Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Once again, I’m determined to escape before he wakes up. I’m dressed in leggings, a sports bra, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, and I’ve got knee pads and a water bottle in my canvas bag, right next to the blank book where I keep the list. I’ve even slipped my book charm necklace into a pocket in my bag. I have them both with me today. Maybe because I need to feel close to my aunt.
I walk quietly past the stairs, half expecting him to hear me, wholly wanting him to call out, “Let me drive you.”
What a foolish wish. But he loved to drive me wherever I needed in the city. He’s an acts-of-service guy through and through.
The house is painfully silent. The emptiness tunnels through me as I pad to the door, carefully lift the latch, then grab my sneakers and take off.
On the porch, I lace up my shoes quickly, ignoring the onslaught of feelings I don’t want to feel. I manage to make it down the front steps before my throat hitches. Tears prick my eyes, but I suck in a breath. I’m wearing my fake lashes to pole classes so these tears can fuck off.
Down the street, I catch the bus and head to Russian Hill to a dance studio that Everly likes. But even though I’ve done my homework, no amount of prep can gird you to walk into a class when your heart is shattered, and you’re pretending you’re fine.
Everything hurts.
Everything reminds me of him.
Even this.
I would have shared the story of this class with him, told him about it, taken some pics. He would have eaten up every detail. But, I guess he can’t have love and hockey, so I go in alone—but I’m not truly alone. Everly’s a welcome sight.
She’s dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, which surprises me, but maybe she doesn’t sweat like me. She’s stretching in front of the mirrored wall in the brightly lit studio, and she beams when she sees me. “You made it!”
“I don’t back down,” I say, even though I tried to wiggle out of improv.
But I soldiered on and did it. Come to think of it, I haven’t backed out of anything on the list. And dammit, man in my life or not, I’m going to finish it. In fact, I don’t need to go to a cocktail-mixing class for number seven—explore a new skill.
I’m living number seven right now. With my friends. The awareness hits me all at once, and I smile like a giddy fool, tugging on Everly’s hand, pulling her to the cubbies in the corner of the studio as Maeve strides in. Fable couldn’t make it—she had to do some Christmas shopping with her sister. “I have this list from my aunt. Like a bucket list. Top Ten Things I Never Regretted,” I tell Everly.
Her eyes light up. “You do? That’s seriously cool.”
“And one of the items is explore a new skill.” I motion for Maeve to join our huddle and gamely, she hustles over. “I was going to do number seven with Wes, but I want to do this one with you two. Can this be explore a new skill for my bucket list of no regrets?”
“As if you have to ask,” Maeve says, then tilts her head, and I know what she’s thinking—what changed with Wes and why now?
I swallow down more tears. “I’ll tell you later.”
For now, it’s time to dance.
Ten minutes later, I’m walking around the pole. That’s it. Walking. But as Kyla, the instructor, says, “It’s harder to walk than you might think. You want to make space between the pole and your body, and then you can do the step around.”
She explains that basic move, then asks Everly to demonstrate. In no time, my new friend’s swinging around her pole like a goddess, all muscles and badass attitude, shiny ponytail swishing down her back.
“Now, let’s try the step around,” Kyla says to the rest of us.
Sounds easy and looks easy too. But when I try the basic move, gripping the pole with my right arm, then rising up on my toes so I can stretch out my left leg to the side, I’m not sure I can move around the pole without falling on my ass.
But then…so what if I fall? I stop thinking and I do, swinging around it.
And…I manage a quarter turn. Actually, that was more like an eighth of a turn, but I’m stupidly excited over this most minor accomplishment, and so is the teacher. “Great start,” Kyla says to me with genuine enthusiasm.
Those words burrow into my aching, hollow heart.
Great start.
As Maeve attempts her step around like she’s jumping off a cliff—since that’s how Maeve lives life—I think of the list. Of the other night by the Golden Gate Bridge. Of my dreams. They don’t have to be anchored to a man.