5. SAVE THE LAST DANCE

SAVE THE LAST DANCE

M y daughters lay prone on the sofa in a food coma brought on by Taco Night, their little faces glued to the cracked iPad–from tantrum number 9,456–watching a video. An arm's length away, I sprawled across my favorite armchair, comforted by the scent of old leather. The cushions were worn, so soft I sunk deep into them, where I sketched a craftsman house blurred by rainfall. The cooler weather always brought out a certain part of me, the part wrapped in melancholy and drawn to darkness.

It's a little morbid if you think about it, the way we become positively joyous and drawn to all things cozy–warm sweaters and hot coffee–the moment the natural world begins to die. A coping mechanism? Dead leaves fall from dead trees while the air turns cold as a corpse so bring on the cute beanies and pumpkin spice.

Victoria whispered, "Pretty" to herself. Then gasped, "Mamma! Is that you and daddy!"

She craned her neck to look at me, mouth agape, corners turned up like Jack O' Lantern. I gently set down my sketchbook and leant over to see what she'd found.

"Ah," I said, "That's the video from mommy and daddy's wedding." The right side of my mouth curled up at the memory of our small wedding at my parent's estate, the toasts that had been given that night through slurred speeches and tears, some more embarrassing than others.

This video was of our first dance together as husband and wife. Our closest friends crowded the dance floor, swaying and hopping. We melted into each other's arms as we swayed back and forth to the piano music, my head on his shoulder, eyes closed, and a content smile on his face as he looked down at me, his new wife. We were so young and full of fire and booze, and the skirt of my airy mesh gown slid across the floor like a goddamn dream.

I'd put off buying a dress for some reason, and just weeks before the wedding, I stumbled across a tiny bridal shop in downtown Denver and fell in love with the off-shoulder ivory dress with its delicate eyelash lace that peaked out from the bodice. I bought it right then and there without even bothering to send a pic to my sister like I normally do when I shop alone. It fit perfectly around my small breasts and waist and spilled to the floor in airy mesh layers that made me feel beautiful and powerful like I could twirl on a throne right before leading a legion into battle on horseback–it's a feeling that's kinda hard to explain. Unless you were raised by a father who waxed poetic about the female soldiers of ancient Persia while expecting you to "be ladylike."

On the day of the wedding, Jess gasped when I stepped out of the dressing room in the bridal suite. Her green eyes, like mine, like our father's, were glassy when she hugged me. My mother did her best not to combust. It wasn't designer and didn't have a train the length of a school bus, so she wasn't over-the-moon, but aside from a "is that what people are wearing these days?" She stayed quiet. At the ceremony, I felt joyful despite the small tug in my body that told me something was wrong. I loved Steven. Yet there was a noticeable sliver of doubt, a voice that whispered, "he isn't the one" in the far recesses of my mind as I made my way down the aisle and into his arms. The voice rose from a whisper to a chant of, "no, no, no!" that bellowed in my head as we read our vows. But Steven looked so handsome in his black suit, standing before me with his hands clasped together. A reassuring and kind smile met the flicker of doubt in my eyes, and I wondered why my brain was trying to ruin the moment for us. I told myself to stop. Just stop. You're just afraid of being happy. Turns out what I'd mistaken for anxiety was my brilliant intuition waving a giant red flag to save me from myself. How is one supposed to know? I just assumed I was freaking out due to my general distrust of marriage caused by years of watching my parents in their odd union (up until my mother possibly unalived my father). At least, that's what the police implied, but honestly, it could have been anyone. Dad was a weirdly private man, always off tying up secret business deals with the Gods knew who. My mother was a lot of things, but a murderer? Honestly? I wouldn't be that shocked.

A loud thud in the hallway jolted me upright in my chair.

"Steven? Is that you?" I called out.

Silence. I leaned down and kissed the girls on the cheeks–both of them still utterly engrossed in our first dance. "Stay here. I'll be right back." They hardly noticed as I skulked up the stairs into the hallway to peer into the darkness. Empty. Nothing and nobody lurked in the shadows. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I turned on the light, but nothing, no sign of humans or monsters, no footsteps, no force coming to destroy my family. I checked the bedroom. Nothing. Where is Steven? It's like he's reached a new level of absence where he's now haunting the house instead of living in it. I went back to the girls and plopped down next to them just in time for the camera to zoom in on my mother's scowl. I shook my head at those eyebrows knit together, that downturned mouth, and the general air of discontent that seemed to waft off her. My mother had spent most of that night gripping her pearls and looking like she was at a funeral. "You're making a mistake," she'd crooned a thousand times leading up to the wedding, and I hated that she might have been right, that maybe she knew something that I didn't.

Olivia shouted, "Grandma!" And enthusiastically pointed at the screen.

"Why are you watching this?" Steven asked.

"Shit! Fuck!" I screamed. I held my chest, "Jesus! You scared the shit out of me. Have you been here the whole time? Where were you?"

He looked around defensively like he'd been accused of pissing in the ice dispenser, "I was in the bathroom. Showering. Packing to leave."

"Oh. The girls found our wedding video while looking at pictures of themselves on the iPad. I forgot that we danced to a piano version of Fleetwood Mac at the reception."

"Oh, that's right." He said flatly, his face unreadable and cold. He pushed off of the door frame. "Anyway, I'll finish packing and then take a car service to the airport. I should be back in two weeks, three at the most. Let me know if you need anything."

I nodded absently. He had stalked towards the stairs and started to climb them two at a time when I jumped to my feet and followed him to the bedroom. He already had his overnight bag slung over his shoulder and was reaching for his black suitcase when I got there.

"Hey," I said gently like I was speaking to an unknown wild dog. "So before you go," I paused to consider my wording. Have you given couples therapy any more thought?" He raised his eyebrows slightly, then pulled his luggage to his side, setting his overnight bag on his suitcase and securing its strap around the handle.

"Steven?" I pressed, clasping my hands together to stop myself from fidgeting.

Steven pulled his phone out from his pants pocket to check the time and slid it back in place. He huffed and looked down at me, absently, as if he were bored.

"We don't need couples therapy. You're the one who has a problem."

Suddenly, I felt hot. My tethered rage snapped. "I have a problem," I ground out, wrapping my words in fury and thorns and broken glass, "with how you treat me." My eyes met his and held.

Steven looked away, pulled his bags past me as if I weren't even there, and headed down the hallway. I followed him, my hands balling into fists.

"I have to go." He said as he hoisted his bags up with some effort and ambled down the staircase. I could have offered to help, but then again, a horrible part of me hoped he would trip and fall. The stairs were carpeted. He wouldn't be seriously maimed or die.

"Steven," I whispered from the top of the stairs, "we need to talk about separating. I can't go on like this for—"

"—Fine. Jesus Christ, Danny. Make the appointment for after I get back and I'll find a way to make time for it."

Well, don't do me any favors, I thought.

A voice in my head tried to warn me. If he wanted to do the work, he would. Push for a separation, do what has to be done. But then hope crept in, kicking my intuition to the curb.

He reached the living room and put his bags down to bid farewell to the girls. I leaned against the doorframe to watch, to breathe, to let all of the emotions wash over me.

"Kiddos! Give me a hug! I'll Facetime you when I land! Okay?" Steven called over to the girls who were still watching wedding videos.

"Okay, Daddy!" Victoria and Olivia leaped to their feet and bounced towards Steven. Olivia headbutted him in the balls on accident, and after he howled, swore, and recovered, he scooped them both up in his arms and gave them a big hug, then kissed their cheeks all over. He sat the girls down and nodded to me, "Have a good week," he said, like he absolutely did not want me to have a good week at all.

The front door opened and closed. I felt relieved he'd gone and I wouldn't have to tip-toe around his moods for the next few weeks. I felt confused that I wanted to be loved by a man who clearly could not love me in the way I needed to be loved. I felt stuck, out of control, and always anxious. There were two choices and both were shit: Trust the devil I knew or the one I didn't.

An hour later, with my daughters fast asleep, I unceremoniously readied for movie night with my sister. I threw blankets and pillows on the floor in front of the television to make a giant nest because I wanted to hunker down in it and die. I turned on the fireplace and set out the blood-red cocktails and small bowls of popcorn, candy, and fruit. Then, I lay on the couch and wept.

By the time Jess arrived, I'd stopped crying, but my eyes were swollen and an amaranth shade of red. She looked me over, hugged me tightly, then pulled back and raised her brows in question. Do you want to talk about it, her expression asked. I shook my head and bit my lip to stop myself from breaking down and bawling again. "Okay," she mouthed silently. She took my hand and gently led me to the pile of blankets. We lowered ourselves down, pulling a white comforter over the top of us, fluffing the pillows around us to form a cozy spot, and bringing the snack bowls a little closer. Jess fumbled for the remote while I let myself sink into the warmth of the blankets, into the calm, supportive energy of my sister, where I could just breathe. The music started and we both grinned at each other.

Every month, for decades, this had been our thing. We watched the same vampire movies over, and over, and over again. We'd catch up on life between reciting the dialogue from memory. Ever since we were kids, we'd bonded over our love of fantasy books, Faeries, elves, and quests. As teens, we were obsessed with any YA vampire series in book or movie form. Even when we were fighting, full of hormones and rage, we never skipped our night. We'd sit six feet apart in silence, but we never skipped it.

"Look, Detective Lennox, Jerry Dandridge is a vampire!" Jess and I said together in sync. We howled and rolled around on the blankets. I reached for a handful of popcorn and shoved most of it in my mouth. Did I forget to eat today? Jess had a candy bar in one hand and a ruby drink in the other. She took a sip of the cocktail and a bite of the candy bar and smiled.

"What is this again?" she asked. She gargled, the weird mixture of candy and liquor swirling in her mouth. I scowled, "That's so gross." She shrugged one shoulder, held her glass up to the fireplace light, and examined it.

"Blood-red oranges, ice, vodka, pomegranate, and I think that's it," I answered. I uncurled my legs, stretching them out in front of me, then dangling the left one over my sister's right.

"Delicious." she complimented, then tipped the glass to her mouth to finish her drink in one greedy gulp, the ice slamming into her teeth, ruby liquid oozing down her chin. Jess held in a laugh, set the glass down gently, and patted at her chin with the back of her hand.

Reaching for a napkin to hand to Jess, I said, "I can't believe that nobody will listen to Brewster. The only kind of person who could look that hot in an eighties man-blowout is a vampire. That's a scientific fact." I handed the napkin to Jess without looking away from the television. She wiped her face and went right back to devouring her candy bar.

"Would you believe someone if they told you that their neighbor was a vampire?" I wondered. On screen, a teenage boy and his sweet-faced girlfriend frantically ran in the street.

"Yes." Jess said, matter of fact, her mouth full of chocolate.

"You're the most skeptical person I know."

"Yes. But still, yes."

"I don't know what I'd think, honestly."

In unison, we recited in a low growl, "You have to have faith for this to work, Peter Vincent!" Jess pretended to hold a crucifix in the air. I couldn't help but to beam at my sister. I fucking loved her.

Jess grimaced, "Not a fan of his goblin face, though."

"Yeah, kinda gross." I agreed. "But that dance scene, damn, it almost brings me to orgasm. I remember in Junior High when we watched this for the first time, and I fell in love with him. I was the only teenage girl who was scanning middle school the next day for a hottie in a cable sweater. And this is why girls are so into douchebags."

"And women. Women are just as bad in movies. All the hot ones are evil, pick me's, or vapid."

"Yeah, I can see that." I stretched, "I'll be right back. Going to grab a refill." I shook the ice around the empty glass and got to my feet. Jess shoved her empty glass at me without pulling her eyes away from the movie. I took her glass, then padded into the kitchen. It took less than two minutes alone before the silence had my head spinning with rage and disappointment again. I got ice from the freezer absentmindedly, my sadness pressing in all around me like a cage. Inhale. I can't breathe . Exhale. I can't breathe. I reached for the decanter of blood-red cocktail mix and filled the glasses slowly with an unsteady hand, staring at the ice and how the ruby juice traveled across it. The floor felt like it was sliding under my feet. This is just anxiety . This is just anxiety. I pressed both of my palms into the counter, focusing on the cold marble, on the smooth steadiness of it.

Then the hair on my neck stood up, the muscles in my back tense and hard, as if the emotional frustration had materialized in my body and invoked a sense of dread. I felt scared. Like something sinister watched me through the window. I spun to look, but there was nothing, just darkness and the subtle reflection of me, face pinched and tired. Stress and exhaustion marked my posture, shoulders curved inward like I subconsciously wanted to hide from myself. I didn't recognize this version of me.

Pacing, I shook out my hands and tried to understand myself. Steven had agreed to therapy. Begrudgingly, but he'd agreed, and that was good, right? So why then was I so hurt? A voice in the back of my mind quipped, "Because you shouldn't have to beg and damn him for making you." I knew that he wouldn't change and that we were done but I just didn't want to accept it. We couldn't spend a few more decades in emptiness together. And if I was being honest, I didn't even know if I loved him anymore. Still, the thought of him moving out, of the girls feeling devastated, of co-parenting…oh Gods. I wanted to strangle him.

I had loved him once. I'd fallen for him in college after I'd wholly shattered from years of grief and the horror of my father's passing, during a time when I needed to feel stable, safe, and cared for and Steven had been all of those things. He was kind and, well, predictable to the point of being utterly boring. Our life together wasn't exciting at all, but the monotony meant no traumatic surprises either, and I loved it. Then, I got pregnant, and the moment my attention shifted away from him to our child, he changed. He became critical, distant, cruel, and angry. Once I started therapy, the more I healed, the less I was willing to give and the less I was willing to take. And the divide only grew. I didn't need to be taken care of anymore, I needed to be seen and heard, proof that I existed, and mattered.

I took in one last deep breath and promised myself in a whisper, "This is it. If therapy doesn't work, I file for divorce. I will let go. I will be okay." Then I grabbed our drinks and returned to my sister.

Little did I know that Steven was about to be the least of my worries.