“I haven’t been avoiding it.”
“You’ve scheduled it for ‘later’ three times this week.”
“Because it requires trust and synchronization, and we weren’t ready.”
“Are we ready now?”
No, I think. We’re not ready for anything. You’re some kind of mystery wrapped in designer clothes and strange bracelets, and I’m a control freak who just admitted she can’t stop thinking about kissing you, and the showcase is in three weeks and this is all going to end in disaster.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s try it.”
The lift is technically demanding. It requires a running start, precise timing, and absolute trust between partners. The woman launches herself at the man, who catches her at the waist and lifts her overhead in a fluid motion that looks effortless when done correctly.
When done incorrectly, it results in bruises, concussions, and the occasional broken collarbone.
“Explain it again,” Mal says.
“You’ve seen the video.”
“I’ve seen the video seventeen times. I want to hear you describe it.”
I take a breath. “I’ll approach from stage left. Three steps at increasing speed, then a two-foot takeoff. You catch me at the hip and waist—simultaneously, that’s critical—and lift straight up, extending your arms fully. I’ll hold the arabesque at the peak, then you lower me into the fish dive.”
“And if I drop you?”
“Don’t drop me.”
“Reassuring.” But he moves into position, bracing himself. “How many students have you traumatized with this particular move?”
“None. I usually practice with professionals.”
“Ouch.”
“You asked.”
I walk to the starting point, shaking out my arms and legs. This is the part of training I’ve always loved—the technical challenges, the physical problem-solving, the moment when your body does something it shouldn’t be able to do. It’s pure and clean and entirely about skill.
You can trust your body, my mother used to say. Bodies are predictable. People are not.
“Ready?” I call.
He nods, settling into a lower stance. I run three steps and takeoff. For a moment, I’m suspended in air, completely at the mercy of physics and a man I’ve known for less than a month?—
His hands catch me perfectly. Hips and waist, just like I described. The lift is smooth, controlled, exactly right. I hit the arabesque at the peak, arms extended, holding the position while the studio spins below me.
“Now the descent,” I say.
He lowers me slowly. The fish dive requires him to lean forward while supporting my entire body weight, my back arched over his arm, my head nearly touching the floor.
We hold it. One beat. Two.
“Good,” I breathe. “That was?—”
His arm shifts a fraction of an inch, just enough to change the angle, and suddenly my face is level with his, our noses nearly touching.
“Good?” he asks, with that particular smile that means he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Adequate.”
