Page 11 of You Spin Me

“The answer to what?”

“To the trivia question.”

“That doesn’t matter. You can call anytime.”

“Even if there’s not a contest?”

“Even if there’s not a contest.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “If you don’t call, I’ll worry.”

“Oh, gotcha. Well, good night.”

“Wait—what’s your name?”

“Jessica. Jess. Either one.”

“Good night, Jess. Sleep well.”

“You, too. I mean, when you get to. Not now. Silly me. You’re working.”

“Doing what I can.” When he laughs, the rumble rolls into my ear and rushes all the way to my lower belly, flooding me with… I don’t know. The vibrations are like a massage from the inside.

Damn.Now I’m more riled up than when I ran in the door. As I skip across the room, the hum of the dial tone makes me realize that I’ve still got the receiver pressed to my ear.

After setting it back in its cradle, I move through a series of pliés, kicks and extensions to wind down as well work off the time I spent sitting at rehearsal and in the car. When my teaching job ends, I’m going to have to try and pick up more classes at the studio where I teach jazz on Monday nights—both for the cash and to stay in shape. Meanwhile, I may not have normal furniture, but I do have a beautifully crafted ballet barre in my living room, which I use more than I’d ever use a couch.

Discipline, my constant companion, guides me through my bedtime routine.

Skin care. Water. Sleep.

As I slide into dreamland, a question pops into my mind.I wonder if that DJ looks as sexy as he sounds?

The next night,the drive home from Chichester seems shorter, maybe because I’m jazzed about how well rehearsal went. It’s so different working on a contemporary play—less time sitting at the table parsing words and more time on our feet trying stuff out.

I must admit, I’m also looking forward to talking to Cal again. I may have pretended I was talking to him on the way home. Every time he asked a question on air, I answered him out loud. As if he could hear me.

But when I get back into my apartment and turn on the radio and shimmy around my kitchen as I wait for the apartment and the kettle to heat up, I lose momentum. He was probably just being nice last night. He doesn’t really want me to call again. He probably tells girls that all the time.

I’ve convinced myself not to do it when I hear him say my name.

“Hey, Jessica. Jessica who won the trivia contest last night? You need to call me so I know you’re not in a snowbank on the side of Route 3.” Then he rattles off the station number.

I guess he did mean it. I should let him know I’m not dead. When I get through this time, a woman answers.

Suddenly, I’m not sure what to say. She sounds older and a lot less friendly than the kid last night.

“Anybody there?”

“Sorry, uh. This is Jessica? I’m calling because Cal asked me to?”Now who’s doing the uptalking?

The woman barks out the dry laugh of a lifetime smoker. “Thank god you called, hon. He’s going nuts here. Hang on.”

Seconds of hold music later, he picks up. “I thought you were dead.”

The tension in his voice squeezes my chest so tight I have to force out my answer. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because, I don’t know, you’re working?”

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