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Eva could probably hear my squee through our shared wall when I got Virginia’s email. She had sent several thoughtful questions, and I wanted to take my time with my answers, so I didn’t respond right away.
I wasn’t delaying to draw out my relationship with her. Not stalling. Nope, not me. I was just excited to work with a real, live author and help with research. It made me feel like one of the cool kids, when I usually felt like part of the background. Reading had long been an escape. Now my hobby and social media were providing me an opportunity to connect with others on my favorite topics.
I was rarely the star of the show. Not at work. Not in my family. With three other siblings, I often got lost in the shuffle growing up. I tried to find my thing, my talent, but nothing worked out. I wasn’t a cheerleader like my oldest sister, Jennifer. My own short gymnastics career ended early after a broken foot. I struggled to squeak out any intelligible notes on the flute in band. Unlike my sister, Vanessa, I wasn’t first chair material. Getting hot and sweaty on the basketball court held no appeal. Nick was the all-star athlete in the family. Nothing stuck. Nothing fit. Quitting became my thing. My family began to doubt that I’d ever cobble together a degree or a career. Luckily, after three major changes in college, I found nursing.
There was some truth to the idea that parents lowered their standards with each child. By the time they got to me, my folks were just glad I was breathing. They didn’t have high expectations for me or themselves as parents.
It was hard to get a word in among my outspoken family, and eventually, I quit speaking up. The silent sister. The quiet one. Being invisible had its advantages. Even if it was lonely.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like to spend time with my family. My older sisters were both married, and they’d blessed me with multiple adorable nieces and nephews. My youngest brother had announced his engagement months ago, leaving me as the only single person in my family. I was dreading his wedding in a few weeks. The pitying looks and awkward questions about my single status from relatives would make it hard to fade into the background.
If I brought a date they might leave me alone, but I hated the idea of subjecting someone I barely knew to my family. My sister Vanessa was okay, but Jennifer lived for power trips and snark. Even if Nick and Mindy had a small wedding as they claimed to be planning, family alone would push the guest list well over fifty people. Fifty plus nosy, but well-meaning relatives who would be difficult to dodge. As tempting as it sounded, even I wouldn’t bring a book to my own brother’s wedding.
At work, I made the mistake of mentioning Nick’s wedding to Gina.
“Oooh, Tamra. What are you going to wear? Do you have a fabulous dress?” she asked with interest.
I laughed and looked down at my blue scrubs. “Pretty sure I don’t own a fabulous dress, but I have enough scrubs to last through the apocalypse.”
She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “Tamra, as your life coach, I do not approve. We need to bibbidi-bobbidi-boo you up. I may not be able to provide a prince, but a night off and a great dress should be doable.”
Was she my life coach or my fairy godmother? I could argue that I didn’t need either, but we both knew it would be a Big. Fat. Lie.
“What about going shopping together? I’d love to go with you. Or you could try one of those dress rental places if you don’t want to buy something,” she continued.
That was a thing? Now I knew I wasn’t cool. “Dress rental? Like a consignment shop?” I asked.
“No, like a true rental. There’s a runway rental service online that will ship you a dress for a weekend. Then you send it back when you’re done.”
I shook my head. I needed clothes, not couture. My goal was to blend.
“What a time to be alive. I’ll see if my sister has something, but we’re not quite the same size anymore, and she’s going to be at the wedding too. I’ll check out that service, and if I don’t see anything I like, maybe we can go shopping.”
I laughed when Gina gave a fist pump of victory. I had no idea she’d be this excited about going shopping together. We rarely hung out when we weren’t in scrubs, so I didn’t think my wardrobe was a big deal.
That night when I got home, I made myself a frozen pizza. The tiny specks of pepperoni looked lost in the sea of gelatinous cheese, but pizza was convenient, if not satisfying. Virginia was probably cooking something delicious for this week’s post. I should try one of those meal prep kits as my next foray into self-improvement. It was sad to live in a perpetual state of dinner envy.
With Virginia in mind, I reviewed her email again and worked on drafting my response. Agreeing to coffee felt like a much bigger step than exchanging comments online, but my dance classes had shown me that I shouldn’t write off new experiences without trying. Giving people a chance to get to know the real me, awkward moments and all. That was called bonding, right?
I was trying to be thoughtful and showcase the aspects of nursing that made me love it. My best grammar was a must. Something about writing to an author made me paranoid. They had editors to make them look good, and I didn’t have that luxury.
To: VirginaRothman@gmail.com
From: TamraRN@email.com
Re: Labor & Delivery Questions
Hey Virginia,
I’m happy to help. Here are my answers. I’d love to get coffee and discuss any follow ups.
I think I answered this one above, but I’ll let you know if I think of something more.
Hopefully that answers some of your questions. I hope I’ve done it justice. Let me know if you want to meet up for more clarification. Also, I’m dying to ask, and I haven’t seen any teasers online. For your next book, is Nate finally getting his own story?
T
I read over my email what felt like ten times before saving it as a final draft. I couldn’t resist sneaking in a question about Nate’s character. Hopefully, Virginia wouldn’t mind my prying. His story was on my ‘most wanted’ list. I’d sleep on my draft, then send her my response before the weekend. Maybe my nerves would be calmer if I looked at it with fresh eyes in the morning.
♦♦♦
TRYING TO RECREATE Virginia’s latest recipe and taking my second pole dancing class were part of my strategy to avoid obsessing over the email I finally sent to Virginia. She hadn’t responded yet. Distracting myself with food and dance seemed like a good way to avoid fixating over what I’d shared. Too much? Too little? Having a small role in helping create the books I loved had me itching to read what she wrote, and even I knew that took time. Focusing on my successes in dance class, making progress on my goals, helped ease the ache of waiting.
I checked my Twitter feed after a sad microwaveable frozen ravioli dish and leered over Virginia’s dinner post. She’d made chorizo enchiladas, and I could practically taste the ooey gooey cheese and sour cream. Mouth-wateringly good. That woman was magic in the kitchen.
I dressed like a pro for my second class, in legwarmers and kneepads. If I wanted to continue in nursing past the age of fifty, being kind to my knees was a must. The thigh-high turquoise leg warmers made me feel a little bit sultry. It wouldn’t be hard to pretend I’d purchased them for the added sex appeal, instead of helping me slide on the dance floor and protect my shins on the pole.
My loose hair, strappy black athleisure top, and yoga pants were relaxed and easy to move in. Scrubs were my professional armor and gave me a sense of control, but dressing for dance whispered of freedom and soft sensuality, and I naturally moved a little more loosely in my new clothes.
I greeted Meghan when I arrived at the studio and sank down on my mat to wait for our lesson to start. I recognized some familiar faces from the intro group filtering in and nodded to them.
“Which musical artist inspires you?” Meghan asked our group as an icebreaker. “Prince is one of my favorites. He has epic music that reeks sensuality. I can find a song for every mood.” I saw a lot of nods around the room.
My shoulders tightened as everyone else started sharing their favorite musicians. One voluptuous woman named Becca with deep mahogany skin told us that Beyoncé was her inspiration, and I could totally see it. I was dying to watch her dance; she radiated sexy confidence and had the plus-sized curves to back it up.
My mind flipped through different options. Somehow, I didn’t think the lullaby we played over the speakers at work after every new delivery was what Meghan meant. It didn’t inspire me to dance, but it did give me a thrill. In the car I usually listened to alternative, pop, or country. I’d been loving the sultry sound of Two Feet lately, but it might be too obscure. Instead, when it was my turn, I blurted out, “Classic Aerosmith.”
Meghan smiled and didn’t let me off the hook with that. “Any particular favorites? They have a huge catalog.”
My chest constricted, and I scrambled to name an Aerosmith song. Any Aerosmith song; but my mind was blank. I finally said, “All of them.”
Her supportive nod of approval eased my tension.
I sank into my mat, relieved when the public speaking part of class was over. For some reason it was easier to strut and roll my hips with suggestive abandon than speak in front of a group of strangers. Too many eyes on me speaking made me squirm.
Throughout the class, Meghan played songs from our favorites, and “Crazy” made me grin. She’d chosen well. This week’s spin combination was a step turn into a backspin around the pole. Meghan was all fluid lines when she demonstrated. She grabbed the pole high on the inside, and her outside leg swept the air as her inside leg wrapped around the pole at the ankle. She spun around the pole backwards, slowly sliding down, until she landed on her knees. Dead sexy, but I was terrified about pulling it off myself.
Meghan did her best to demystify the move. “You just let your inside leg wrap around the pole, which slows your momentum. Then arch your back slightly, and it will look amazing.”
I believed that. I believed that she looked amazing. Me? Not so much. However, I adjusted my trusty kneepads and partnered up with another classmate at the pole and gamely gave it a try. I gripped the pole up high with my right hand and secured my left forearm against the pole closer to my face. I kicked my right foot out and back around, letting it drag me. My inside leg kind of did what it was supposed to, but I didn’t get much momentum going, so my spin turned into an awkward slide down the pole to my knees. Not exactly the look I was going for.
I gave my partner, a petite blond named Jillian, a sheepish glance and motioned for her to try. Maybe I could figure it out by observing someone else. I watched in envy as Jillian stepped up to the pole and with a deep breath, wrapped her arms around the pole and perfectly executed the maneuver. I wanted that to be me.
“Beautiful,” I said. “What’s your secret?”
She grinned. “Thanks. It’s all in the grip. You want to pull the pole toward the floor, like you’re driving it into the ground.”
I stepped up to try again. This time my grip was tighter, and I got more spin and slid gracefully to the floor.
Jillian cheered for me, and I smiled, letting my shoulders drop and push back. I was going to be amazing at one of my new hobbies or bruise myself silly trying. Cooking looked like an unlikely candidate at this point, but I still had hopes for dance. We practiced a few more times as partners before learning more choreography as a group. Mirrors would have let me see how I was doing, but maybe not knowing was better.
“Okay, Athenas. Shut those eyes and let yourselves feel the music. You can follow me if you need to, but I’ll be calling out the moves the first time through,” Meghan said.
I tried to follow Meghan’s advice, but the second time through, I couldn’t resist. I slit my eyes open to peer at the curvy, Beyoncé-loving Becca and confirmed that she was, in fact, amazing. Becca confidently tossed her hair and strutted like she owned the studio to perform her fireman spin. Damn. I could definitely learn a thing, or ten.
For so long my confidence in the delivery room hadn’t carried over into any other part of my life. It was time to change that. I tilted my chin up, thrust my shoulders back, and executed my own slow saunter to the pole. Maybe it was a tad wobbly for the first few steps, but I leaned into the unsteady feeling and used it to slow down, swaying my hips with each movement. I ran a hand through my hair, then down my body, feeling each dip and curve of warm skin under Lycra. Slow. Seductive. Powerful. Taking my time let me sink into my body and the moment. Feel every breath. For once, I reveled in pretending I was the center of attention. Even if with our eyes closed, no one was watching.
After class, I peeled off my sweaty kneepads and leg warmers to change into my flip-flops. Becca was doing the same next to me, and I worked up the courage to compliment her. “I’ve been watching you,” I said.
I realized how that sounded. After I said it. I rushed to clarify, “I mean, during the performance time. You’re a great dancer. I love your walk. I wish I could walk that well.”
Becca squinted momentarily before her expression cleared. My face flushed with heat. Great. Now she probably thought I wasn’t coordinated enough to walk. I closed my eyes briefly before opening them to see her smiling back at me.
“I’ve been watching you too. That’s what makes this class so fun. I love seeing everyone’s unique twist on the moves. You’ve got a great fireman.”
I couldn’t keep the small smile off of my face. I had a good fireman. I straightened my shoulders and wished Becca a good night. While a lot of the moves still felt unnatural, I wasn’t quitting. Gina may be the only other person in my circle to ever know about my dance hobby, but I’d know. I’d know I stuck with it. Even if it was difficult and awkward. The bruises on my knees and ache in my thighs told their own story. But the bruises would fade, and I’d get stronger. If I just kept going.
♦♦♦
THAT NIGHT I CHOPPED the colored yellow, orange, and red mini peppers while the chorizo browned for my enchiladas. I mostly remembered to break up and stir the meat while cutting, so it didn’t burn. The Rorschach of tomato sauce on my chest wasn’t a good look, but my apron had protected me from the worst of the splatter when I added it to the meat. I dabbed the red mess off the best I could. Luckily, most of the tomato sauce still made it to the pan. I mixed the browned meat and peppers with rice and sour cream before rolling the mixture inside tortillas and placing the pan in the oven to bake with cheese sprinkled on top. It smelled heavenly, the cumin filling the air with savory goodness.
My parents called from somewhere in Colorado as I was setting a timer for the oven on my phone. I popped up my video chat screen to see my folks smooshed together on the screen. Dad was wearing a bright orange tank top that set off his tanned and weathered skin. His gray hair was thinning on top, but he was still a handsome man. Mom had let her hair go gray when they started traveling full-time, because it was too hard to find salons for color in strange cities. She’d cut it short and looked attractive with her sparkling blue eyes and elfin features. I looked nothing like her, to my everlasting chagrin. I was more of a dark and curly-haired version of my dad. I was always wishing for my mom’s cute little nose instead of the larger, flatter version I inherited from him. He claimed it was adorable on me, but I was pretty sure he had to say that because he was my dad and the source of said nose.
“Hey, honey,” my dad said. “How are you? Did you have a good birthday?”
Nice of them to remember. Since retiring, they were hit or miss with the calendar. My smile wilted around the edges at the reminder.
“Yes, I had to work, but I had a good delivery that night. Gina and I celebrated with a cupcake.”
“That sounds nice, dear. What else is new?” my mom asked.
That was Mom. Checked out and ready to move on.
“Not much, just trying a few hobbies. I’ve been doing some more cooking.” That was safe enough to admit. I didn’t think my parents would have strong opinions about my dance class, but I could imagine what my uptight older sister would say if they dropped that tidbit in conversation.
“That’s lovely, dear.”
The disinterest was to be expected. It made me wonder why they called at all.
“Do you have a date for your brother’s wedding? We’re looking forward to seeing you, and it’s coming up so quickly. Only a few more weeks left. We just got off the phone with Nick and Mindy. They’re rushing around taking care of last-minute arrangements. Mindy’s mom can’t resist commenting on every detail. I figure I’m doing my part by staying out of it.”
Bingo. Nick had reminded them it was my birthday. As their favorite and only son, it figured that my parents would be excited for the wedding. Nothing less would draw them back for a visit. Once they tasted warmer, sunnier climes in their travel trailer, we rarely saw them. In typical mom fashion, her words were delivered as one long monologue, which conveniently allowed me to avoid answering her date question. I didn’t have one, and like my dance class, I wasn’t anxious to invite any opinions about that.
“I’m sure Nick is excited to have you and Dad there. How long has it been since we’ve seen you?” I asked.
Cue awkward staring into space. Maybe it was rude to put them on the spot when I knew the answer, but I couldn’t resist the dig. Mom and Dad scrambled to recall, and it was straining their memories. Our last visit must have not been that memorable, given all of their other travel adventures. Resignation filled me as I ended my little quiz.
“Wasn’t it Christmas three years ago?” I asked.
Mom’s eyes brightened. “Yes. That was a great visit. I bet the kids have gotten so big since we last saw them in person. Video chatting isn’t the same.”
I nodded and conversation moved on to the things they’d seen and done in Colorado. We were wrapping up our chat when something acrid made my nose twitch. Oops. I never set that timer after all. I quickly ended the call with my folks and opened the oven. The rush of smoke wasn’t as bad as I feared, but my meal was no longer Pinterest-ready.
Virginia’s enchiladas had a beautiful brown crust of cheese on top, delightfully bubbly. Mine was more ... blackened. After scraping the worst of it off, the enchiladas themselves would probably taste fine. I sighed. So far, cooking was a bust. I took a photo of my finished result.
I dished up a couple of enchiladas on a plate, then peeled off the burned cheese and smothered them with more sour cream. I took a bite and let the burst of flavors roll around on my tongue. Spicy chorizo, the fresh tang of peppers, a little creaminess from the sour cream. Aside from the missing cheese, still delicious.
The conversation with my parents had left me feeling more lonely than ever, the impending wedding hanging over my head. After dinner I posted my fail in response to Virginia’s original post. Proving, at least to myself, that I was changing. Growing braver.
@VirginiaRothman I tried, but I might need lessons. Not quite picture-perfect like yours.
She must have been online, because it was only a few minutes later that she’d liked my picture and responded privately.
@TamraRN cooking is like life, you learn only when you make mistakes.
@VirginiaRothman I’ve learned that I need to remember to set my timer!
@TamraRN and I’ve learned that the secret to a good social media meal picture is sometimes remaking the meal. Not saying I’ve done it ... more than a few times. ;)
@VirginiaRothman now you tell me! I guess I’ll worry more about progress than perfection.
@TamraRN there’s truth there. I’ve been working on my kitchen skills a long time!
@VirginiaRothman maybe you should give lessons. I need them.
@TamraRN I guess it’s a second career idea if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out.
@VirginiaRothman no! Not what I meant. I love your writing. I need all the words. Back away from the kitchen!
@TamraRN never fear; you couldn’t keep me from the words if you tried. I’m compulsive at this point.
@VirginiaRothman glad to hear it.
@TamraRN hear, yes? Smell, not so much. I tend to forget things like sleeping and showering when writing is involved.
@VirginiaRothman so I should lower my expectations for sartorial elegance if we meet in person?
@TamraRN LOL definitely. Pretty sure the phrase sartorial elegance has never been used in my presence.
I smiled and tried to picture Virginia in my head. I had stalked, er, checked her Twitter account and website but both provided scant details and no photographs. Her avatar was her brand logo, and the blue butterfly didn’t tell me much. Virginia’s first contemporary romance featured a science teacher and a single mom who’d kissed for the first time in a butterfly garden. Based on how long I’d been reading her romance novels, I pictured an older woman who liked butterflies and gardening. She’d probably had her share of kitchen fails in the days before the internet.
Virginia was still waiting on my responses to her research questions. I reviewed my draft one more time. It was as good as it was going to get. Writing to any level of depth in an email was not my thing. Noting vitals in patients’ charts was usually my limit. Based on our chatting, Virginia seemed down-to-earth, and it gave me confidence that she’d overlook any embarrassing oversharing. With a final deep breath, I hit the send button.
