Page 53 of Playing to Win

Chapter 18

brooks

Day 4.

Rather than eating breakfast alone, I have Angie rustle up my green shake this morning in the bistro. There is no sign of Izzy all morning. I keep checking between my PT sessions, and when I have half an hour to myself, I find myself sitting at my desk, staring at the empty chair next to me.

At lunchtime, Angie makes me a garden salad and I eat on a stool, talking to her both for company and for distraction. I miss Izzy. I don’t know how or why but I do. You know the phrase I’ve missed you like a hole in the head? It’s supposed to mean, you wouldn’t miss a hole in your head, therefore you don’t miss the person you’re talking about, right? Well, suppose you did have a hole in your head. It’s painful as hell most of the time but one day it closes up. The ache is gone and it feels like something that has become a part of you has disappeared. That’s the only way I can make you understand the peculiar way I wish Izzy was here. I miss her like a hole in the head.

At two thirty, the agreed-upon time for our Saturday salsa session, I head up to Studio A. The number of reporters is fewer by half today, no doubt because it’s the weekend. I have no idea whether Izzy will show, so I have no idea what to say to them. I just stand in the middle of the room, waiting. Feeling exposed and ridiculous.

After five minutes of standing around, my legs seem to lose their energy and I sit on the floor in the middle of the room.

“Where is she, Brooks?” Steve Sitwell asks.

“I really don’t know, man. Sorry.”

After ten minutes, I lie back on the wood floor, my knees bent. Two reporters leave. I don’t care. I just want to see her and say I’m sorry.

When fifteen minutes have elapsed, my sympathy for her, my guilt because I kick-started our almost fuck and abandoned it midway, are gone. I stand up and turn to the remaining four reporters, or bloggers, or whoever they are. “Sorry, folks, I guess she couldn’t handle two weeks after all.”

“Oh, wow! Sorry I’m late. There was an enormous sale in Prada.” Just then, Izzy walks in and dumps bag after bag of what look like shoe boxes and clothes in the corner of the room. She finally meets my eye and there is fire in her own. But not like the flames between us last night. No, these are satanic flames. “My apologies, Mr. Adams, I made a unilateral decision to change something we had already committed to.”

I feel my eyes narrow. “That’s how you want to deal with this?”

She clears her throat, her focus moving from pressing a remote control in the direction of the large projector screen back to me. “I’m sorry, this?”

“Wow, you really do only know how to get your own way, don’t you? Screw doing the right thing.”

She lets out one angry laugh. “Screw. That’s funny. You don’t seem to screw much.” She dumps the remote and moves to the wall by her bags, leaning back with her arms folded across her chest. “I’ve decided you can dance the Charleston today, Mr. Adams.”

I’m no dancer but I do know this is that ridiculous, freakin’, Gatsby-era dance.

“You’re joking, right?”

She turns on the fakest smile I have ever seen. “I most certainly am not.” Glancing at the reporters, she tells them, “You might want to get your cameras ready for this.” Then she hits Play.

I take a breath that fills my lungs to the max and bite down hard on my cheeks. She wants me to dance the Charleston? I’ll fucking Charleston.

After five minutes of on-screen Izzy—a much-improved version than the reality—I’ve got the two basic moves. Step and tap, back and tap. Stay on the toes. Swivel, swivel, swivel.

It’s not so bad. I look like a fool but it’s just the feet that have to move. And it’s actually working up my heart rate. Screw you, Izzy Coulthard.

On-screen Izzy steals my attention. “Now, we’re going to introduce the hands, like this, side to side.” I growl under my breath. I am starting to look like a bigger fool now with twinkle fingers. “And the last thing we’ll add is a subtle wag of the head, like this. Let’s put it all together to music.”

“I’m not wagging my head,” I snarl at the real-life Izzy.

“Oh, but Mr. Adams, it’s all part of the deal. Unless, of course, you can’t keep up with my plan?”

Fuck you. Fuck you so fucking hard. “Fine.”

The music starts and I’m like a dancing goddamn bear on cocaine in the 1920s. I just need a striped suit, a twirling mustache, and a cigar.

Blanking out the snorts and laughter of the reporters behind me, I dance to the end of the music. Then I make a quick exit from the room, but not before coming to a stop, face-to-face with the devil. “You think that’s funny, Izzy? Making a bigger dick of me than I already look?”

“From what I saw last night, you weren’t a big dick at all.”

I curl my fingers into a claw, fighting the urge to wrap them around her neck, and ram the side of my fist into the studio door to open it.

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