She knew where to find me.
Knowing women, she’d already forgiven him, and they were flying back to—wherever they were from—to have that wedding she claimed was off. Men made promises. Women believed them because they wanted to. There was no protecting a person from a bad choice if they wanted to make it. In the business I was in, I unfortunately saw the reality of that on a regular basis. For male dancers, sex with a different woman was too easy to get each night. Hell, after a good enough show, too many women were open to wild romps alone or in groups. The lure of that was enough to pull even a good man into the drinking and drugs that went hand in hand with a party lifestyle.
I’d fallen into that world when I first started dancing. The more I worked out, the more women wanted me and, in the absence of anything more that made sense, being wanted had felt good.
Until it didn’t. Waking up next to women I would never see again got old. Hangovers and the need for a quick high got old as well. It was after a night of dancing at a dive club, while counting the cash women had stuffed into my thong, that I said, “No.” No more.
I didn’t want to dance anymore, even if it was the only way to pay off my mother’s medical bills. I didn’t like who I was becoming, and I hated the reason I was there. The same man who had destroyed my mother’s life was also destroying mine.
I was still angry the next night when I returned to the stage. So angry that I didn’t let anyone touch me. It was the first show I’d done sober in a long time, and I started it by announcing that I was inviolable, unbreakable, untouchable.
When I danced that night, it wasn’t for the audience, it was for me, and I didn’t hold back my disgust for what I was doing. I let them see my rage.
A woman had called out, “We love you, Invio!” and my stage name was born.
So, yeah, I understood how a person could be led so far away from their dreams that they started to think they couldn’t be more. I understood how trying to do the right thing could lead a person down the wrong road.
I hoped that was what Jade remembered from our encounter. If nothing else, she might find comfort in the realization that she wasn’t alone. On the other hand, with how much she’d had to drink, there was a chance she might not remember me at all—not the stage me, not the real me.
Forgetting Jade wouldn’t be as easy for me. It had been a long time since I’d met someone who touched me on any level beyond the physical. I wanted to hear that she’d broken free of everyone holding her back. I wanted it so badly I had to take a second look at the man in the mirror.
How much of what I wanted for her was a reflection of what I was yearning for? What was holding me back and how much was I part of my own problem?
No one enjoys asking themselves those questions but doing so led me to using my day off to fly to Catalina Island for the first dive I’d taken in nearly two years. I had to rent gear, join a group of divers to make it affordable, and fly back the same day to save myself the cost of a hotel room, but it was worth it.
Diving Farnsworth Banks wasn’t for the inexperienced and I chose a dive that was led by a man who was known for championing the protection of those ecological reserves. It was a three-tank boat trip from the mainland and the waters were rough.
The tour guide was a master diver on a personal crusade to save the island’s endangered hydrocoral. We tied at one of the few permanent mooring buoys. He led us along anchor lines from other boats to the bottom of the ocean so we could see firsthand the devastation at the end of the line: crushed rock, shattered purple coral, pulverized starfish, mussels, and plants. He photographed the damage and, later on the boat, shared his addiction to tracking down the names of the owners of each boat, even the super yachts. He then sent them a mock invoice along with the photos of the damage their anchor had left in its wake. The payee of the invoice? Future generations because that’s who they were stealing this natural resource from. He included a QR code to a site on how to fund the initiative to install more mooring buoys to save the coral.
So far, his method had not proven effective to gain support for the project, but I understood his motivation. He dove the way I danced. Neither of us were achieving what we wanted. I didn’t tell him that. I doubted he’d see the correlation. It was also refreshing to not be Invio for a day.
I returned from the trip with photos of myself exploring the damaged seabed and a desire to help Farnsworth Banks. Both quickly faded in importance as soon as I stepped back into my life. I had no one to talk to about why the trip had been important to me, no one who would find the photos more than mildly interesting.
So I danced and made money for what was important—paying off my mother’s prior surgery so we could move forward with scheduling her next one.
A week later I received a package at the club.
I told myself to wait but couldn’t. I tore the wrapping off and smiled when I saw the title of the book: Save the Ocean, Save the World: Stories from the World’s Leading Marine Scientists.
There was a message inside the flap of the book: Thank you for believing in me. I needed someone to. I’m single now, unemployed, and moving to Florida to be by the ocean. If you really do want me to send you photos of my journey, text me and we can stay in touch. Jade
She included her phone number then added: I can’t save the world alone. Get that degree and join me.
I blinked back a wave of emotion that nearly caused me to embarrass myself in front of my fellow dancers. The urge to drop everything and fly off to Florida was real, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t put what I wanted before what my family needed.
Someday. Someday it’ll be my turn.
One of my fellow dancers came up to me and asked, “What’d you get?”
When I showed him the book he shrugged. “Lame. Is that from your parents?”
I shook my head and smiled. He didn’t need to understand.
After the show I took the book back to my hotel room and read it until I fell asleep. I didn’t text Jade that night because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t text her the next day either. I wasn’t ready. I booked a flight east to visit my family and remind myself where my priorities needed to remain.
I don’t remember a time when my mother didn’t struggle with her health, but rather than being a burden it had bonded us closely together. Riley and I had both needed to grow up faster than many did, but neither of us resented it. Our mother was one hundred percent love and support. She’d instilled in us a strong sense of family and responsibility. Hard work was simply a part of life and how one demonstrated love and loyalty.
Being home felt good. I joked that Riley still saw the world through rose-colored glasses, and she joked that I couldn’t see much because my enormous ego blocked my view. To prove my humility, I flexed for them, which won a round of groans and laughter.
Teagan, Riley’s best friend since childhood, joined us and it was as if no time had gone by at all. The four of us played cards, teased Mom about her cooking, and ended the evening watching movies, smushed together on a couch that was as old as Riley and I were.
And it was good—so good that I hated to leave the next day, but I had to get back for my next show. We didn’t talk about my job because they respected that I didn’t like to. I did enjoy hearing about Riley’s escapades as a bridesmaid for hire, though. Only Riley could make a living from something like that and enjoy doing it.