Page 23 of Coast

I promised myself no man would ever do that again. That said, this Coast guy was not like Lainey’s father. He didn’t have the power to completely screw up my life.

“We’re not going to see him again anyway,” I said aloud, willing myself to believe it. So maybe I stopped thinking about him.

Lainey, who’d been inspecting her hand up close, promptly slapped herself in the face with it and started crying.

“Oh, I know,” I said, picking her up and putting her against my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We all slap ourselves in the face sometimes. Though, as you get older, it’s figuratively. Which is arguably worse. But that’s not helping your situation right now, right?”

I bopped her through the room.

Then, when that didn’t work, I did her favorite thing: I held her close and danced.

It was crazy how easily my body found the movements, how my muscles stretched and tightened, how my hips and feet found an invisible beat and moved with it.

I got lost in the movement, as I had been doing since I was four years old and my mom strapped me into my first pink leotard and silk tutu and waved me over toward a half dozen other little girls dressed the exact same way.

I’d fallen in love with it then.

I loved it now.

Even if there was some bitterness attached to it that I had a hard time shaking.

I turned in a slow pirouette, then lowered down into a révérence.

By then, Lainey was calm and happy again.

“Maybe we can do dance classes for you when you’re bigger,” I told her as I set her on the bed for a change.

I could picture her then—big gray eyes, eager smile, her blonde hair pulled into a sweet little bun that she’d insist I drape ribbons from—running toward the other girls near the barre.

In that fantasy, I looked up toward the mirrors and saw… myself? In white tights, a black leotard, a black tutu, and pointe shoes.

Was that the dream?

To teach ballet?

It had never crossed my mind before. Back when my dreams were bigger than my hometown, when I’d been working my ass off to accomplish them, only to trust the wrong person, to screw up… everything.

Now, well, there was no way to dance professionally anymore. Except for sad shows in local companies. And even ifI wanted to go that route, the dedication of time it would take wouldn’t be possible with a baby.

But teaching?

Teaching could very well be possible.

Helping the next generation fall in love with the dance, the form, their own bodies—that would be amazing.

I mean, I couldn’t imagine dance teachers made a ton of money. But I wasn’t looking to get rich. I just wanted a little house, a place for my daughter and me to grow up together, to not be drowning in bills.

“What do you think?” I asked Lainey. “Do you think I would be a good teacher?” Lainey let out another of her little hoots I loved so much. “Right? I think so too—oh,” I said, hearing my phone ding. “Whoops. I forgot to go offline on our app,” I told her.

I reached for the phone, planning to end my ‘shift’ for the day, wanting that cold shower I’d promised myself.

“Ugh. Sorry to break it to you, pretty girl,” I said, looking at the screen. “But it looks like we can’t pass this one up. What do you say? One more quick car ride before we unwind for the day?”

I accepted the order, quickly shoved a few more things in the diaper bag just in case, put a wide-awake but content Lainey back in her pumpkin seat, then rushed out of the hotel room.

Because when you got a ‘predicted income’ close to a hundred bucks, you did not turn it down or screw it up.

I didn’t get many group orders—ones that required me to go to several restaurants to pick up food to deliver to the same location—but when they did come in, they were almost always good money.

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