Page 52 of Not Our First Rodeo
“It was good to see you, Beau,” Tonya says, patting me on the arm. “Take care of our girl, okay?”
“I will,” I promise.
She nods like she believes me before turning on her heel and disappearing into her office and shutting the door behind her.
When I turn back, Elsie is making her way to me, and I can’t help but let my eyes drift to the way her rounded stomach pulls tight against her leotard. Elsie has always been beautiful to me,since that very first day, but there’s something primal inside me that loves seeing her pregnant with my baby.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, smiling, a little out of breath.
I want to pull her to me, press a kiss to her cheek, but I hold myself back. We’ve been making progress the last few weeks, and although I want to push us the last little bit, I don’t want to spook her.
But damn it, I really want to kiss my wife.
“I wanted to see you,” I say with a shrug, and something pinches in my stomach when her smile widens. I want to press my fingertips to the edge of that smile and feel it.
“I wasn’t staying late tonight,” she responds. “I would have been home in a half hour.”
“Too long.”
Her smile turns sly, the kind of smile that used to mean things I really, really shouldn’t think about right now in a dance studio for children. “That so?”
I force my heart to slow from its wild gallop and say, “I like watching you teach. You’re good at it.”
A pretty blush stains her cheeks, and she looks down, sliding her ballet flat against the floor. “I like doing it.” She’s quiet for a moment before her eyes return to mine. There’s a shyness in them I’ve so rarely seen. “I didn’t expect to, but I really, really love it.”
Before I can respond, Maya slips past us. “Bye, Elsie. See you tomorrow.”
Elsie’s face transforms into something soft, a wistful smile lifting her lips. “Bye, Maya. You did great today. I’m proud of you.”
I tear my gaze from Elsie in time to see Maya’s cheeks turn pink. She looks at my wife like she’s her hero, like she’s everything she wants to be when she grows up. I wonder if Elsiesees it, if she’s realized that even though she’s not a professional dancer anymore, this teenager still looks at her like there’s no one she’d rather be like. My guess is no.
“Thanks, Elsie,” Maya says and hurries out of the studio.
Before she can let herself out the door, Elsie calls, “Eat some junk food and watch a movie tonight.”
I don’t miss the way Maya’s eyes roll, but I think she’s going to listen anyway.
When Elsie finally returns her attention to me, I say, “You know she wants to be just like you, don’t you?”
A shocked look crosses Elsie’s face, proving my point. She shakes her head. “She doesn’t want to be like me,” she says, her gaze returning to the polished floors. “I’m a wash up.”
Before I can think better of it, I tip her chin up with the pad of my thumb. Her skin is so damn soft it makes my mind feel fuzzy, and I allow my hand to linger for just a second, reveling in the feel of it. “You don’t really think that, do you?”
That exposed look flashes over her features again, and to my surprise, she doesn’t try to hide it. Her delicate shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t regret how things have turned out,” she says slowly, deliberately, like she wants me to understand. “But yes, as a ballerina, I’m a wash up.”
My brain zeroes in on the first part of the sentence, something that’s been tight in my chest finally uncoiling, because Ididworry that she regretted all of this. I know she’s happy about the pregnancy, that she’s excited about becoming a mom, but I haven’t been able to shake the fear that this entire last year has been cloaked in disappointment—that she regretted moving back here after her injury instead of trying to continue dancing, that she wished she hadn’t invited me in that night, that she wished she could take back everything that came after. That if things had been different, she never would have let me comehome or begun working on fixing things with me. That she’s only doing it because we’re having a child together.
But I force myself to store all that away for future examination and focus on the last part of what she said. “Elsie, you’re not a wash up.” I let out a sigh, wishing she could see herself the way I see her. “You got hurt, but you’re so resilient that you picked yourself back up again. You started teaching this sport you love, even though it has to be hard beinghereevery day when you’d rather bethere.” My breath heaves out of me, and I push my hand through my hair. I want to mention what Tonya just said to me, but I’m scared to push her too much, to bring up something she’s not ready to talk about.
So instead, I say, “And the way that little girl looks at you? You’re changing her whole life.Thatis not being all washed up. It’s just…” I stare at the ceiling, searching for the words. “Using that passion you have in a different way. Different, but just as meaningful.”
When I look back at her, her blue eyes are tipped up to mine, contemplative, like she’s never once considered this point of view. She’s quiet for so long, the only sounds in the room that of our breathing, that I almost think she’s not going to respond.
But she finally says, “Maybe.”
A smile touches my lips. “I just gave you an impassioned speech, and all I get is amaybe?”
Her lips quirk, eyes dancing in a way that feels old and familiar. “It was a really good speech.”
