I miss the way things were, back when I was working in dance academies training actual professionals. I miss getting on stage myself. But even though I’ve tried to keep up with my own training over the years, I know by now, I’m probably woefully out of practice. I doubt I could compete anymore.
The thought hadn’t really crossed my mind before, and it hurts more than I’m expecting it to. I’m thirty-two years old, and my once-promising dance career is completely behind me.
I set my plate on the coffee table. There’s still some food left, but I find that I no longer have much of an appetite.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling, the noise of the movie fading out into a nonsensical blur. I don’t know what to think. I’m happy out here, I can’t complain about this life, and I owe the owners big time for giving me this chance, but even so, it’s definitely not where I thought I would be.
But life doesn’t go the way anyone plans. You can do everything right, be on the path to greatness, and be derailed by something totally out of your control.
Or someone.
Chapter Seven
Hazel
The next morning, Brendon’s still fast asleep when I wake up buzzing with energy. I immediately feel a stab of guilt, seeing the laptop sitting on the nightstand beside him. He’d gotten some important call last night and had to do some emergency stuff for work.
By the time I’d fallen asleep, he was still at it. He apologized about a million times, but I assured him that it was fine. Sometimes things came up, and we both knew they wouldn’t have called him while he was on vacation if it wasn’t something important.
I don’t have the heart to wake him, but I’m feeling hyper and cooped up, so I decide that maybe I’ll go down to the indoor pool for a little swim, burn off some of the restlessness. We’d spent several hours down on the beach yesterday and I’d done a little bit of splashing around, but I hadn’t really gotten in for a good swim.
So I tug on my swimsuit and write Brendon a note, sticking the adhesive part to his cell phone where I know he’s guaranteed to see it. I pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt for the walk down, and slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops.
I grab my cell phone and a towel and head out. The indoor pool is downstairs, in the same hall as the dance studio, so finding my way there is easy. As I’m heading down the hall, I hear music blaring from the studio.
Curious, I peek in the window to see the hip-hop dance class in full swing, being taught by a pretty girl whose long braids sway with her motions.
“You sure you didn’t want to take that one?” A familiar voice startles me, and I whirl around to see an amused-looking Chip watching me, holding a couple of plastic water bottles.
“You scared me,” I complained, holding my hand over my racing heart, “And no, I was just being nosy.”
“Sorry,” he laughs, “But hey, no judgement if you want to. I’ve done it. I teach it sometimes.”
“Are there any kinds of dance you don’t know?” I ask, laughing.
“I tried tap, and I was awful,” he answers without missing a beat, “I sound like an epileptic woodpecker.”
I crack up at the description. “That’s a…colorful way to put it,” I tell him.
He laughs. “I thought so, too, when that was how my tap teacher described me.”
“Wait, they actually said that to your face? How old were you?” I ask incredulously.
“I was twelve, but to be fair, this teacher knew me pretty well,” he chuckles, “He’d been teaching me since I was six, and when I told him I wanted to try tap, he let me try the class for free.”
“He sounds like he was pretty great.”
“Yeah, he was,” Chip smiles fondly.
“So, what are you up to this morning? Are you helping with the hip-hop class or something?” I ask, feeling a sudden stab of guilt and hoping I haven’t been keeping him from work.
“Nah, I just left my watch in there yesterday and when I went back to get it, Brianna asked me if I could bring her some waters,” he says, holding up the bottles in hand, “I’m free until my next class at 1. But hang on, let me go drop these off,” he opens the door and disappears into the studio.
After a moment, the door swings open again, and he returns. “How about you, what are you up to?” he asks, eyeing the towel over my shoulder, “Taking a dip?”
I nod. “Yeah, I still want to go in the actual ocean, though,” I explain with a sheepish grin. “I thought for sure it would be way too cold, but it was actually pretty nice. I’d kind of written off some of the snorkeling and stuff because I figured I’d be too much of a weenie.”
“Yeah, it stays pretty warm here, so it’s not a big deal. But if ever you’re somewhere else with that problem, there’s always wet suits, right?”