Sweet Filthy Boy

Every head turns to us as the door opens and my breath is pulled from my body in a sharp exhale.

Six girls are lined up in the classroom, three on either side of the tall man in the middle, bright green eyes full of hope and mischief as they meet mine.

Ansel.

Ansel?

What the . . . ?

If he’s here, then he was in this building only a half hour ago when I called. Did he see that I called? Has he seen my texts?

He’s wearing a fitted black undershirt that clings to the muscles of his chest, and charcoal-gray dress pants. His feet are bare, his shoulders squared just like the girls beside him, many of whom are stealing peeks and barely suppressing giggles.

Lola and Harlow sent him here, I’m sure of it.

I open my mouth to speak but am immediately cut off by Tina, who, with a knowing smile, sweeps past me, chin in the air as she announces to the class, “Class, this is Mademoiselle Holland, and—”

“It’s actually Madame Guillaume,” I correct quietly and turn sharply to Ansel when I hear him make an involuntary sound of surprise.

Tina’s smile is radiant. “Pardon me. Madame Guillaume is a new instructor here, and will be leading you through your stretches and your first routine. Class, will you please welcome our new teacher?”

Six little girls and one deep voice chant in unison, “Hello, Madame Guillaume.”

I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. I meet his eyes again and in an instant I know he’s read my texts and is holding back his own excitement over being here, over hearing me refer to myself as his wife. He looks tired, but relieved, and we have an entire conversation with just that look. It takes everything in me to not go to him and let myself be wrapped up in those long, strong arms.

But as if she’s read my mind, Tina clears her throat meaningfully, and I blink, straightening as I respond, “Hello, girls. And Monsieur Guillaume.”

A few giggles erupt but are quickly squelched with a sweeping look from Tina. “We also have a guest today, as you have clearly noticed. Monsieur Guillaume is deciding if he would like to enroll in the academy. Please do your best to model good behavior, and show him how we conduct ourselves onstage.”

To my absolute amusement, Ansel looks ready to dive right into the world of being a little ballerina. Tina steps back against the wall, and I know her well enough to know this isn’t any test at all; it’s only a surprise for me. I could laugh it all off, and tell them to start their stretches while I talk to Ansel. But he seems ready for action and I want her to see that I can do this, even with the biggest, most gorgeous distraction in the world right in front of me.

“Let’s start with some stretching.” I turn on some quiet music and indicate the girls should do what I do: sit on the floor with my legs stretched in front of me. I curl down, reaching my arms out until my hands are on my toes, telling them, “If this hurts then bend your legs a little. Who can count to fifteen for me?”

Everyone is shy. Everyone, that is, except Ansel. And of course he quietly counts in French, “Un . . . deux . . . trois . . .” as the girls stare at him and wiggle on the floor.

We continue with the stretches: the bar stretch at the lowest ballet barre, the jazz splits that make the girls squeal and wobble. We practice a few pirouettes—if I live to one hundred, I will never stop laughing at the image of Ansel doing a pirouette—and I show them a straddle stretch, with my leg pressed flat against a wall. (It’s possible I do this purely for Ansel’s benefit, but I’ll never admit it.) The girls try, giggle some more, and a few of them become brave enough to start showing Ansel what to do: how to hold his arms, and then some of their made-up leaps and spins.

When the class takes a loud, chaotic turn, Tina steps in, clapping and hugging me. “I’ll take over from here. I think you’ve got something else to take care of. I’ll see you here Monday evening at five.”

“I love you so much,” I say, throwing my arms around her.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” she says. “Now go tell him that.”

ANSEL AND I slip out of the room and pad wordlessly back down the hall. My heart is pounding so hard, it seems to blur my vision with every heavy pulse. I can feel the heat of him moving behind me, but we’re both silent. Out of the studio and past my initial surprise, I’m so overwhelmed that at first, I don’t even know how to start.

A hot breeze curls around us as we push open the door to the outside, and Ansel watches me carefully, waiting for my cue.

“Cerise . . .” he starts, and then takes a shuddering breath. When he meets my eyes again, I feel the weight of every ticking moment of silence. His jaw flexes as we stare at each other, and when he swallows, the dimple flickers on his cheek.

“Hi,” I say, my voice tight and breathless.

He takes a step up off the curb but still seems to loom above me. “You called me just before you arrived.”

“I called from the parking lot. It was a lot to process, being here . . . You didn’t answer.”

“No phones allowed in the studio,” he answers with a cute smile. “But I saw the call light up my screen.”

“Did you come straight from work?” I ask, lifting my chin to indicate his dress pants.

He nods. There’s at least a day’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. The image of him leaving work and heading straight for the airport—to me—barely taking enough time to throw a few things into a small bag is enough to leave my knees week.