Page 146 of Two-Step
“Tell me,” he urges, righting us again.
I reach for the thread of hope that has been teasing me for days. “I want to be with you.” I speak lowly so only he can hear.
He gives me a sad smile. “You are with me.”
My stomach plunges. Is this his way of telling me to enjoy the moment? Just enjoy what we have while we have it—even if it’s doomed? My blood rises with the urgency to make plans and to nail down something solid, some kind of future.
The thought of losing him makes me bold. “I want tokeepbeing with you.”
A pained look crosses his face. “I want that too.”
His expression ignites my panic. “Is it that impossible? You’re looking at me like it’s impossible.”
Beau frowns and shakes his head. “I’m not saying it’s impossible. If you’re offering me a long-distance relationship, I’ll take it and run with it.” Breath leaves him in a rush. “I’ll take anything I can get, Iris. I meant what I said. Youarewith me. Even when you’re not. I don’t think that’s going to change when you’re two thousand miles away.”
My chest is so tight it takes real effort to breathe. “That’s how it is for me too. But the thought of being two thousand miles away from you physically hurts.”
It’s as though my words pummel him. His eyes pinch, and his shoulders bow. He groans low, but I hear it. It sounds like pain.
And that physically hurts too.
“I have to be back in L.A. for an audition on August 3rd,” I say, going for broke. “Would you come and spend the rest of your summer break with me?”
Emotions war in his eyes. Surprise. Joy. Crushing disappointment. “I have teacher in-service meetings starting August 4th.”
I only just stop myself from saying that there are schools in L.A. too. I mean, because that would be crazy, right? Beau wouldn’t uproot his whole life for me, and even if he would, it could be disastrous. We haven’t known each other all that long.
Except it feels like I need to know him for the rest of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
BEAU
I’min love with Iris Adams.
I look at myself in the trailer’s mirror and know that’s the only explanation. No other way would I consent to letting someone film me dancing in this getup. A half-dozen other guys are in here changing too, but none of their costumes are this flashy.
If I thought for even a second that being in this movie would give me any street cred with my students, I was dead wrong. This black, Western-retro dress shirt alone is going to ruin my hard-nose reputation.
And I don’t care.
Okay, maybe I care a little. I swear, I look like I’ve just walked out of Cavender’s. If only the shirt didn’t have the red embroidered flowers down the chest, on the collar, and across my shoulders. I could handle the pearl snaps and white piping, but jeez, these flowers.
I step out of the trailer, and the wardrobe assistant who greeted me ten minutes ago is standing there—holding a black, felt cowboy hat in her hands.
“You look great!”
I can’t take my eyes off that hat. I’ve never worn a cowboy hat in my life. “You do know that Cajuns don’t dress like this, right?”
She flits up to me, moving at hummingbird speed and settles the hat on my head. “All that matters is that you look great.” She steps back, assessing the fit of the hat, and tilts the brim up just slightly. It smells and feels expensive. “And you look great! Let’s go. We have to get you to the Performance Center.”
I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised to learn that Iris’s studio has rented out Vermilionville to film this scene. The tourist attraction and cultural center is modeled after an eighteenth century Cajun village, and the Performance Center hosts local musicians and Cajun dancing on the regular. The building—outfitted with rough wood floors and a vaulted ceiling with exposed cypress beams—looks like a giant barn where early Cajuns might have held afais do dowhere they’d play music, dance, and sing well into the night while children slept in the hay.The only things they wouldn’t have had back in the day are the large wooden stage and the air conditioning.
But when I follow my guide inside, the space has been transformed. Giant spotlights hang from metal scaffolding along the back wall, techs holding boom mics edge the perimeter, and dining tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths frame the dance floor.
I haven’t even seen Iris yet. She was in makeup when I arrived. And, yes, I’m wearing makeup too. But unlike the cowboy hat, I can’t say I’ve never worn it. Almost every ballet performance I was in growing up required it.
Yeah, my middle school years sucked.
