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“Nothing,” he mumbles.
“Mommy, can I try the can opener?”
“NO!” We both answer, and Troy stumbles to his feet before pulling me flush to him. He tips my chin with his finger.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. I just want…”
I search his eyes. “What?”
“Something I can’t have.”
“Are you okay?” I manage to say around the lump forming in my throat.
“Yeah. Fine. I’ll bounce back.”
“Are you…” I glance toward the house.
“Sober? Not quite, but I’m good. I’ll go swish with some of your mouthwash and play sick, if that’s okay? I’m sorry. He shouldn’t see me that way. It will never happen again.”
“It’s fine. I believe you.”
Relief covers his features.
“Things will get better.”
“Hope so.” He leans in one last time and presses a kiss to my forehead. I stare after him long after the door closes behind him.
Troy
“Dante, this is Harper. She’s going to teach us all how to dance today.” Harper smiles down at Dante from where he sits in his room, fiddling with the Rubik’s Cube that Parker got him for his birthday.
“I don’t need to learn how to dance.”
“Every guy needs a little dancing skill,” I tell him, taking the toy from his hand.
“Not me. I know how.”
“I’m learning too. So is Mommy.”
“Why?”
“Because I need help,” I lean down and whisper to him. “I’m really bad at it, and I want to dance with your Mommy one day, so will you pretend for me?”
“Okay,” he says quickly as we join Clarissa in the living room. Harper is Lance’s girlfriend and a dance major, not to mention the only person I know capable of teaching my kid modern dance. When I’d asked her to help me with Dante, she’d happily agreed.
Harper connects her phone to the TV, and Frank Ocean’s “Lost” fills the room. For a solid hour, Harper shows us all the ropes, and I can’t help but get lost in the way Clarissa moves her hips, the dip, the ease in which she manipulates her body. Twice we’ve caught each other’s gaze, our smiles syncing, the second time she mouths me a “thank you,” to which I reply with a wink. I feel like a fucking fool mimicking the movements, but for my son, for her, it’s worth it. The longer we practice, the more Dante gets into it, his dancing a lot less awkward than in the video. When the lesson is over, Harper bids us farewell promising Dante another hour next week as I walk her out.
“How are you doing?” I ask, knowing she and Lance are having a similar shittastic year.
“Good. Stressed but good.” She pauses at the foot of the steps. “Does Lance…do you think he regrets it?”
“You mean you?”
“I’m sorry, I know I’m putting you on the spot. He’s so quiet sometimes. I just worry.”
“No, hell no. Not at all. We had drinks last week, and he told me he was happy.”
Her smile is blinding. “Really?”
