She laughs, “Either way, you won’t have to deal with it alone. I promise. I love you.”
We’ve never said I love you to each other. Ever. We have a love that’s just understood, mostly through sarcasm and shoulder bumps. Any other time I would’ve laughed her off the phone, but tonight it just feels right. “I love you too.”
After I hang up I sit on the toilet, staring at the ceiling, paralyzed by fear of calling Melody. It’s the same fear I had in the airport bar a week ago. Even when you know the step needs to be taken, it doesn’t make it any less scary. I view our week together as a success, even if she rejects me. Learning to feel again, after shutting all of your emotions down, is a bittersweet exercise. It hurts at the beginning, having to constantly remind yourself that human connection is a two-way street, requiring both effort and commitment. Like the first day at the gym, there’s pain and the disappointment of not seeing immediate results. But once the initial tears are healed, and the pain reveals itself to be a necessary part of the process, it almost becomes an addiction. I’m tired of channeling my grief into self-destruction, it’s more fun turning it to growth.
“I’m sorry for the things I said to you, Harmony,” I say through the wall of the stall. We’re the only ones in the bathroom, giving me the courage to speak freely. “I dehumanized you, and there’s no excuse for that. You have value as a person, and Amy spoke highly of you.” She doesn’t respond, and I can’t blame her.
The fear comes rushing back as my finger hovers above Melody’s contact. I walk to the sink and rinse my face, but alas, the water doesn’t rinse away the fear. My Uber’s estimated arrival time is six minutes, so I fix myself in the mirror—trying to at least create the illusion that I have my shit together—before heading for the door.
“Miles, wait,” a voice calls out from the stall.
The door to the stall unlocks, and Harmony steps out of the stall, still in her stage gear but carrying a small handbag like my mother’s. I really need to stop subconsciously comparing dancers to the dominant females in my life. She’s at the far end of the restroom, but close enough that I could tell she’s breathing heavily. I dial Melody’s number and wait for the dial tone. I step toward Harmony as ‘Pictures of You’ by The Cure starts blaring from her purse. Either somebody else in the world has impeccable timing, or I’m finally realizing something that’s been standing right in front of me the whole time. I reach her just as the phone stops ringing, and I can hear her breaths, slow and fast, partially muffled by the mask.
I reach behind her and untie the mask, and my heart jumps like it did the first time I saw her. Melody looks apprehensive, unsure of my thoughts, and maybe a little scared that I’m gonna walk away.
But I try not to make the same mistakes twice, and I pull her into a long embrace.
There’s a lot to work through, and stories to swap as we put together the pieces of the puzzle; each of us missing pieces that are held by the other. But, I just wanna live in this moment. She whispers over and over how sorry she is, and each time, I tell her she has nothing to be sorry about. It’s not the most ideal place to reconcile, but nothing about us is ideal, and that’s what makes it work. My phone buzzes, a message that my Uber driver is waiting for me. We both look at the notification, and I can tell she’s scared that I’m gonna leave.
“You think you—”
“Meet me out back in two minutes,” she says, before grabbing her mask and leaving the bathroom.
I leave right behind her and find the Toyota Highlander waiting for me by the valet. He agrees to switch the destination to my hotel and pulls around the back. Melody bursts out the backdoor, her stage attire replaced with a black tracksuit, and if I didn’t tell the driver the plan, he would’ve assumed we robbed the place. Melody jumps in and we head off into uncertainty, but together nonetheless. None of that matters right now, because for once, I actually made a decision to do something because I wanted to, and it didn’t bite me in the ass.
I guess this is it feels like to be on cloud nine.
Twenty-One
All The Pieces Matter
Being on cloud nine is a lot like drinking coffee.
The rush is initially satisfying, numbing you from the world and the responsibilities that come with it. But, if you ever watch a coffee commercial, upon closer review you realize it all takes place no later than noon. It’s hard to convince people to buy your product when they know a crash is inevitably coming. Riding a wave of emotion is no different.
I don’t know what the plan was when Melody came running out of the backdoor of Rogue. It didn’t matter, because in that moment, in spite of everything, we’d found our way back to each other. But, as we sat in the back of the car in Manhattan traffic, the adrenaline levels out and reality buckles up in the front seat. We’re holding hands and looking out of our respective windows, occasionally glancing at each other, unsure of where to start. But, since Lady Luck seems to be in my corner tonight, I start out with the only question I had.
“How did you know?” I ask. Her eyes meet mine, both of us understanding the question, and I feel her grip soften on my hand. “Not that it’ll change my opinion of you,” I reassure her. “But I feel like it’s a good place to start.”
She smiles, relishing the opportunity to spill the beans. “About a year ago, Lily started coming in to the club,” she begins. I knew it. “She became a regular, and slept with about half of my coworkers. But, she could never convince me to come home with her.”
“Because you don’t like women?”
“I’ve played around before,” she says with a smirk, which makes my mind race with possibilities. “But she wasn’t my type, and I vowed to be done with toxic relationships. Once she knew it wasn’t happening, we developed a mutual respect for one another. She stopped being pushy, unlike most of my customers, and I think she started to view me in a different light from the other dancers. Anyway, she’d come in and vent, telling me about her life, and that’s when I learned about you.”
Mentally I’m putting the pieces together, feeling even worst about the accusations I lobbed at Lily knowing that she played it straight. “This was before they died?”
Melody nods. “Yeah. She’d get really drunk and talk about how much she missed you, and the bond you two had. Then a day later she’d be complaining about you. I got the vibe that your relationship was complicated, but eventually she would’ve made the call. But, whatever happened between you guys didn’t stop her from keeping up with your life. I mean, she showed me your whole Facebook profile.”
“I can’t believe she opened up to you like that.”
“You’d be surprised how comfortable people are talking to someone wearing a mask.”
She’s not lying. It was different than any strip club I’d ever been to, but it was perfect for New York City. Adding masks to the mixture of dancers and alcohol created something like an exotic confessional, a place anybody with a few dollars to spill their darkest secrets, and create new ones as well.
“Six months ago,” she continued, “she came in on a slow night, and she was a different person. Usually people come to the club to have a good time, see a little skin. You know, live the fantasy.”