Page 67 of Triple Play

“You know, a story about you and her. Something that makes you happy.” His cheeks flush at that, as if his happiness derives, in part, from mine. A bright warm spot develops right beneath my sternum.

“Is this a wake?” I ask.

“Um.” As if he’s embarrassed to be caught. “No?”

I laugh, then wrack my brain for a good Lilac story. Usually, I’d settle for something like an inopportune flat tire adventure or the time I drove her out to the Cape to see a sunrise. The kind of normal story most people have about their first cars.

Maybe it’s the margaritas. Or maybe it’s spending a whole day doing nothing in a town I’ll probably never visit again, at a table small enough that Blake’s thigh presses against mine and Felix’s and my feet occasionally brush under the table. Maybe it’s just the effect of carrying something for so long. Whatever it is, the words slide out of me.

“My parents gave me Lilac when I was sixteen. She was practically new for a car you give your kid, you know? It felt like she and I grew up together.” I take a gulp of air. Focus on your breathing. If you can control your breath, you can control your body. What my old ballet teacher used to say. Today feels out of control already. What’s one more thing?

“When I was eighteen,” I continue, “I told my parents I didn’t want to go to college. They wanted me to become a lawyer. The safe path—to have security, I guess, the way they didn’t growing up.

“But I didn’t want that. You know that feeling when you’re doing something to please other people—like you’re in someone else’s clothes? That’s what it felt like. And I knew if I didn’t try to do ballet then, I’d regret it for my whole life. So we had a big fight. My family is bad at communicating feelings, but we’re great at screaming them.

“I guess I could’ve stuck around. I didn’t—I packed two bags and loaded them into Lilac and told myself I’d only come back when I was a dancer at some high-profile ballet company.”

I draw my finger through the condensation on my glass and watch the cascade of drips, beads of water merging and splitting until they roll onto my napkin—how such seemingly small things can have such big effects. “I send them postcards every once in a while so they know I’m okay. But I haven’t been home.”

Next to me, Blake hasn’t said anything. I brace for his pity. And get the simple tilt of his nod.

Across the table, Felix is giving me a look, a go on that I should spill out the rest of the story. I could. The words are right there. I could tell him, and it might not be so bad. I could tell him, and things might even be okay.

Saying it all at once feels like too much. Blake’s clearly holding something back about his brother. Still, if he could trust me with that little bit, I should be able to trust him.

“Anyway,” I continue, “everyone’s a dumbass when they’re eighteen. My parents called a bunch and asked me to come home. I didn’t answer, even when I ran out of money really fast. Things got bad. Then things got really bad—so bad I slept in Lilac for a couple weeks. She was with me through all of that. That door you want to fix? That was my alarm if anyone tried to break in. That’s what I remember. How I knew things were gonna be okay because she was there to keep me safe.”

My breath catches. I should’ve just quit talking. It’s too much. I’m not a charity case or a sob story—or if I am, it’s because I cried most of my tears years ago and haven’t been able to cry much since.

For a minute—for a minute that could be only sixty seconds or possibly the longest few breaths of my life—no one says anything.

“You’re so brave,” Blake says finally.

I shake my head. “I was scared the whole time.”

“But you knew how you wanted to live your life and did it anyway? Sounds pretty fucking brave to me.”

It’s too much. Tears prick the edge of my eyes. My chin wobbles. I need to decant some of this feeling so I don’t burst right there. “Hey”—I lean across the table and stage whisper to Felix—“Blake swore.”

Felix quirks an eyebrow. “Seems like Boston is rubbing off on him.” And he says Boston but it sounds a lot like Shira.

“More like all of New England.” I give Felix a visual once-over.

He laughs and raises his glass to mine so we can tap them in accomplishment. And I’m about to drink when Felix mouths tell him.

Fuck. I should. I don’t want to. I’m scared. I’m going to do it anyway. “There’s something else,” I say to Blake, then stop.

Neither of them speaks. Above us, the fans keep swirling. Another set of customers is being seated on the far side of the room. Snatches of their conversation drift our way. If the salsa is spicy or spicy. If route 95 will have traffic or traffic.

I wonder if this will go terribly or terribly.

So I roll my shoulders, straighten my spine, snap myself into as close to ballet posture as I can get in a padded pleather booth. Four words. I can manage four words over the subtle pounding of my heart. “I used to dance.”

Blake blinks at me in confusion. “I…know?” As if I’m talking about ballet.

So I add four more words. “For money—I stripped.”

That registers. He blinks, longer, like a recalibration. I can fill in the blanks: That I’m a scammer. Yeah, I survived by liberating men like you from their paychecks. That I’m giving away the proverbial milk for free. No, I charged. That I’m a slut. I didn’t screw around with customers. Except one. Except the one sitting right here.

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