Page 13 of Nerdy Dirty Valentine

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He gave a firm nod of his head. He braced his shoulders as if preparing for battle. “I can learn. It’s like I tell my most struggling student who’s about to give up. Keep trying. It might never be your best subject, but you can improve with the right attitude.”

I saluted him with my coffee. “I’ll drink to that.”

I took him on a tour of my pathetic apartment. I kept it clean, aside from the giant pile of laundry overflowing with sweats and gym socks, and the bits of mail scattered around. But there was not much to it. James, though, assessed every corner. He took notes on his phone and asked me questions about paintings ortextures, all of which I shrugged to and said, “Whatever you think.”

“You need opinions of your own,” James scolded as we entered the kitchen. “What would make you happy to have on the walls? A painting of flowers? A black-and-white photo? What emotion do you want to have in the place when people come to visit?” He wagged a finger. “And don’t you dare say ‘whatever.’ I forbid you from using that word for the rest of the day.”

“Yes, Professor.”

He blushed a little. “I’m serious. Look at this nice kitchen. Picture what would make you happy about it,” James said eagerly. “When you come home after a long shift and want to eat, close your eyes and imagine the kitchen of your dreams. Are the cabinets colored or a crisp white? What about the stove? How do you see it in your mind?”

I blinked, seeing only one thing: my father. Cooking and laughing. Having me sit by his side as he worked on a fragrant sauce, letting me lick the big wooden spoon.

“Nothing,” I grunted. “My mind’s blank. Isn’t that why I asked you here? You fucking decide.”

I stomped out of the kitchen.

James followed me. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

I couldn’t respond to that. How did you explain grief that never fades? Or the person who loved you best in the world made you doubt everything in it?

“No, forget it. Why don’t we do some dancing?”

“Right now?”

“Sure, why the fuck not? I’d like to move a little.”

“All right. Pick a song.”

I put on my Spanish pop playlist. It always lifted my mood. I began to dance as a Jennifer Lopez tune started.

“Wow, you’re a natural.” James watched me with admiration.

And okay, it made me dance a little better than normal, with extra sway.

“Join me.” I held out a hand but made sure to keep a good distance between our bodies.

“Over the years, I’ve taught a lot of students many things. Where to put a thesis statement. How to count the iambic pentameter in a line of poetry.”

“Concentrate,” I ordered him.

“How to figure out an author’s choices.”

“Step together, step apart. Switch legs. Like this.” I did a little mambo step, which James mimicked the best he could.

“Fuck me. This is harder than poetry.”

“Just let your body go.”

“I’m trying. Words are much easier. They work for me; they’re my love language. But guys these days don’t want poetry.”

“You can do it. Count the steps.”

“I’m so clumsy.”

“You got this.” I touched the side of his face, feeling the soft little beard. “Look only at me. Just dance and stop worrying about it all.”

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