Sweet Filthy Boy

We sit at a tiny table outside and under the stars. Ansel slides his chair so close to mine his arm has nowhere to rest but around my shoulders.

“Do you want to meet some of my friends this week?” he asks.

I look at him in surprise. “What?”

“Christophe and Marie, two of my oldest friends, are having a dinner party to celebrate her new promotion. She works for one of the larger firms in my building, and I thought maybe you’d like to come. They’d love to meet my wife.”

“That sounds good.” I nod, smiling. “I’ve been hoping to meet some of your friends.”

“I realize I should have done this earlier but . . . I admit that I was being selfish. We have so little time together and I didn’t want to share that with anyone.”

“You’ve been working,” I say on an exhale as he basically repeats my conversation with Harlow back to me.

He reaches for my hand, kisses the back of my knuckles, my ring, before twisting his fingers with mine. “I want to show you off.”

Okay. Meeting friends. Being introduced as his wife. This is real life. This is what married couples do. “Okay,” I say lamely. “That sounds fun.”

He grins and leans forward, placing a kiss against my lips. “Thank you, Mrs. Guillaume.” And wow, the dimple, too. I am toast.

The waitress stops at our table and I sit back in my seat while Ansel orders our coffee. There’s a group of young girls—around eight or nine years old—dancing to a man playing the guitar just outside. Their laughter bounces off the cramped buildings, above the sound of occasional cars or the fountain splashing just across the street.

One of them is spinning and tips over, landing just below the small deck we’re sitting on.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping down to help her.

“Oui,” she says, brushing the dirt from the front of her checkered dress. Her friend crosses to us, and though I’m not sure what she says, the way she stretches her arms to the side, and speaks to her in a scolding tone, I think she’s telling her she did her turn wrong.

“Are you trying to turn?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond, merely watches me with a confused expression. “Pirouette?”

At this she lights up. “Oui,” she says excitedly. “Pirouette. Tourner.”

“Spin,” Ansel offers.

She straightens her arms to the side, points her toe, and spins, so quickly she almost falls down again.

“Whoa,” I say, both of us laughing as I catch her. “Maybe if you . . . um.” Straightening, I pat my stomach. “Tighten.”

I turn to Ansel, who translates, “Contracte tes abdominaux.” The little girl makes a face of concentration, one I can only imagine means she’s clenching her stomach muscles.

More of the girls have gathered to listen and so I take a second, moving them so they’ll have enough room. “Fourth position,” I say, holding up four fingers. I point my left foot out, my right foot next to and behind. “Arms up, one to the side, one out front. Good. Now plié? Bend?” They each bend at the knees and I nod, subtly guiding their posture. “Yes! Good!” I point to my eyes and then to a spot off in the distance, partially aware of Ansel translating behind me.

“You have to spot. Find one place and don’t look away. So when you turn”—I straighten, bend at the knees, and then push up off the ball of my foot before spinning, landing on plié—“you’re back where you started.” It’s such a familiar movement, one I haven’t felt my body do for so long that I almost miss the sound of cheering, the loudest of them coming from Ansel. The girls are practically giddy and taking turns, encouraging each other and asking me for help.

It’s getting late and eventually, the girls have to leave. Ansel takes my hand, smiling, and I glance over my shoulder as we walk away. I feel like I could have watched them all night.

“That was fun,” he says.

I look over at him, still smiling. “What part?”

“Seeing you dancing like that.”

“That was one turn, Ansel.”

“It might be the single sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. That is what you should be doing.”

I sigh. “Ansel—”

“Some people go to business school and run movie theaters or restaurants. Some own their own bakery, or dance studio.”

“Not you, too.” I’ve heard this before, from Lorelei, from Harlow’s entire family. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that.”

He makes a point of looking over his shoulder, back in the direction we just came. “I respectfully disagree.”

“Those things take money. I hate taking money from my father.”

“Then why do you take money from him if you hate it?” he asks.

I throw the question back at him. “You don’t take money from your father?”

“I do,” he admits. “But I decided long ago it’s the only thing he’s good for. And a few years ago, when I was your age, I didn’t want my mother to feel like she needed to support me.”

“I don’t have enough money to live in Boston without his help,” I tell him. “And I guess in a way . . . I feel like he owes me this, since in the end I’m doing what he wants.”

“But if you’re doing what you want—”

“It’s not what I want.”

He pulls us to a stop and holds up a hand, not even a little fazed by the weight of this conversation. “I know. And I’m not really thrilled at the idea that you will leave me soon. But putting that aside, if you went to school, did something you wanted to do with it, you would make the decision yours, not his.”