Pounding the Pavement (17 page)

“You’re joking!”

“Of course I’m joking.” He spins me again with such panache, I do wonder whether or not he’s telling the truth.

I fall back into his arms breathlessly. Yet the strong grip I expected to engulf me goes limp. I look up at him questioningly, afraid to find his features contorted in pain.

“Did I just step on your foot?”

“No.” He leans me backward and nuzzles his face close to my ear. A delicious ripple travels down from my arched spine to my pointed toe.

“I think my high school girlfriend is heading over,” he whispers. “When I pull you back up I want you to start dancing over to the end of dance floor, okay?”

“ ’K,” I say.

“Quickly!”

He lifts me up—and plants me directly in front of a raven-haired pixie in an inappropriately short red dress.

“Jake?” She pulls back the silky drape of her hair with a long fingernail. “Jake Bleecker? No way!” She wraps her lithe arms around his neck.

“It’s been a long time, huh?” She pats his stomach approvingly. “You look good.”

Jake wiggles out of her grip. “Yeah, you, too.” He shoots me a look. I shuffle from foot to foot. I’m in that awkward position. I’m
not dancing and I’m not yet included in the conversation. I’m just the idiot standing in the middle of the dance floor.

“Sarah, this is Tina.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

Tina nods curtly in my direction and turns back to Jake. “So, what have you been up to lately? Last I heard, you were at an advertising company?”

“Yeah. Still there. You?”

“Didn’t you hear? I just left
Marie Claire
. I’m now the new fashion editor at
Charm
magazine.”

“Oh, wow!” I say. “That’s fantastic.” I look at Jake to see if he’s as impressed as I am. He isn’t.

“Yeah, it’s not so bad.” She angles herself toward me slightly, the greatest effort she’s made yet to acknowledge my existence. “So, are you, like, a photographer, too?” she asks.

“Oh, no. Not me.”

She raises an eyebrow. I say nothing.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“I’m a Rockette.”

Her eyes widen. I wait expectantly for her to start guffawing. But instead, her smile dips and turns quizzical. She tilts her head to study me carefully—the dark hair, the five-foot-four frame, all torso, short legs. She must know I’m lying.

Doesn’t she?

Oh my God. I’ve hit gold!

Tina’s expression goes from blank to distant. “Oh hey, you guys, sorry, you’ll have to excuse me.” Her eye wanders aimlessly over the crowd. “I think Sammy is on his fourth glass of champagne. I want to say hi while he still recognizes me.” She tosses us an unapologetic flip of her hair and dances off to the music.

“Sheesh.” Jake chuckles. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. Here I
thought taking you to a party to go dancing would be fun. But it must be just like another day at work for you, huh?”

“No way. I’ve always hated having to perform other people’s steps. This is great. It gives me a chance to really be creative and try out all those new moves I’ve been working on.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Nothing I’d dare try without proper stretching.”

The music stops abruptly. For a couple of seconds, the band struggles with an awkward transition. I realize, with a slight twinge of horror, that they’ve segued into the eighties portion of the program.

“Yes!” Jake’s fist shoots up in the air in a classic end-of-the-movie freeze-frame. “Karma Chameleon!” He bobs his head excitedly. I can’t quite match his enthusiasm, so while he crisscrosses the room with ecstatic little hops, I entertain myself by trying to execute a complicated pirouette.

Much to my surprise, I stick the landing perfectly. Half-expecting a smattering of applause, I turn to face the crowd. Jake, however, is nowhere to be found. Instead, I am facing a pink-faced girl in a green satin dress. She stares at me wide-eyed.

“Are you the Rockette?”

“Former
Rockette,” I correct her as I continue dancing. “They cut me this month ’cause I didn’t make the weight requirement. Can you believe it?”

Her brow furrows. She’s not sure what to believe.

“Here,” I offer, hiking up my skirt. “Wanna see my high kick?”

With that, I let loose with a kick that would put the entire ragtag team of dollar-a-day hoofers in
A Chorus Line
to shame. It’s a kick that isn’t part of the show—it
is
the show. Perfectly arched foot, pointed toe, taut thigh. A long, lean leg fueled with such passion it reaches up for the sky—

And keeps on going. I watch in panic as it soars clear over my head, the folds of my dress catapulted behind it. The next thing I know, a sharp stab of pain hits my tailbone. And all is dark.

I scurry to yank my dress down to a less compromising position. When I remove the fabric from over my eyes, what should I see but Jake—sweet, darling Jake—holding my shoe and howling with laughter. I glare at him furiously.

“Do you mind helping me up?” I stick out my hand. “I think I pulled something.”

“I’m sorry.” He wipes a tear from his eye, his shoulders still jerking with convulsive giggles. “Here.” He hands me my shoe and hoists me up. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” I snap, as I replace the slipper. He wraps an arm around my waist and helps me hobble off the dance floor.

“I think we should get you back to the hotel.”

“We can’t leave now. They haven’t even cut the cake.”

“We’ll get dessert from room service.”

“I want to stay,” I insist.

“Wouldn’t you rather order pay-per-view?”

“No. I’ll be okay in a couple of minutes. I promise.” I try to pull away from him, but my knee buckles. He hoists me closer to his hip.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” He carts me off limping. And in my weakened condition, it’s not exactly like I can resist him.

O
nce I’ve painfully succeeded in arranging myself into a flat, prone position under the covers, I can start to feel the sore muscles in my back relax and a warm wave of pleasant inertia spread over the rest of my body. I nestle my head against two thick pillows and close my eyes, listening to Jake’s voice drifting toward me from the other side of the room.

“Yes. Hi. I’m in room 312. I’d like to order strawberry shortcake and … what do you want?”

I roll over and open one eye. “Chocolate,” I murmur, rubbing my cheek against the satin pillowcase.

“Chocolate mousse?”

“Mmm. Sounds wonderful.”

“And a chocolate mousse,” he says into the telephone. I struggle to prop myself up against the headboard and pick up the remote control on the nightstand beside me. I click a couple of buttons. Nothing happens.

“Here,” Jake takes it from me. He hits a few more buttons and the TV finally turns on. “You know what you want to watch?”

“What’s on?”

“There are all those pay-per-view movies. Or …” He flips through the channels. “Hey, check it out!
Tootsie
is on!”

“Oooh! Let’s watch that.” I snuggle deeper under the sheets.

Jake puts down the remote. He’s still fully dressed, perched on the end of the bed as far away from me as possible. I peer out of the corner of my heavy eyelids and watch him slowly unthread the tie from around his neck.

I am fast asleep before room service even knocks on the door. But just before I slip into unconsciousness, I do remember smacking my lips and thinking that chocolate mousse will make an excellent breakfast.

    I have no idea how long our drive to Boston might have taken. I simply never bothered to check the time. Because even if we were stalled in heavy traffic, at least our conversation flew at lightning speed, often punctuated with quick interruptions and gleeful cries of “me too!”

Our ride home is different. I count each brand-new minute as it flickers once and becomes a steady green unit on the radio dial. The seconds I have to imagine on my own—
tick, tick, tick
.

Jake and I have exhausted our entire reserve of movie quotes, and creating an altogether original conversation is an effort we can’t quite muster. Right now, I am just tired and cranky enough to dare assert myself.

“I’m turning on the radio,” I announce, fangs bared, ready to attack if he even tries to argue with me.

Jake shrugs. “Fine with me.”

I lean forward and eject the CD, thus silencing the husky-voiced boy who has been whining about being misunderstood for the last half an hour. It pleases me to no end that I can stick him in a sleeve and slide him under my chair, where he can rot and fester with the rest of his unhappy, self-pitying friends.

A quick scan through the radio stations, however, does nothing to lift my spirits.

“You ever feel like listening to the radio is like trying to pick a movie from the video store when all the good stuff has already been rented?” I demand.

“Hey, turn it back.”

“What? To this?” I flip back a station and tilt my head, trying to place a familiar song. “Wait a second. This is Elton John. You can’t be serious.”

“You don’t like Elton John?”

“Does anyone?”

“Yeah. I do. That surprises you?”

“No.”

“It does, doesn’t it? You don’t think it’s cool enough.”

To be honest, that’s exactly what I thought. I’ve never paid much mind to Elton John one way or another. I had just assumed I wasn’t
allowed
to like him.

“What do I know from cool?” I say grumpily. Still, I turn up the volume, feeling generous enough to give the song the benefit of the doubt.

“Hold on. Did he just say ‘sugar bear’?”

“I believe he did,” Jake says cheerfully.

“Well, that’s a little sappy, isn’t it?”

“You hear what you want to hear. But obviously you’re not paying attention.” He turns up the volume. With his eyes half-closed, his hands gripping the steering wheel, he belts out the lyrics with the kind of emotion I never imagined him capable of. I shake my head ruefully.

“What are you grinning at?” he demands.

“You. I never figured you for a love song kinda guy.”

Jake groans. “You really disappoint me, Sarah. This isn’t a love song. This is a big fuck-you to a woman he’s leaving at the altar. When he says, ‘sugar bear’? He’s being facetious. There. Does that make you feel better? Now that you can keep your oh-so-cool cynicism intact?”

I feel my face burn. Not because he’s proven me wrong. But because he’s figured me out so right. I listen intently to the lyrics, trying to find a way to save face.

“Okay, fine.” I say suddenly. “So it’s not a love song. Then who is the ‘someone’ who saved his life tonight?”

“I thought that was obvious.” He grins. “It’s you.”

Is he being facetious? It’s so hard to tell these days.

I
don’t know how much credit Elton John—or, more specifically, “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”—is due, but when we finally enter New York City, when the glittering George Washington Bridge raises its arm over the horizon and waves us on in, Jake and I sigh contentedly, the miseries of a long, slow car ride all but forgotten.

It feels good to be home.

Jake pulls off the West Side Highway and coaxes his car a few blocks further before we finally come to a halt in front of my apartment building. I reach over to the backseat and pull up my bag.

“Man, I don’t envy you having to go back out in that traffic.”

“No. It’ll be miserable.”

“How long’s it going to take you to get back to Brooklyn?”

“With traffic like this? An hour? An hour and a half?”

“Eeck.”

“I know.”

Then it falls upon us. The thick, dead weight of the pre-farewell silence. The car fills with fumes of dread.

“You know,” I say lightly. “You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. You’re welcome to spend the night at my apartment.”

Jake stares hard at his steering wheel. I can feel myself starting to falter.

“I mean, it’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before,” I add. “Last night wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I don’t know. You’ve got a pretty powerful snore.”

My mouth drops open. I’m mortified and I don’t even bother trying to conceal it. Jake breaks into his impish grin and laughs.

“I’m just kidding. You were fine.” He nods pensively. “All right. I’ll stay. You go up and I’ll park the car.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’ll both park and go up together.”

It takes us close to another hour to find a spot.

Tired, spent, and ravaged by an entire day’s worth of traveling, we shuffle into my apartment only to find Amanda sitting cross-legged on the sofa, in the thoughtful process of selecting the very best Cheetos from out of the bag. She looks up and smiles guiltily.

“Whasshup?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant. Her slur gives her away.

I drop my bag to floor with a thud.
Of course
she would be home tonight. I fold my arms over my chest, not pleased.

“Where’s what’s-his-name?” I ask her.

Amanda frowns. “Early conferesh meeting tomorrow. He couldn’t stay. But …” she points her bare, blue-polished toe at the expensive wine bottle on the coffee table in front of her. It’s empty. “He sends his apologies.” Amanda squints her eyes, finally noticing Jake standing behind me. “Hey, who are you?”