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“He’s just a good person.”
She introduces me to her friend and then kisses me goodbye on both cheeks because that’s what the Pilars, Simones and Ghislaines of this world do. Even if they are from Cleveland, like Simone.
“I’ll see you Thursday.”
“We’re hitting that new beer garden in Troy Hill.” I turn back and nod, agreeable but noncommittal. Her smile tells me she knows I’m not coming but she’ll give me a hard time about it anyway. She calls after me, “Just two more weeks until the recital,” and just the reminder of it has me quaking in fear.
It’s actually less than two weeks away. It’s a week from this Thursday. And I’m doing a contemporary duet with Misha, so I’m kind of freaking out. At the holiday recital I was hidden in the background, no pressure at all. And while Misha’s doing all of the heavy lifting in this piece he choreographed himself—I’m literally following his lead—I’ll still be dancing center stage and I don’t think I’m ready for prime time.
Grace is coming. She balled me out over text message last week when she found out about the recital on her own. I was going to tell her, swear to God, but inviting people or announcing it in any way makes it real and scares me half to death. Sienna knows about it but she’s not coming up. I patently forbid her to come. She’s nursing, the baby can’t sit through a show like that, and she has to get ready for their belated honeymoon getaway weekend.
That reminds me that I have to call my sister and tell her about the change in plans and make sure she’s all right with it. It also reminds me that I have a crap ton of work to get done in the next week. There’s only one month left in the semester so finals will be coming up before I know it. I can’t lose focus because I cannot lose my scholarship. Dip below a three-five and I’ll be out on my behind.
It’s cumulative, I tell myself. And I kicked ass last semester so I don’t have much to worry about. Tossing my bag onto my bed, I continue the positive self-talk, smiling to myself remembering the high school guidance counselor who taught me this technique. State what you’re afraid of and then take a realistic inventory of whether or not the fear is warranted.
Feeling more relaxed and composed a few minutes later, I power up my laptop and get to work on a paper that’s not due for two weeks. Tackle the obstacles in your path one by one.
Ah, Mr. Vargas.
If he only knew the number of times I’ve repeated his pearls of wisdom like a mantra to get me through this past year. Without knowing it he helped me untangle the mess my parents left behind, guided me through my breakup with Tyler, and strengthened my resolve whenever my lonely heart wavered.
And then there’s Grace. She helped me stay the course when I questioned whether or not I belonged here, and she pushed me to step out of my comfort zone and try something new and scary.
Yeah, I’m still scared about being up on that stage, but thinking more rationally now, I know I’ll get through it.
I’ve been fortunate to have people in my life who’ve encouraged me and gotten me through hard times, but Sienna trumps them all. She will always be my biggest cheerleader. Her voice is always in my head, coming in clearer and louder than the rest, and she’s telling me I can do this, piece of cake.
I laugh when I can hear her imitating that character inThe Help. It’s her favorite book.Yes, I tell myself,I’m smart, I’m important.But Sienna never says it as a joke. She wants me to believe it about myself. She is the kindest person I know, and in some ways, the wisest. Sienna inherited all of my mother’s best qualities and, I’ll admit begrudgingly, my father’s.
I think back to what Leo said before about my family.They’re great. I wipe at the tears forming, try to stop the tide, but then I lie back on my bed and let it wash over me.
They were flawed but my parentsweregreat. And the family I have left, Sienna, Garth and James? Great doesn’t even do them justice.
So I’ll add one more thing to those lines Sienna recites so often:I am blessed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Leo
I hate traveling.
I used to love it. Used to love seeing new cities, eating foods that were exotic and unfamiliar. I used to love adventure.
Sitting in my roomy first-class seat that still manages to feel cramped and uncomfortable, my mind goes back to a summer spent backpacking through Europe. Beer and wine soaked nights in too many places to name.
I smile thinking back to the two weeks I spent in Santorini. Eleni…I thought I was in love with her without even knowing what the word meant.
Her English wasn’t so hot and I spoke virtually no Greek, so our love affair wasn’t exactly based on some deep mutual admiration or anything resembling it.
For two weeks I ate at the beachside café where she worked, waiting for her shift to end so that we could spend every night together. I entertained fantasies of bringing her home with me, as if a place like Pittsburgh was someplace to lure a beautiful twenty-year-old who already resided in paradise.
My seat mate looks my way when I laugh so I school my expression, but the memory of that morning, while it was the opposite of funny at the time, makes me smile now.
Giorgos. I still remember his name.
Her boyfriend walked in on us when he came back a day early from visiting with family in Athens. Everything is a blur, a frenzied, chaotic mess. Same as it was that morning. White sheets flying and twisting, heated words I didn’t understand, a fully-clothed guy fighting me to the death as I hit back hard, bare-assed and confused.
I moved on to the next place with my buddies. I think it was Seville. I licked my wounds for a few days and then got back in the game. I was a ladies man that summer—never was before and haven’t been since. I had a good run, I guess, but I’m not cut out for that kind of drama.
