Sweet Filthy Boy - Lauren Christina (читать книги без TXT) 📗

One of them is spinning and tips over, landing just below the small deck we’re sitting on.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping down to help her.

“Oui,” she says, brushing the dirt from the front of her checkered dress. Her friend crosses to us, and though I’m not sure what she says, the way she stretches her arms to the side, and speaks to her in a scolding tone, I think she’s telling her she did her turn wrong.

“Are you trying to turn?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond, merely watches me with a confused expression. “Pirouette?”

At this she lights up. “Oui,” she says excitedly. “Pirouette. Tourner.”

“Spin,” Ansel offers.

She straightens her arms to the side, points her toe, and spins, so quickly she almost falls down again.

“Whoa,” I say, both of us laughing as I catch her. “Maybe if you . . . um.” Straightening, I pat my stomach. “Tighten.”

I turn to Ansel, who translates, “Contracte tes abdominaux.” The little girl makes a face of concentration, one I can only imagine means she’s clenching her stomach muscles.

More of the girls have gathered to listen and so I take a second, moving them so they’ll have enough room. “Fourth position,” I say, holding up four fingers. I point my left foot out, my right foot next to and behind. “Arms up, one to the side, one out front. Good. Now plie? Bend?” They each bend at the knees and I nod, subtly guiding their posture. “Yes! Good!” I point to my eyes and then to a spot off in the distance, partially aware of Ansel translating behind me.

“You have to spot. Find one place and don’t look away. So when you turn”—I straighten, bend at the knees, and then push up off the ball of my foot before spinning, landing on plie—“you’re back where you started.” It’s such a familiar movement, one I haven’t felt my body do for so long that I almost miss the sound of cheering, the loudest of them coming from Ansel. The girls are practically giddy and taking turns, encouraging each other and asking me for help.

It’s getting late and eventually, the girls have to leave. Ansel takes my hand, smiling, and I glance over my shoulder as we walk away. I feel like I could have watched them all night.

“That was fun,” he says.

I look over at him, still smiling. “What part?”

“Seeing you dancing like that.”

“That was one turn, Ansel.”

“It might be the single sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. That is what you should be doing.”

I sigh. “Ansel—”

“Some people go to business school and run movie theaters or restaurants. Some own their own bakery, or dance studio.”

“Not you, too.” I’ve heard this before, from Lorelei, from Harlow’s entire family. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that.”

He makes a point of looking over his shoulder, back in the direction we just came. “I respectfully disagree.”

“Those things take money. I hate taking money from my father.”

“Then why do you take money from him if you hate it?” he asks.

I throw the question back at him. “You don’t take money from your father?”

“I do,” he admits. “But I decided long ago it’s the only thing he’s good for. And a few years ago, when I was your age, I didn’t want my mother to feel like she needed to support me.”

“I don’t have enough money to live in Boston without his help,” I tell him. “And I guess in a way . . . I feel like he owes me this, since in the end I’m doing what he wants.”

“But if you’re doing what you want—”

“It’s not what I want.”

He pulls us to a stop and holds up a hand, not even a little fazed by the weight of this conversation. “I know. And I’m not really thrilled at the idea that you will leave me soon. But putting that aside, if you went to school, did something you wanted to do with it, you would make the decision yours, not his.”

I sigh, looking back down the street.

“Just because you can’t dance professionally doesn’t mean you have to stop dancing for a living. Find the spot in the distance and don’t look away, isn’t that what you told those girls? What is your ‘spot’? Finding a way to keep dance in your life?”

I blink away, back down the block to where the girls are still twirling and laughing. His spot is teaching law. He hasn’t taken his eyes off that point since he started.

“Okay, then.” He appears to take my silence as passive agreement. “Do you train to be a teacher? Or do you learn to run your own business? Those are two different paths.”

The idea of having a dance studio makes a warring reaction explode in my belly: elation, and dread. I can barely imagine anything more fun, but nothing would cut off my relationship with my family more thoroughly than that.

“Ansel,” I say, shaking my head. “Even if I want my own studio, it’s still about getting started. He was going to pay for my apartment for two years while I got my degree. Now he’s not speaking to me and there is no way he’d get on board with that plan. There’s something about dance for him . . . it’s as if he doesn’t like it on a visceral level. I’m realizing now that, whatever I do, I’ll have to make it work without his help.” I close my eyes and swallow thickly. I’ve taken such a profound mental vacation from the reality of my future that I’m already exhausted after only this tiny discussion. “I’m glad I came here. In some ways it’s the best decision I ever made. But it’s made things more complicated in some ways, too.”

He leans back, studies me. I adore playful Ansel, the one who winks at me across the room for no reason, or talks lovingly to my thighs and breasts. But I think I might love this Ansel, the one who seems to really want what’s best for me, the one who is clearly brave enough for both of us. “You’re married, no?” he asks. “You have a husband?”

“Yes.”

“A husband who makes a good living now.”

I shrug and look away. Money talk is exceedingly awkward.

As playful and goofy as he can be sometimes, there is nothing but sincerity in his voice when he asks, “Then why would you need to depend on your father to do what you want?”

UPSTAIRS IN OUR apartment I follow him into the kitchen and lean against the counter as he reaches into the cabinet for a bottle. Ansel turns, shakes two ibuprofen tablets into my palm, and hands me a glass of water. I stare at my hands and then up at him.

“It’s what you do,” he says, offering a tiny shrug. “After two glasses of wine you always take ibuprofen with a big glass of water. You’re a lightweight.”

I’m reminded again how observant he is, and how he manages to catch things when I don’t even think he’s paying attention. He stands, watching as I swallow the pills and put the empty glass on the counter by my hip.

With each second that ticks by when we aren’t kissing or touching, I’m terrified the easy comfort we have tonight will evaporate and he’ll turn to his desk and I’ll turn to the bedroom alone.

But tonight, while we stare at each other in the muted light provided by the single bulb above the stove, the energy between us seems to only grow more electric. This feels real.

He scratches his jaw and then tilts his chin to me. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

My stomach flips. “I’m not sure I believe that I’m—”

“Stay,” he interrupts in a tight whisper. “I’m dreading the day you leave. I’m losing my mind thinking about it.”

I close my eyes. This is half what I’ve wanted him to say, and half what I was most afraid to hear. I pull my lip between my teeth, biting down my smile when I look back at him. “I thought you just told me to go to school to open my own business someday.”

“Maybe I think you should wait until I’m done with this case. Then we can go together. Live together. I work, you study.”