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“Lydia, I love you, but, like, this is a lot for six in the morning.”
When the music comes to a stop, everyone in the class starts cheering, and Hip-Hop Holly smiles and takes a little bow. “Aw, you guys are too much! Thank you! Thank you!”
Once the fanfare is done, she grabs a towel, dabs the sweat from her forehead, and announces, “Okay, ladies, who is ready to learn the dance?”
Ha-ha-ha. No. It’s too early for this shit.
Self-preservation activated.
Hoots and hollers fill the room, and I proceed to utilize a dance move I like to call “getting the fuck out of here.”
“Rae, where are you going?” Lydia whisper-yells to my exiting back, and I don’t hesitate to point toward the door.
“I’ll be out in the lobby with Peppy.”
When I steal a glance over my shoulder, Lou is laughing her ass off, but Lydia is giving me the kind of stare that could melt skin off bones.
Sorry, sis.
I tried, but Hip-Hop Holly and the Groovin’ Goddesses are a little too much for me at this hour of the morning. Maybe a night class would’ve been a better option.
Plus, now isn’t the time for me to pull a muscle. I have a whole week of not-being-good ahead of me. Surely I’ll catch up on the missed exercise and the endorphins then, right?
Rachel
I stare down at my bed, clothes strewn all over the damn place, and try to decide what I should pack for a trip I know nothing about it. Frankly, I don’t even know if it’s a trip. For all I know, we’re just going to hole up in his apartment and have sex for seven days straight, and to be completely honest, I wouldn’t be mad about that.
I just wish I knew, one way or another, what I needed to bring with me to be equipped.
After a long day of classes, and skipping Ty’s freshman lecture for the sake of my sanity and his, I’m ready to get out of here. The thing is, I need to know where I’m heading.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and type out a fevered text, frustration from being so in the dark starting to set in.
Me: What exactly am I packing for, here? Bikini weather? Parka weather? A sex dungeon of some sort? Please, I’m begging you, clue me in just a little.
Ty: I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to give you that information.
Me: Ty! The time is nearly upon us. I think you can give it up with the surprise at this point.
Ty: Okay, fine. I’ll give you a teeny, tiny little hint…
I put my phone down to start sorting through more clothes when he seems to be taking forever to type, and then I nearly jump when the chime sound goes off. I’m already smiling as I pick it up to look at the screen, but my grin disappears immediately when the body of the message is not at all what I’m expecting.
Dad: Rachel, I have great news. The NYC Literary Conference is next week. This year, they’ve even added workshops that are writing- and publishing-focused. I reserved two tickets so we can attend. Can you be ready by 8 a.m. on Monday? I’ll pick you up.
I stare down at the message, equal parts flabbergasted and annoyed. He can’t seriously think I’m just sitting around waiting to do as he decrees. That might be his MO, but this is taking it to a whole new level.
I look up toward the ceiling of my bedroom to find the strength I need and then look back to my phone, type out a message, and hit send.
Me: Dad, I’m sorry, but I already have plans next week. I can’t attend.
Dad: I’m sure Lydia will be fine with you skipping bakery shifts. This is far more important than any other plans you could have.
“Well, Dad, I’m going to spend the next week naked, fucking one of your department’s professors,” I mutter quietly, mocking myself and the entire conversation. “You know Ty, right? Yeah, he’s the guy. What a small world, huh?”
Son of a bitch.
I waver on what to message him back, my emotions volleying between guilt and anger.
Eventually, though, I settle on being firm.
Me: I’m sorry you feel that way, but I don’t agree. I’ve already made plans, and I intend to keep them.
Dad: Rachel, just because it’s spring break doesn’t mean you should stop focusing on your career. This type of conference would be a huge asset for you. I’ll text you Monday morning, and I’m hoping you’ll have come to your senses by then and realize this is far too important of an opportunity to pass up.
Oh, for the love of everything. Just back the fuck off.
I want so desperately to say that to him, but I know I won’t, and barring that kind of bluntness, it feels useless texting him back again.
