Page 10 of Say It Again
Aaron tipped his head side to side. “Somewhat.”
“Jesus, what’s easy? You: Nice to meet you. Divorce your husband. Him: Done.”
“Once or twice.”
Daniel slapped his arm and typed the name as:
hARd TO gET OvEr (poor chester)
The way Aaron grinned down at his phone, it was as if he’d just scored a new baseball card. “What’s your real name, sweetheart?”
“Daniel.”
“Daniel what?”
“Greene.”
Aaron lifted Daniel’s hand to his lips in the old-fashioned gesture of a gentleman and kissed it. “I’ll see you soon, Daniel Greene Hard-to-Get-Over-Poor-Chester.”
“The Third.”
“Just so you know, that was the worst drink I’ve ever tasted.” He swirled a thumb over Daniel’s palm, stretching their arms long on his way toward the door. “I’d order ten if it meant I got to watch you make them.”
Without another word, the matador was gone.
Chapter Three
“PLACES!” DANIEL clapped from where he stood in the front of the room, holding eye contact with each of his students in the mirror. He attempted to keep his face straight, but these grown adults in leotards, taking their once-a-week modern dance class seriously, were too cute for their own good, and he loved each of them. Percy, with his racquetball goggle glasses, knee brace, and fifty-two-year-old crisis ponytail. Brenda, with her high blood pressure, side boob sweat, and use of the phrase “Lord Jesus” when Daniel made them do primitive squats. He even loved Nadja, a German dog groomer who took smoke breaks during the hour-long dance class.
The music started.
“Five, six, seven, eight!”
Daniel breezed through the choreography, shooting a reassuring smile at the students who struggled, because who cared if they landed the double turn? With respect to the principles of any dance—first position, fifth—technique could never hold a candle to spirit. Technique could never translate language of the soul. It was what he strived to unearth in his students: transient freedom from their lives. Without judgment. Without concern for how they looked. Equipped with only their movement. Only their soul.
The song dwindled to a finish, and his students, puffing and panting, bowed their heads.
“Beautiful,” he said, emotional with gratitude, probably nearing the misty-eyed look he so frequently had. “I love you all more today than I did yesterday. I’ll see you next week.”
Each of his students praised and hugged him—the icing on the whole heartwarming, misty-eyed cake—and meandered out the door, happily exhausted.
Olivia took a different approach with her students. More utilitarian. She didn’t necessarily arrive on time to her class, which started ten minutes after his, and she didn’t piddle around with pleasantries so much as she firmly patted backs, and occasionally butts depending on if she was sleeping with the student.
“So?” She flopped her duffel bag onto the back counter and hopped on top of it, batting her eyelashes down at him as he tried to answer an email from a student on the studio’s computer. “You haven’t thanked me for leaving you at that party.”
His lips twitched. “Thank you, Olivia, for leaving me and creating a stressful environment that I happened to make the best of.”
She rolled her hands. “And?”
“And?”
“You need to thank Puddles.”
He scrunched his face. “Hmm, do I?”
“Yes. If he wasn’t under the weather, there’s a chance you never would’ve met Bathroom Make-Out Attorney Man.”
His breath caught a little as his smile split his face. Each time he relived their kiss—every twelve to thirteen seconds—the air around his head suddenly seemed balmier. Like dark chocolate, blue ice, and amber honey. “Okay. Dear Puddles, thank you for refusing to leave this earthly plane. You obviously know something we don’t. I hope whatever awaits you on the other side involves whole rotisserie chickens. How’s that?”