Page 3 of Flirty Dancing

Archer stretched the corners of his mouth out to nowhere, and then he lurched to his feet without looking at Lachlan.Twenty-seven is too old.“I just have to…” He dashed through the bar and into a bathroom stall before the tears spilled over.

Twenty-seven is too old.He heard it in his own voice now, instead of his mom’s.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Is this what his stupid dream had come to? Crying in a bathroom with a picture of Nathan Lane over the toilet, all because a hot guy told him he should be a stripper? “Goddamn it, Archer,” he muttered to himself, furiously wiping the tears away. His headthunkedback against the closed stall door under Mr. Lane’s steady gaze, unsure if he was more mad at himself for bolting, crying, or being a total failure in general. He decided it was a three-way tie, then stayed there for a good twenty minutes, figuring Lachlan wouldn’t wait around for more than five, but just to be sure.

And he was right. When he made it back to the table, Lachlan was already chatting up a new guy across the bar, younger and hotter. Archer diverted his gaze to Lynn and Sasha’s smiles as they bounced around and forced himself to stay for one more beer, three more songs, then he stood.

“I gotta go,” he yelled at Lynn over the music.

“Nooo, staaaay!” Lynn was drunk now and leaned on him heavily. “Who was that hottie you were talking to?”

“Just another reminder of my horrific life choices.”

“Archer…” Lynn threw her arms around him and squeezed. “I love you. I’m so glad you answered my roommate ad.”

“Me too.” She was, after all, the only good thing he had going in New York. “But I gotta get out of here.”

“Okay. Don’t wait up.”

He kissed her forehead and waved at Sasha. “I won’t.”

“Liar.”

Each audition had gotten harder over the months, as the desperation grew. The pressure, then the panic, layer upon layer, hunching his shoulders, tightening his muscles, wringing the air from his lungs. The audition the day after Sasha’s birthday was a no, as was the one the day after that. His mom sent him a link to available accounting jobs in Dayton.

The night before the callback, a foreboding sense of It All Comes Down To This hung over him, and he barely slept. If he failed again, on a gig this lowbrow… surely that would be the final sign that this whole attempt was ridiculous. He’d have to go back to Ohio, tail between his legs, back to the place that had never really wanted him to begin with. Dancing was the only thing that had given him comfort growing up, that had made him feel like he had gifts to offer the world. The only time he really felt like himself. He definitely did not feel like himself drowning in tax forms and spreadsheets. He could not go back.

It was cliché, but it was true. The big city. The freedom to be unapologetically yourself. In some ways he had never been happier, dedicating himself to dancing. But how long could he keep pretending he belonged here? He needed a yes.

The callback was nothing to write home about, that was for sure. He certainly hadn’t. He was almost embarrassed to admit he even went to the audition in the first place, but, well, something about desperate times… The show was not Off Broadway, or even Off Off Off Off Broadway. It wasn’t even a real fucking show. It was a summer cabaretat an LGBTQ+ resort in the Catskills called Shady Queens. But it was a gig, and at this point he had no business turning one down, no matter where it was. In fact, it was his only hope.

He might have slept a little, finally, slipping in and out of restless dreams, then dragged himself out of bed at eleven, equal parts dread and exhaustion. Lynn had long since left for work, but she propped a note next to his granola.YOU’RE GONNA KILL IT, ARCH.He stared at it while he crunched, holding his bowl at the counter.

The audition was in an old warehouse two trains away at the ass end of Brooklyn, the building so run-down he almost didn’t go in for the first round. The only thing that actually got him in the door was the fact that the director of the show was Stewart Harpham-Lale, a figure well-known in the musical theater crowd who had never quite found mainstream success. Apparently, retirement bored him, and he was now filling his hours at Shady Queens. Worst case, Archer figured he could learn a thing or two from Stewart.

He approached a woman sitting at a folding table inside the rusty doors. “Hi, I’m Archer Read, here for the callback?” His voice was small in the vast space.

She barely glanced at him as she checked a clipboard and gave him a sticker with a number ten. “You can go ahead and warm up,” she said, nodding at the floor.

He slipped his sweats off and did some stretches at a shaky barre. There were about twenty other people in the room who clearly couldn’t land anything better either. And yet… each one of them was incredible. That made him feel worse. Talented andstillnot happening.

They started with Latin ballroom. He was paired up with a tiny slip of a blond girl for a samba, which workedin his favor because he was able to whirl her around with ease. Next, they danced hip-hop to Missy Elliott, which he felt good about, pushing through the tiredness and hitting it as hard as he could. Last was lyrical, his favorite, thanks to his ballet training.

As he stood in that moment of stillness before the final run, between the last breath and the first note, the thought came to him.This could be it.Inhale.This could be my last one.Exhale. The tightening in his chest loosened.

He danced. The beat of the music thrummed in his blood, the stretch of each finger and toe reached to the ends of the earth, every breath was fuel in the fire. He flew around the floor like gravity was merely a suggestion, with a lightness that he hadn’t felt in a long time. When he stopped and stood in the silence at the end, his eyes were wet.

He stood, heaving in formation with the other dancers, while the panel sat staring, impassive.

“If you could all give us a few minutes,” the one who seemed to be in charge said, before they turned their chairs and huddled for about ninety seconds. They turned back again. A silence grew, stretched, grabbed Archer’s chest and squeezed. “Numbers three, four, ten, and fourteen, you can stay. The others, thank you.”

Archer stared at his number ten. He blinked, confused. Surely not. He watched as the rest turned and left, leaving him, two other men, and the tiny blond slip on the floor.

“Congratulations,” the boss said, now allowing a smile. “We would love to offer you a spot at the Shady Queens cabaret this summer.”

I did it.

He sucked in a shaking breath.I fucking did it.He didn’t care how small it was, or that it was a two-hour bus ride away. He did it.

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