Page 28 of Your Echo
“Two,” Luc answers. “An hour and a half each. Their schedule is flexible, so you could fit it in with your other work.”
I’m just about ready to agree, but there’s one last question on my mind.
“Who are these sessions for?” I ask.
Luc chuckles. “We, uh, don’t actually know that. The message came from their representative, someone named Maxime Beaulieu. I think they must be some kind of lawyer or politician, someone who doesn’t have time to send their own emails.”
I’m already trying to add the new sum to the total of my usual cheque from the studio. I’m going to grab a calculator as soon as this conversation is done.
“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” I tell them. “When do I start?”
* * *
Three days later,I’m sitting on one of the folding chairs in the AMM’s library. I figured we could start in here to go over my new student’s experience with mediation and their expectations for the sessions before we move into the meditation room itself.
The association has never been able to afford an air conditioning unit for the house, so I sit directly in the breeze coming from a floor fan and tap my fingers against the side of my chair. My new meditate-ee is already ten minutes late. I hum the tune of the Jenn Grant song I set my contemporary choreography to. I just came from the studio, and in my head, I’m still correcting students and shouting encouragement as they flounder through the complicated roll combos.
Another five minutes tick by as the whirring of the fan drones through the room. I push up out of my chair and start walking through some steps on the hardwood floor before spinning my way through a fewà la secondeturns.
I almost fall over when I hear the applause coming from the doorway.
“I thought you might be a dancer.”
I whip around to face the person speaking. I’m met with the same chiselled face and lanky, black and denim-clad body I’ve been thinking about for days.
“Why’s that?” I demand, letting the first thought that flies into my head slip out.
I’m in a pair of jean shorts long enough to be professional and a loose knitted top. Instead of answering my question out loud, Ace just lets his gaze travel up and down my bare legs.
Right. In the days we’ve been apart, I forgot that he’s not just a beautiful mess. He’s also amaudit connardwho doesn’t know the meaning of the word inappropriate.
“Up here,” I snap, as his eyes linger on my thighs and I fight the sudden urge to clench them. “We don’t have any lectures or classes today, so...what exactly are you doing here?”
“I have a private session booked.”
The bottom of my stomach drops. There’s a rushing in my ears that’s more than just the noise of the fan. My face must betray my shock, because Ace smirks at me.
“I take it by your reaction that you’re my teacher,” he drawls, “and you didn’t know I was your student.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a finger.
“And before you ask, no, I’m not fucking with you. I didn’t know either.”
“I thought you were a lawyer,” I babble, “Luc said...”
I trail off when I notice his stare of confusion and try to pull myself together.
“Do you still want to go through with this?” I ask.
He pushes off from where he’s leaning on the doorframe and steps into the room.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Just a few minutes ago I was calm and focused, caught up in the movements of my body and the gleam of sunlight on the floorboards. Now I’m on high alert. My thoughts whirl around as fast as my spins from earlier, but without any of the same control. There’s just this cyclical feeling, like I’m a planet launched out of my orbit, revolving towards some inevitable crash. Surely he has to feel it too?
“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with this,” I tell him.
He grabs a folding chair from the stack against the wall, flipping the seat down with just a jerk of his arm before settling himself in it and leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. With him seated in front of me like this, it almost feels like we’re set up for some kind of performance.
