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I put all of that out of my head to prepare to present my revised pitch to my clients. They’re the ones that Skye is most concerned about. The last few workdays, I’ve spent nearly all of it with critiques from colleagues and in back-and-forth conversations with my client contact. I think I’ve nailed it.
Skye has asked to review my work a day ahead. She does this with all juniors just in case she sees something we don’t. For a long time she doesn’t say anything. That worries me. “You’re not talking. Should I pack my desk?” I ask.
She gives a half smile. “No. That wouldn’t happen. It’s definitely better. I’m just wondering…”
“Wondering what?”
“Wondering if this is truly the angle to take. I don’t feel like it’s a total divergence from what they had. One of the reasons they’re giving us a shot is because of our originality. This is much better, but I know you have more to give. Sleep on it tonight, give it your best go-around tomorrow then we will be ready for the meeting on Wednesday. You can do this.”
Can. Not did.
I know Eli and Skye asked me not to work so much. I just did. I sat with the campaign for about eighteen hours, mixed in with all my other work and fielding calls for ALITE on Tuesday. Eli had to pry my laptop away from me at home at like midnight and order me to bed. I was mad at first because I felt like a child. However, the going to bed part worked out well for both of us. It was equal parts quick and amazing. I slept like a rock in his arms.
When I wake on Wednesday, an instant wave of anxiety washes over me. I’ve never been so nervous to give a presentation. It went well. I think. I hope. Now all I can do is wait.
What I can’t wait to do, however, is rehearse. I haven’t been as good about my time in the studio lately. Where I was going for hours per day, I’ve scaled back to four times a week and then a lunchtime quickie if I can manage it. I feel sad about it and definitely out of shape. Eli tries to call bullshit but I know my body very well.
I don’t get on a scale, but I can see and feel changes. They’re subtle, but there. Dance is a way for me to feel in control and free. Maybe that’s what I’m missing. I have dedicated studio time today. Hump day is my midweek break. Maybe I just need one balls-out session to bring me all the way back to feeling like me.
Like they say…no day like today.
Elijah
Wednesdays have become one of my favorite days of the week. The only thing I love about as much as making love to my wife is watching her dance. She has private studio time every Wednesday after her workday. She leaves the office around four in the afternoon then usually comes home to me sweaty, charged, and wholly spent after two solid hours of her feet pounding the hardwoods.
Today, I decide to leave my pile of work behind, like I’ve been encouraging her to do, to watch her in action. We had a synergy on the NYU campus. She could tell if I was near. I could tell what I would walk into with my hand on the doorknob. Since connecting with Jill, we’re both in a new environment. I can tell Dylan’s not fully comfortable with her surroundings yet. She’s getting there though. I hope today’s the day she can once again leave it all on the floor.
I know Elyse’s prying eyes and threats weigh heavily on my wife. Everyone’s happy with how Dylan is trying to make everything work except for Elyse, and possibly Dylan. This hiccup with Skye is just that. The woman I met in that club so many months ago seemed so wild and indestructible. With every passing day, I’m able to see more clearly the layers upon layers she possesses.
She’s as hesitant as she is confident. She needs self-assurance as much as she needs control. She’s harder on herself than anyone else could be. She seeks perfection in the imperfect. I love every bit of her.
I can hear the music as I’m approaching the closed-door rehearsal. It’s heavy and lyrical…even a little angry. Deciding to stay in the shadows of the hallway, I watch her from afar. Her hands wring across her neck as she paces from one end of the room to the other. She’ll try part of a move then stop. She’ll shake out her hands then stare at herself in the mirror.
I can see her lips moving. She’s talking to herself. Either it’s a pep talk to try something, anything, or she’s cursing herself out for not being able to live up to the expectation for the day, within these walls that she’s created in her mind. No matter which way it’s going, I know I need to sit on the sideline and give her the space to work it out. Dylan lets out a bit of a growl then turns the music up. The base is so deep it rattles the windows. I watch as she shifts her weight from the balls of her feet to her heels. Strike, Viper. Strike.
Dylan punches the air first with her left fist, then her right. She raises to her toes then presses her left leg high into the air. It becomes a new extension of her body. She pirouettes twice then falls into a deep plie, holding her head. Dylan bows her upper body forward then bounds up into the air. Her movements are more robotic than I’m used to seeing, more animalistic. It reminds me of what we saw in the second act of the ballet, fused with my wife’s inherent style. It draws me in, wanting to see what this new chapter might bring.
Her hair is pulled back into a sleek braid. A few stray strands of hair move with her in the same manner as her limbs. Her skin glistens under the overhead spotlights. I’m mesmerized by every move she makes, even as she launches her body in the air. Time freezes as it rotates above the ground and floats back to earth. Her foot firmly plants while her frame continues to rotate. My daydream is broken by my wife’s scream in pain.
Dylan presses her face to the floor while she clutches her knee. I can hear the sobs without seeing them. I force the door open, racing to her side. My messenger bag slides to a stop, inches away from me, while my hand gently grips her shoulder.
“Viper. Tell me where it hurts. How bad?” Her nonverbal response follows with only sobs and groans that answers that question. I roll her slowly to her back; her hands never leave her knee. “Can you sit up for me?”
“Oh. My. God. Eli. This. Hurts. So. Bad.”
Her pain immediately hits my heart. I want to take it all away for her. “Where are your warmups and your shoes?”
“The studio closet.”
I quickly stop the music. The driving beat no longer echoes around us. It’s only the inhale and exhale of her cries into her curled-up body. I return with her sweatshirt in hand, along with her bag. She manages to sit up and lean into me so I can get the fleece over her head. Once she’s covered, I flip her bag and mine over my shoulder before carefully scooping her into my arms.
Her fingers wrap around the lapels of my suit coat as I cradle her against my chest. Her shoes dangle from my fingers and sway as we leave the studio empty on the walk to my car. “Dylan, I need you to reach in my coat pocket to find the keys. I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
If this wasn’t bad, I know she’d absolutely fight me. She doesn’t. Once the car door is open, I slowly lower her to the seat then recline it back. Her left arm crosses over her torso as the right covers her eyes. I can still see the staccato breaths from her chest rise and fall. I always knew there would come a day when I’d see her in physical pain. I thought I’d be ready for it. I’m not.
If I could take it all away from her, I would. If I could be the one, I would.
Dylan’s hand tenses and releases in mine the entire ride across town. Every bump in the road or jerking movement the car makes with a lane switch brings her back to near tears. I park as near to the doors as I can and scoop her back into my arms. She curls back into my chest, clinging to me.
