Page 12 of Every Time We Touch

Chapter 7

Jen

Even though I’m at work—or perhaps just because I’m trying to get excited about something I’m no longer naturally enthusiastic about—I surf to Clancy’s dance school’s website. Obviously, there are pictures of her—all of them highlighting her insane body—and a long list of all the titles she won, but the main focus is on the joy of dance. Endless pictures of happy people with ecstatic looks on their faces taking one of her classes. She sure knows how to sell it.

While I contemplate texting her for that tango lesson, I click on the Instagram icon at the bottom of her website. Instantly, I get sucked into the opposite of doomscrolling. I see reel after reel of her dancing, solo and with male as well as female partners. Videos of her fronting a class. Footage of her correcting a student’s posture or how their feet are pointed.

I can’t believe I had the nerve—or the blind judgment—to call her a gold digger because it’s obvious my dad is the one punching above his weight here. Good for him that he’s smitten—he probably didn’t stand a chance.

By the time I manage to drag myself away from Clancy’s intoxicating Insta-feed, I’m under her spell just the same. And I can’t text her for that lesson quickly enough. It’s been a while since I’ve felt as happy as her students in those photos look.

I’m forty-two, single, and in a slump at work. While I can accept my age for what it is—something I can’t change anything about—I’d like to do something about at least one of those two other facts about me. Taking a dance lesson with a top-notch teacher like Clancy Estevez might give me the confidence to ask someone on a date. Since browsing through her app, Marcy has sent me screenshots of various people she deems viable candidates, but I’m not feeling the apps just yet. In fact, I’m sick of apps altogether—most of all the one I made myself. I’d rather go to a bar and make a real connection… Kind of like I did with Clancy a few days ago.

I’ve barely sent my message, when a reply comes in.

So glad you’re not chickening out. ;-) Can you do Sunday? My schedule’s pretty full otherwise. C.

Apart from brunch at my mom’s, my weekend’s wide open—as long as I don’t fill it up with work, as usual.

We text back and forth a bit until we agree to meet at ten a.m. I hope I won’t be too exhausted to eat my mom’s pancakes.

I check myself in the mirror, am happy enough with what I see, then make for the door. But something stops me from leaving. I pace to the mirror again. I tighten my ponytail. Do I look like someone who’s about to take her first tango lesson? I have no idea. Obviously, I googled what to wear to a dance class, and while the options varied from super glossy to simple down-to-earth, the common denominator was to dress for comfort—and sweating. I shake my head at my reflection, because it’s borderline ridiculous how nervous I am about this. It’s just a dance class. Without casting myself a further glance, I hurry out the door.

This is LA and even on a Sunday morning, traffic can be murder. Clancy’s studio is on the other side of the Hollywood Hills, but as someone born and bred in this city, I’ve accepted that sitting in my car is part of living here. I’ve learned to use it as a time to let my mind wander and have ideas come to me. I had the first idea for my app on the 405, as well as for many iterations of it. The past year or so, as soon as I step into my car, my mind drifts to selling my business. But daydreaming in my car is not the same as actually doing it—especially for a control freak like me.

My phone rings. It’s Heather—it usually is. Also, as always, my twin skips the hello part of the conversation.

“Do you need a lift to brunch?” Heather asks.

“I’m good.”

“We want you to come with us, Aunt Jen,” my eight-year-old nephew Wyatt’s voice booms into the car.

“I’m sorry, Wy. I⁠—”

“I’m here, too,” Wyatt’s little brother, Lucas, screams over the phone.

“Oh, Lulu. Aunt Jen’s very busy this morning, but I’ll see you at Grandma’s house. Okay?”

“For a pancake eating competition,” Wyatt says. It’s never a question with him.

My nephews have the typical short attention span of kids their age and they’re soon bickering with each other instead of talking to me. Heather takes me off speakerphone.

“Don’t tell me you’re working,” she says.

“I’m not.” I want to tell her where I’m headed, but something stops me. It’s very unlike me, but I haven’t even told Heather about seeing Clancy this week. “I’m on my way to Marcy,” I lie. Why can’t I just tell her the truth? Lying to my sister makes my skin crawl.

“For a workout? Or a rekindling of the affair?” Heather thinks this is hilarious, which means she hasn’t spotted my lie. Why would she?

“A workout,” I say. At least it will explain my possible exhaustion at brunch.

“Okay. Have fun and see you later.” As is her way—and possibly the way of most mothers of young kids—Heather hangs up abruptly.

The drive is still long enough for me to ponder why I couldn’t just tell Heather about what I’m doing—and with whom. We even talked about this very thing at last week’s brunch. But some things can’t be rationally explained, and I just know, in my gut, that I need to keep this to myself for now.

When I park in the studio’s small lot with plenty of time to spare, a bunch of teenagers push through the doors. I watch the goings-on from my rearview for a few minutes. When there are only a few stragglers left, I get out of the car.

Inside, Clancy’s talking to a young girl. Maybe it’s just my impression, but when she spots me, her face seems to light all the way up and, in return, something inside me brightens as well.