Page 72 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

Nobody asks why I stay in the doorway.

The ballet is based on a Netflix show that these girls are wild about; it was decided by the group that this would be the theme and we did the choreography together. It’s exuberant and fun like a ballet should be—far more fun than the Sevigny ballet.

Is this where my heart is?

They’re leaping when Kelsey comes back to stand with me.

“So what’s his deal, really?” Kelsey asks. “Is he using you to make sure that every woman he has a tryst with in the future understands she will always be the other woman? Is it a simple case of being a commitment phobe?”

I yell out another few commands, trying to ignore the weird way this sits with me. Benny with another woman. Having sex with women that he doesn’t even like. Having sex with any other women at all. Even as Sexorator 2000.

“I don’t know about him being commitment-phobic. I think he only gives a slice of himself,” I say. “He gives you a slice of himself at a time but he’ll never let you into the whole pie.”

“You would hate that,” she says. “You of all people would hate that! You always want to know everything.”

“Are you calling me nosy?” I tease. “I mean, please!” I sweep a hand at the jumbled-up wall o’ cardboard mountain looming on the far side of the otherwise spartan workout space.

“Good point.” The song is over. “I got it.” She grabs the masking tape and sets up a few little markers for the next part of the number while I pull up the next song on the phone.

The girls are excited and keyed up and distracted with the new space—they don’t want to buckle down, but we threaten more bear walks and that gets them concentrating.

Mac comes up and stands next to me at one point, reporting on the mood of the parents in the den. Apparently they’re enjoying the new class lounge. He asks how the space is working, and I tell him that there’s a wild group leaping run we can’t do, but other than that, this amount of space is more than workable. I cannot thank him enough.

He insists that he’s just doing his job but I can see that he’s pleased. He heads back to monitor the parents’ drinks and things.

Soon after, my skin prickles with awareness, and I turn and there’s Benny, coming down the hall wearing a business suit and an annoyed look, but it’s not his super annoyed look; it’s more like his bemusedly annoyed look. They say that the Inuit have dozens of words for different types of snow. I could give you just as many words for Benny’s annoyed looks.

“Welcome to Forty-Second Street Twirlers,” I say.

“Dance classes in the penthouse,” he grumbles. I follow his gaze to the small mass of girls, all of these beautiful, high-spirited girls bursting with life and fun like a bright tornado.

“I really appreciate your allowing us to hold the class here,” I say. “Thank you.”

“It’s your place, too, right now,” he says.

Kelsey comes over. “You’re really gonna make her teach from the doorway?”

“Better than the ceiling,” I say.

“What? No, you can go in.” He’s shaking his head. “Go on. Go on in,” he says.

I don’t need to hear it twice. I go in there, clapping my hands, rounding the gang up for another run-through from the top.

They’re doing a great part of the routine, running and jumping. I want him to see them, to see how beautiful and amazing those little girls are. And so talented. Maybe it’s stupid, but I want him to see.

Seventeen

Benny

The kids areninety-nine percent pure mayhem, and Francine, directing it from the center, is right in her element, surrounded by crazy preteen energy, laughing and dancing and throwing out compliments. She seems taller in a strange way. Happier, maybe. Full of generosity. Creative generosity. Generosity of spirit.

She demonstrates a move and my breath catches in my throat. It’s been so long since I saw her dance—all of that grace and heart and vulnerability. And god, the hopeful longing. I never knew anybody so full of longing, so full of dreams.

At one point she twirls around, demonstrating something for them, and I’m back on the couch in the den, hands eating up her skin, tasting her, reveling in her. I loved the way we seemed to fit, and how every second was hotter than the last. It was a struggle to keep from unspooling with lust, to keep from devolving into the panting dog I once was. I could barely maintain control, to resist my impulses to worship every inch of her.

I shove my hands in my pockets as if that will somehow force away the images of her.

Yeah. Good luck with that.

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