the day. It could get messy.
Nate: Stay safe. Make sure you get your Hepatitis shots.
Avery: You’re awful.
Nate: Call you later.
I snap my phone closed with a smile. Damned Nate.
For the past few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time with Nate. Our friendship is natural, easy, and carefree. There are no awkward pauses or times where I wonder if it’s forced. It just flows. We laugh, we talk, we joke—we get along so incredibly well. He tells me about his family, his wife, Macy, and his career. He’s the little bit of light in my life that I can hang on to with both hands, and not be afraid that it’ll break.
He’s helping me find myself again.
That’s worth hanging on to.
~*~*~*~
“Jesus, Bobby!” I cry, throwing my hands up.
My eighteen-year-old student, Bobby, stares at me with a confused expression. He’s trying to help me with my turns, but he’s just not strong enough yet. He’s been in the school two years and while he’s a great dancer, he’s just not up to the same level most dancers his age are. I don’t need a dancer, anyway; I just need someone strong to hold onto me so I can practice the moves I’m unsteady with.
“I’m trying, Avery,” he whines, crossing his arms. “You’re like a bull in a china shop.”
I raise my brows at him. “Do you even know what that means?”
He gives me an are you serious look and then rolls his eyes. Sheesh.
“It’s okay, I’ll practice on my own.”
“Fine,” he huffs exiting through the side door.
“That was entertaining!”
I spin around to see Nate, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed across his chest, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Oh, I’m glad you’re finding it entertaining. I can’t imagine you would understand how it feels to have a man who is not a man trying to help you when he can’t even hold your weight.”
His grin widens. Damn him.
“Don’t grin at me, Nathaniel. This is all your fault.”
He pushes off the wall and walks in, his shoes squeaking on the polished wooden floor. He stops in front of me, looks down at my tights and grins.
“Don’t even,” I warn.
“Sexy, Av.”
I cross my arms and glare at him.
“Well, you’re clear, there’s no camel-toe.”
I thump his arm. “You’re disgusting!”
He laughs and takes my hand, swinging me in a circle. “So, I’m here, I have an hour. What do you want me to do?”
I gape at him. “I thought there was no way in fucking hell you were dancing with me?”
He shrugs. “Changed my mind. Don’t make me change it back.”
“Fine,” I say, turning towards him. “I’m just trying to get my petit allegro right. It seems my teacher thinks my body isn’t the correct shape when I’m moving. I’ve been trying to get it right, but I need someone to hold, um, me . . . so I can get it right and focus on my posture and position.”
“Show me where I gotta hold,” he says.
My cheeks pinken; I can feel them right away. I didn’t think this through, because Nate will have to put his hands on me to do this. I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. And when I say bothers, I mean the hot-and-bothered kind of way. I trust myself around Nate, and I trust him, but something about having his hands on me makes me very nervous.