Eddie
I open the door to Finley’s dad’s car, step outside, and lift my sunglasses to get a better look at the old building in front of me. It’s a Victorian-style place, brown with pink trim. A rotted wooden sign sits tilted in front: Belton Academy of Dance, Music, and Acting. “Is this—” I start.
“My parents’ studio,” Finley finishes. “Well, it was anyway.”
She strides toward the door, and I follow much farther behind. We’re supposed to be picking up steaks to grill for dinner tonight. Finley glances over her shoulder and stops when she sees me lagging behind her. “Come on, I want to show you the inside.”
There’s a “for sale” sign out front, and that has me moving even slower. The last thing I need right now is breaking and entering charges.
Finley reads my mind. “The real estate agent is my dad’s best friend. He gave me the combination.”
I relax a bit and watch her expertly open the lock box and retrieve the key. “You come here often?”
She just shrugs and holds the door open for me. Through the doors is a narrow hallway leading to a lobby. A staircase—clearly no wheelchair access in this old building—in the lobby leads to the basement, where the two dance studios sit. The larger room has an upright piano, not as nice as the one at Fin’s house, but still decent. Mirrors cover two entire walls, and ballet barres fill the other two. I sit down on the piano bench. I’m still not sure what we’re doing here. “Let me guess, you stuffed those pointe shoes from the Prada shoot in your purse?”
She blushes and shakes her head. “Nope.” But then she pulls out a worn pair from the bag on her shoulder. “These fit me much better.”
I laugh—I can’t help it. “So we’re here to practice.”
While she puts her shoes on, I entertain myself playing around on the piano. Mechanically, my mind chooses a classical piece, and for a moment, I’m transported back five years to some stuffy, rich old people party my parents forced me to attend. My mother then forced me to play the piano for all her rich friends. Something Beethoven or Bach, she’d said as if she knew anything about music. Someone had mentioned having a friend at the Juilliard School to my dad, and he’d marched right over and put a stop to me playing, which had been fine by me.
I shake off the memory and switch to playing something lively, less classical and more blues feel. But I quickly become distracted by Finley warming up.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask when she stands on the very top of her toes.
“Yeah,” she admits. “But mostly because my feet aren’t as tough as they used to be. I’ve got to get them worked out more.” She drops back down and turns to face me. “What was that song you were just playing?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I think it’s part of something I heard once and a little improv.”
“Improv?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Like you just made it up?”
“Sort of. I mean, it’s jazz, so that’s part of the style.” I don’t know why, but this discussion embarrasses me. Maybe because it’s too much fun for me to play like that to have it critiqued and turned into something, well, not fun.
“Please don’t tell my dad about your jazz ability. He’ll dig up his saxophone and turn the living room into a lounge, full of cigar smoke,” Fin says, and I laugh. She sifts through her bag before setting sheet music in front of me. “Can you play this?”
“Don Quixote.” I’ve actually seen this ballet. Fell asleep in act three, if I remember correctly.
I play through the music a couple times and then when I begin the third time, I look up, and she’s dancing, expertly moving through choreography that really connects with the music. My fingers fumble, distracted by her, and I have to refocus. I get stuck halfway through, unable to turn the page quickly enough, and Finley stops to catch her breath.
“I’m out of shape,” she says, though she really doesn’t look that winded.
I angle myself on the bench to face her. “Why aren’t you dancing instead of modeling?”
She hesitates before answering, her gaze focused on her feet. “I stopped ballet several years ago, when the studio closed.”
I gesture at her ballet shoes. “Obviously, you haven’t.”
“I hadn’t danced, not in pointe shoes anyway,” she admits, “until last week at that photo shoot with Summer.” Finley shakes her head. “But I don’t want to dance professionally. I used to when I was younger, but now I want to teach. Here. I want to reopen this dance studio. For my mom.”
Silence falls between us; obviously, this is a bigger deal than I realized. I don’t know what it’s like for her, losing her mom. I mean, I kind of hate my parents, so it would be different for me.
My gaze drifts from Fin to the sheet music. “Again?”
She nods, and I’m relieved to have something to do. I stumble a lot less with the music this time, but my head’s a mess, knowing she’s shared this big secret with me, she’s trusted me with a part of her that’s far from basic casual information. I want to run, and at the same time, I want to take advantage of being alone with this beautiful girl who is possibly the nicest person I’ve ever met. When Finley makes her way closer to me, close enough to reach, I hook an arm around her waist, pulling until she’s sitting on my lap.
Her face heats, but she smiles at me. “I was wondering how long it would take you to realize that we’re alone.”
I lean down to press my lips against her neck. “You really are trying to ditch the good girl image, aren’t you?”
She stiffens in my arms, alarmed by this reminder. I want to tell her that she’s got me all wrong. I’m not the smooth guy with all the right lines she’s imagined, but part of me likes the confidence that comes with this misrepresentation.
“On second thought…” Finley presses a hand to my chest and pushes up to her feet again. She’s out of my reach in two seconds flat. “I like you better playing piano.”
I glance at the piano keys in front of me and sigh. “You’re probably the only one.”