Page 116 of Old Acquaintances

“Point Ritchie.” I check to see if any of this conversation alters Tucker’s body language. “Maybe I’ll make a move when we get back. I mean, he already kissed me, and it was a good kiss. You might end up sleeping on a twin bed tonight.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I taunt, “Is that what you want? Me and Ritchie having sex in the bed you slept in the other night?”

“Stop,” he bites.

“There would be no pillow walls,” I continue. “Just hands and tongues -”

“Enough!” he caves.

I bite back a smile. “That bothers you?”

Tucker gives me a guilty, frustrated look.

“Good. I was starting to think you turned into a robot. And I’m not interested in Ritchie,” I answer pointedly. “It wouldn’t work with Ritchie. I’m toomefor someone like him.” I glanceout of the window. “Hey - what was it like in jail?”

He twitches. “Too. Fucking. Soon.”

“Fine.” I don’t really want to know, I just want to rattle him like he’s trying to rattle me. I relax. “How do you feel about turning thirty?”

“The same I feel about you wiggling your boobs at me. It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, I basically am thirty. It doesn’t feel different than yesterday or tomorrow will feel. It’s just a number.”

It must be easy for him, a man, to not feel pressured by age. No one is asking him when he’ll find someone, why isn’t he dating, or making passive-aggressive comments like, “Oh you have plenty of time,” as a response to your age reveal, even though you never expressed concern over havingtimeto do anything.

The implication being that I will run out of time to have children. Or to find a husband. That my body will be undesirable, unable to perform, and I’ll cease to have value as defined by society. Turning thirty is a woman’s burden. Men have their whole lives to turn thirty.

I say, “I have to start over.”

No one is ever concerned about you running out of time to achieve your dreams. It’s acceptable to let those things pass you by. But as I inched toward an age where I may no longer be at my peak dancing ability, I found myself seeking out those goals I put aside.

When she found out I was auditioning for a new company, Gracie said, “Why bother? You only have a few more years of dancing left. You’re going to have to move. Wouldn’t it be easier just to find someone, settle down and live out the rest of your days in Atlanta?”

Aloud, I muse, “I have to pack up all of my stuff. I have to live without seasons.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll have to make all new friends and find a whole new routine. I might hate my neighborhood and have to move. Like every year until I find the right place. And maybe even then I’ll hate living there.” I look out of the window. “Most people our age are laying down roots. They’re established. I’m thirty and I’m starting all over.”

Tucker asks, “But is it going to make you happy? Following through with your goals?”

“I think so.”

“Ella -are you happy? It’s a yes or it’s a no.”

“I’m glad everything is so black and white for you,” I retort. “It’s not for me. I’m happy to dance with my dream company, but I’m unhappy about a lot of other things. Confused. Frustrated.”

His eyebrows furrow. “As long as you’re following your dreams, then you’re going to be happy. In everything. Just keep going after what you want. You don’t need to compare yourself to anyone else’s life.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Some people just have different goals than you,” he says. “Or they give up on their dreams completely and choose the safest route to stability, whether or not they’re happy. They could have white picket fences and be fucking miserable.”

“What about you?” I ask him, “Are you happy?”

He lifts a shoulder. “As happy as I can be.”

“Did you finally figure out your dream?”

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