Page 38 of Two-Step
“I’m breathing,” I argue.
“You’re not. Arms down.” I drop my arms and realize only after watching Beau—and Ray and Sally’s reflections—that they lower theirs slowly, not like their arms are bundles of logs.
“Move with your breath,” Beau coaches, this time sweeping his arms up in a graceful ascent as he breathes in. I do my level best to imitate him, rocking forward on my toes as I move.
“Anchor in the heels.” The words are corrective, but they don’t come out harsh. I press into my heels as I follow Beau’s lead and breathe out.
“Again.” Beau steps in front of me, blocking the view of my friends’ reflections and filling my vision. He’s so close, I can smell him. And he smells like spring. Like clover. And rain. Natural. Clean. “Weight in the heels.”
With my feet anchored, I’m more stable as my hands go up this time, and I’m ready for him to notice that I—
That you what? That you can breathe without falling down?Moira’s voice is as clear as if she’d droned in my ear. I wobble and resist the urge to swear.
In front of me, Beau shakes his head again. “You’re still not breathing deep enough.”
Lifting my arms again, I scowl. “Yes, I am.”
“Breathe here.” His hand presses into my belly, and the touch is such a shock, I really do almost fall.
“W-What?” I stagger back, but he braces a hand behind me, low on my back, and now my middle is sandwiched between his two hands.
“Here. Breathe into my hand,” he says, pressing more firmly into my belly.
And it’s like an anchor. Not just in my heels, but everywhere. In my bones. In my cells.
“Then I look at you
And the world’s alright with me”
Bill Withers’ deep voice seems to pair with the weight of this touch. This heavy, warm pressure on a part of my body no one touches unless I’m being measured for alterations or cinched into costumes.
Or poked when I’m bloated, but that’s just Moira.
No one touches me like this. With a wide, firm, steadying hand.
“Just one look at you
And I know it’s gonna be
A lovely day”
“Move me,” he says, his voice low.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as dirt.
Two dark brows draw together over the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen up close.
“Move my hand.”
I don’t want to. It’s a troubling thought, but I don’t want to move his hand. Something about his touch right there is… well… comforting.
But I obey. Without taking my eyes off his, I reach down and grab his wrist. I feel heat and tendons and sinew before I watch his eyes narrow in confused mirth.
“With your breath, Iris. Move my hand with your breath.”
Next to us, Ramon snickers just as flames of mortification roar beneath my cheeks. I release Beau’s wrist like it’s radioactive.
I’m such an idiot.
