Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Oh, brr,” I said as I carried Lainey’s car seat into the room, finding that the room I’d left that had been a bit like a terrarium was now on the frigid side of cold. “Thank goodness someone else is paying that air conditioning bill, right?” I asked Lainey, who I could swear sighed in relief at the sudden coolness.
I set her on the center of the bed to stretch out and cool off as I suppressed a shiver.
Even sitting and watching her stretch her arms and legs, I couldn’t just enjoy the moment.
My mind was shooting all around.
It started out tamely enough—thinking that I was going to need to invest in those bed safety bars soon. She was only three months, but some babies started to roll over early. And since I was not putting her down on that carpet that thousands of people had likely walked across (amongst some other questionable things), the bed was the only place for her to wiggle around that wasn’t her playard.
It wasn’t long, though, before I was suddenly picturing Coast and the effortless ease with which he picked Lainey up, held her, wiggled her, and carried her around. Which suggested experience.
But then he was cursing up a storm and talking to a baby about body shots and what made for the perfect margarita. Which I felt meant he had no children of his own. Because, really, what woman would let her baby’s father talk to it like that? Even if they didn’t understand yet?
Maybe he had nieces and nephews. Or his buddies had babies. He definitely gave off chaotic uncle (or honorary uncle) vibes.
“Ugh,” I grumbled, making Lainey turn her big gray eyes at me. “Why can’t I stop thinking about him, huh?” Her response was to kick her feet and produce an impressive amount of spit bubbles. “You liked him too. Don’t try to pretend that you didn’t. You were all moon-eyed at him.”
“Ooh,” Lainey said, lips in a perfect O.
“My little owl,” I said, running a finger down her plump little cheek. “Ma-ma. Ma-ma,” I tried, knowing it was too soon, but trying to plant that seed early. “Anyway, yeah, that man weaseled his way into our minds, right?”
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 if I 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.