Sweet Filthy Boy

“For us it will,” Lola says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Harlow says, and stands to look at each of us. “Enough of this sentimental business. We’re going to get something to eat and then we’re going shopping.”

“You guys go. I’m headed to the studio in a little bit to talk to Tina. I need to shower.”

Lola and Harlow exchange a look. “Fine, but after you’re done we’re going out out. Drinks on me,” Lola says. “A little welcome home for our Sugarcube.”

My phone vibrates along the table and Harlow reaches for it, pushing me away with her long, glamazon arms. “Oh, and Mia?”

“Yeah?” I say, trying to get around her.

“Pick up the damn phone when he calls or call him yourself. You have ten voice messages and let’s not even talk about your texts. It doesn’t have to be today, doesn’t even have to be tomorrow, but stop being a wimp. You can go to school and work and pretend you’re not married, but you can’t fool us into thinking you’re not completely in love with this guy.”

THE DRIVE TO the studio that afternoon is definitely weird. I expected to feel nervous and nostalgic, but realize almost as soon as I’m on the road that although I’ve made this drive hundreds and hundreds of times, Mom accompanied me on every single trip. I’ve never actually been behind the wheel for this particular journey.

It unwinds something in me, to take control of a course I’d moved along so passively for so long. The unassuming strip mall appears just past the busy intersection at Linda Vista and Morena, and after I park, it takes a few minutes for me to process how different it looks. There’s a glossy new frozen yogurt place, a Subway. The big space that used to be a Chinese restaurant is now a karate studio. But tucked in the direct center of the row, and updated with a new sign, new smooth brick exterior, is Tina’s studio. I struggle to press down the tight swell in my throat, the nervous lurching of my stomach. I’m so happy to see this place—no matter how different it looks—and also a little heartbroken that it won’t ever be what it used to be for me.

I’m light-headed with emotions and relief and sadness and just so much of everything, but I don’t want Mom or Harlow or Lola right now. I want Ansel.

I fumble for my phone inside my bag. The hot air outside seems to press against me like a wall but I ignore it, hands shaking as I type my passcode and find Ansel’s picture in my favorites list.

With breaths so heavy I’m actually worried I might have some sort of asthma attack, I type the words I know he’s been hoping for, the words I should have typed the day I left—I like you—and press send. I’m sorry I left the way I did, I add in a rush. I want us to be together. I know it’s late there but can I call? I’m calling.

God, my heart is pounding so hard I can hear the whoosh of blood in my ears. My hands are shaking and I have to take a moment, lean back against my car to get myself together. When I’m finally ready, I open my contacts again and press his name. It takes a second to connect, before the sound of ringing moves through the line.

It rings, and rings, and finally goes to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message. I know it’s the middle of the night there, but if his phone is on—which it clearly is—and he wanted to talk to me he would answer. I push down the thread of unease and close my eyes, trying to find comfort in how good it feels to even admit to myself and him that I’m not ready for this to be over.

Pulling open the door to the studio, I see Tina standing just inside, and I know from her expression—jaw tight, tears pooled on her lower lids—that she’s been watching me since I got out of my car.

She looks older, as expected, but also just as poised and delicate as ever, with her graying hair pulled back tight in a bun, her face bare of any makeup except her trademark cherry-red lip balm. Her uniform is the same: tight black tank top, black yoga pants, ballet slippers. A million memories are wrapped up in this woman. Tina pulls me into a hug and trembles against me.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Getting there.”

Pulling back, she looks me over, blue eyes wide. “So

tell me.”

I haven’t seen Tina in four years, so I can only assume she means tell me everything. Initially, after I was discharged from the hospital, she came to the house to visit at least once a week. But I began making excuses why I needed to be out of the house, or upstairs with my door closed. Eventually she stopped coming by.

Still, I know I don’t need to apologize for the distance. Instead, I give her the highly abbreviated version of the past four years, ending with Vegas, and Ansel, and my new plan. The story gets easier every time, I swear.

I want this job so bad. I need her to know that I’m okay—I’m really okay—and so I make sure to sound strong, and calm. I’m proud that my voice doesn’t waver once.

She smiles when I’m done and admits, “Having you join me here is a dream.”

“Same.”

“Let’s do a little observation before we dive right in. I want to make sure you remember our philosophy, and that your feet remember what to do.”

She’s mentioned an informal interview on the phone, but not an actual instruction session, so my heart immediately takes off, rapid-fire beats slamming against my breastbone.

You can do this, Mia. You lived and breathed this.

We move down the short hall, past the larger studio reserved for her teen class and to the small studio at the end, used for private lessons and her beginner’s class. I smile to myself, expecting to see a line of little girls waiting for me in black leotards, pink tights, and tiny slippers.