“I mean, imagine growing up with two people who have their lives that together. Dad’s advising billionaires on where to park their money, Mom’s dismantling corporations in court for fun. And then there’s me.”
She spread her arms.
“Professional sparkly pompoms shaker.”
“That’s not fair,” I said.
“No, it’s accurate,” she countered lightly. “I went to a very expensive university, majored in… well, technically communications, though I’m not sure I communicated much besides ‘please extend the deadline’ and ‘yes, I will have another margarita.’”
I huffed a laugh.
“Communications was just the cover up for my real degree, though — dance. But I knew that was a joke to my parents. To everyone but me, probably.”
“How do you know it was a joke to them?”
“Because when I told them, my mom asked what I would do for money.”
I winced. “Ouch.”
She nodded. “Yeah. So, I double majored. I wanted the fun thing and the responsible thing.” She paused. “My parents never pressured me. But there was always this… I don’t know, this unspokenthingthey did. I call it the Huxley Pause.”
“Sounds like a line dance you do at weddings.”
“Far less fun, unfortunately.” She came to a halt, turning to face me with a sigh. “It’s this awful, weighted pause that sits between us any time I update them on my life or tell them something I achieved or want to pursue. They look at each other like I don’t know what they’re thinking, like I can’t see thedisappointment and worry in their eyes. Then, one of them will turn to me all bright-eyed and smiley and say something like,‘Wow, that’s lovely, honey!’or‘That sounds perfect for you. We’re so proud.’”
I blinked. “So… they say something nice?”
“Exactly,” she said, pointing at me, but her confirmation just confused me more. “Except it’s not actually nice. It’s more like… like they wish I was living a different life, but they don’t want to push me, so they placate me instead and pretend like they’re so proud of my choices when I know they’re not. And it’s just put this rift between us. It’s… I don’t know.”
She shook her head and started walking again, and I followed. I was shocked she was saying so much. I wondered if it was because I’d been the only one to really ask her, to not let her deflect and avoid the way she wanted to.
“That’s the thing. If they’d been the whole ‘you must be a doctor or a lawyer or we disown you’type, maybe I would’ve rebelled into something impressive. Instead, they were just like, ‘Follow your passion, darling.’”
She snorted.
“Turns out my passion is dancing in crop tops and yelling at referees.”
“Okay, ifIwere a referee right now I’d be throwing a penalty flag. I’ve seen you only a few times, and when you’re dancing, you’re in your element. You love it. You’re really fucking good at it.”
“I knew you were checking me out,” she said with a curl of her lips. “Little horn dog. You masturbate to me in the shower, don’t you?”
“Only once. So far.”
That caught her off guard, and I smirked at the victory of her jaw unhinging.
“Braden Lock! You naughty boy…” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m aghast.”
“Bullshit. I couldn’t shock you if I tried. I’ve heard the things that come out of that mouth of yours.”
“Thinking about my mouth, too, huh?”
“Not enough to not call you out on your shit right now. You’re being hard on yourself.”
“I’m being honest,” she said, shrugging. “My parents paid for everything. School, apartment after school, whatever random phase I decided I was in that year. I got my two-hundred hours and tried my hand at being a yoga instructor. Then there was the travel blogger stage. And don’t get me started on that brief and tragic moment I thought I was going to start a candle company.”
“A candle company?”
“Don’t ask,” she said quickly. “My whole apartment smelled like failure and eucalyptus.”
