“Here’s the thing—I love you. You’re sweeter than southernsweet tea, and you’re not even southern. I just want what’s good for you. Do you get me?”
“Uh, thank you?”
“Stop watching your life pass you by and go do something, ok? Kick Levi to the curb or make a move. Just, something.”
I’m not going to figure any of this out by standing here staring at her. I need to respond somehow, make this end. Maybe I can just look at it like an essay prompt. Analyze and summarize.
“So … you want me to be more assertive and take opportunities as they come?”
“There it is!”
Something kind and relevant to wrap it up. “I’ll think on that. Thanks for wanting to help me, Mia.” I sound like a robot.
“I love you.” With a hug, Mia rolls out.
I release my breath. I have no idea what to do with any of that, but at least it’s over.
Mia’s words follow me all week. Every time I defer. Every time I’m anxious to soothe someone’s frustration. Every time I do whatever it takes to make someone happy—is that niceness rather than kindness? I had never considered before that those are different. My usual reactions are sickeningly sweet to my ears now. I hate every bit of Mia’s insight. I have enough to think about without adding this bombshell to my reality. But also, I can’t ignore it. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who grovels and tries so hard. I guess it’s just subtle enough that I didn’t know it was there. I’m pretty confident and, when I do speak up, I say what I mean, but I don’t feel free to take up space, to change people’s plans, to cost them too much effort.
I don’t want to talk to God about this. Not this too. I still spend time with him in the mornings, still read my Bible, but I pray about anything else.
The night before I fly out for fall break, I perk up at a text from Levi.
Hey, friend. Up for a walk tonight?
Yes, yes! Be cool.
Sure. When?
Now?
“There’s something I want to ask you about,” he says a few minutes later.
Cue the dread. “Okay?” I squeak.
“Tell me more about ballet?”
My held breath tumbles out. That’s an okay topic.
“You lit up when you mentioned it. Why did you quit?” His stride has purpose tonight, like I see him around campus, in contrast with his usual lazy saunter when we walk together. I jog a step to keep up, and he slows to my pace.
“My dance school fell apart after my sophomore year, and it didn’t make sense to me at the time to find another one and reacclimate to their approach. And I really hate tryouts. And I knew I wouldn’t be dancing after high school. Plus, it’s really expensive, and my parents had already been paying for it for years.” My arms hang heavy at my sides. Yes, I had reasons, but I regret it.
Levi frowns. “Did you dance at home? After you quit?”
“You keep saying ‘quit.’ It’s not like swimming, where it’s a feasible hobby forever. But yes, around the house, just messing around. I find myself dancing whenever I’m on a hardwood floor. But nothing formal. I haven’t worn pointe or any dance shoessince.” I shrug. “I got a job as a file clerk after that. I took hard classes. Life was busy and eventually I stopped overthinking it.”
His fingers fidget and drum. Where are his Tic Tacs? “Would you dance again? If you had a chance?”
The answer surprises me even more than the question. “Definitely. But I don’t know how that would ever happen.” A loss registers in my gut. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” I nearly push his arm but smother the impulse.
“Can you dance barefoot?”
“Technically yes, but I couldn’t do pirouettes orfouettéswell, and they’re my favorite part.”
He looks to me for explanation.
“Sorry, turns.” Why am I apologizing? Mia would hate that. “I could manage in socks or sneakers. Why?”
