Page 11 of Say It Again

Olivia held a hand to her heart. “Actually, quite moving. I think this man has changed you for the better. Have we heard from him today?”

“We have.” Daniel squealed as he scrambled for his phone under the counter and swiped open his texts. “Get this, you’ll never believe it. He said, Good morning, Daniel.”

“God,” Olivia moaned, fanning herself. “That’s so hot. I’m so glad you finally ended it with What’s-His-Nuts.”

“Nate.”

“Doesn’t matter. So when are you seeing him next?”

“I don’t know yet,” Daniel said, chewing a nail. “But I’ll tell you this—”

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m nervous.”

“Shocking.”

“He’s just so foxy. He’s the foxiest person I’ve ever touched in real life and also in the life I fantasize about having. The one where I’m surrounded by, like, twenty men—all named Alejandro—and they’re saying things like You know, I think it’s kind of cute that you steal your neighbor’s internet because you can’t afford your own. And Emotional maturity is less important than being able to make really good Netflix recommendations—where was I going with this?”

“I think what you’re trying to say is his foxiness out-foxes your own, but that’s where you’re wrong. You’re the foxiest person a lot of people have ever seen in real life and in their Alejandro fantasy lives. I’m sure there’s a ton of folks who probably picture you when their partners are going down on them.”

“Aw, Olivia.” He pinched his lips together. “That’s the sweetest shit you’ve ever said to me.”

“And so true. Case in point, how can you have, like, negative 12 percent body fat and still have an ass like that?”

He shrugged. “Genes?”

“Jeans?”

“Yeah, genes.”

She studied his lower half. “But you’re not wearing any.”

He squinted. “What?”

“Daniel, can I see you for a second?” asked the studio owner, Madeline, emerging from her OR.

That’s what they all called her office. The Operating Room: a germaphobe’s wet dream, an environment as sterile as the aftermath of a vasectomy. And it wasn’t like she cleaned it. It was that she never soiled it in the first place. Causing messes wasn’t Madeline’s bailiwick. One couldn’t smudge surfaces or collect dust if all they did was float on air. The woman floated on air. She might have been angled bones, hollowed cheeks, and thin lips coated in matte burgundy lipstick, but the way she moved gripped the attention of every person in the room. She was as timeless as the pearl pin that held her bun in place, and Daniel secretly wished to be her when he grew up.

She draped herself in a willowy black scarf and gazed out her office window at the dance floor where Olivia’s class commenced. All she needed was a jade cigarette holder and the hazy exposure of a spotlight to illuminate her green eyes and complete her silent film look.

“Your classes are doing so well,” she said, her eyes following the pirouetting students. “In fact, they do the best. But you know that.”

He burrowed into the validation of her words, all warm and fuzzy. “If they do the best, it’s because I learned from the best.”

He’d met Madeline when he was eighteen, just starting college, and in desperate need of a part-time job. He’d been dancing his entire life, but until her, he’d never had an opportunity to teach. It felt like she’d taken a chance on him by assigning him one of their most popular time slots, directing him how to control a room, but she’d always insisted she could “see something” in him. It must’ve been why she supported him in unimaginable ways—surprising him with new dance shoes when his got holes, stocking his refrigerator with pastas and soups she cooked from scratch. She’d ask if he liked lemongrass and then say, “Oh, it’s nothing,” as she stuffed homemade egg rolls and cans of sparkling water inside his backpack. “I made extra by accident.”

She turned to him. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five.” She nodded. “Peculiar age, isn’t it? Try your best you may, but you just don’t know what you don’t know.” She always spoke like that. Part riddling cat and part sexy shaman. “Come to think of it, I was not much older than you when I started this place.”

“Yeah, you were twenty-six.” Daniel twisted to locate his favorite picture of her where it hung on the wall—she and her husband mid kiss in front of a much newer St. Louis School of Dance sign before years of harsh weather faded its zest.

“Do you like working here?” she asked.

“Is that a real question?” He raised his eyebrows. “I love it. Of course I love it.”

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