30

  UPSIDE DOWN DAY

  Everly

  “When you’ve had a rough day at work…hang upside down.”

  That’s what Kyla says to me when class ends that night. After I hightailed it out of the arena, I went straight to a pole class solo. I didn’t want to talk to my friends about what happened today. But that’s because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to move.

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask.

  “A little,” she says with a smile. “But then again, I can kind of recognize the feeling. It was a rough day at the day job too.” She glances around the studio as most of the students shuffle out. I’m grabbing my water bottle as she asks, a little nervously, “Hey, any chance you can stick around to shoot some videos?”

  “Of course,” I say immediately, since I’ve done that in the past for her as part of her efforts to promote the classes she teaches here.

  “Thank you,” she says, flashing a grateful smile. “Marketing is nonstop these days. The Upside Down owner told me the landlord is upping the rent, so she’s marketing it even harder. Translation: I’m marketing it even harder.”

  “I’m at your service then,” I say, happy to help. I like having something to do. I like being useful.

  “Give me five minutes to straighten up so I don’t have to kick myself if I find a stray towel in a video,” she says as the last student waves goodbye. “You can climb or play on your phone or whatever.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I have zero interest in getting on my phone. I turned it off when I left work. I don’t really want to turn it back on. There’s a part of me that likes being unreachable right now.

  No—there’s a part of me that needs it.

  I spend so much of my life plugged in. Maybe too much.

  As Kyla tidies the room, I return to the pole, wanting to keep moving. I already burned off my frustration in class. I’m not upset anymore. My job is handling problems, and I did it today. I’m proud of how I handled a complicated situation. I’m proud of how I took an event that was spiraling out of control and yanked it back into the orbit the team wanted.

  So I savor one more moment on this chrome pole that has meant more to me than I ever expected. Or maybe I should have expected this connection. This pole has given me so much. It’s been a reconnection with friends. But also with Marie. We were supposed to do this together, and that was why it was so hard for me to start this class. But I know—I really know—she’d be proud of me. She’d have cheered me on when I walked through the studio door more than a year ago. She’d have been telling me I could do it each time I came back. She always believed in me, more than anyone. Certainly more than my own parents. I was the same way with her, encouraging her to go to culinary school, to pursue her dreams to be a chef, to explore the world.

  Grabbing the pole with my right hand—my stronger side—I do a one-armed spin. It’s a simple move—one of the first I learned. I fly right past the mirror, checking my form. Objectively, it’s good. But I can see the flaws. I’m not sure anyone else could. Because the flaws aren’t in the execution. They’re in my head. In my choices to only do certain tricks.

  But is that a flaw? I remember Maeve’s words from the other day—do it at your own pace.

  Maybe my workaround isn’t truly a cheat. Maybe it’s the life hack I’ve needed. But what if I didn’t need one?

  That question echoes in my head as I shift to another trick, one I’ve been doing for a while—an outside leg hang. I do it at my own pace. Grabbing it with both hands, I kick up my legs into the air while dropping my head toward the floor. I hook my left leg around the pole, my ponytail spilling toward the mat while I hold on tight.

  “Nice work!” Kyla shouts from the cubbies.

  “Feels pretty good,” I say on a sharp breath, not breaking the hold. It feels great actually. It’s everything I needed tonight.

  A reset.

  Even though I keep wondering.

  What if…?

  “Do you want a pic?” she asks, waggling her phone as she walks toward me.

  It’s not the first time that she’s asked. I normally decline. When a kernel of tension forms in my gut, I know I’ll do it now too. Maybe I’m not ready for my what-ifs.

  I flip over and stand upright again, shaking my head. “I don’t have social media,” I say.

  She gives me a look—a friendly one, but a look nonetheless that says she knows that’s an excuse. “I hate to break it to you but you can take a picture just to take a picture.” She pauses, her soft blue eyes thoughtful. “You’ve made a lot of progress in a year and a half. You can take a picture just for you. It doesn’t have to be for the world.”

  Like I wear lovely lingerie—so I can take back my power, even if it’s just for me.

  I glance at her racy red sports bra, then down at my beige fitted tee that covers so much skin—skin I need to show to do the moves I crave. We’ve never discussed why I wear short-sleeve shirts to class. Kyla’s never asked, nor has she butted in to suggest I wear a sports bra like she does. She accepts her students for who they are, where they are, and however they feel comfortable in their skin.

  But I came here tonight for a reset, not to document it, so I shove those nagging little wishes far away. I stayed to help, not to make this moment about me. “Let me get your videos.”

  She pauses, but then acquiesces. “Sure,” she says, handing me her phone.

  She grabs the pole and whips through several advanced tricks like a dance ninja, moving from a Superman to the Titanic, a shoulder mount to a brass monkey, till she executes an Ayesha—an upside-down V where she’s holding on with only her hands. It’s so good I don’t dare breathe as I shoot the video. I don’t want to be the one to mess up this moment. When she flips off the pole, I clap loudly. “You look like a goddess.”

  She catches her breath, then says in a warm, encouraging voice, “So do you, Everly.”

  I peer around the studio for good measure. It’s just us. No other students, and none are coming.

  It’s been a year and a half of me wearing T-shirts.

  A year and a half of holding back.

  A year and a half of longing to let go.

  Maybe it’s time to stop hiding.

  Pole isn’t just for my friends and me. It’s also for only me.

  After today, and how I handled the event, maybe I am ready. Or maybe I’m not but I think I’m doing it anyway. Courage isn’t always something you’re ready for. Sometimes you have to choose it. I hand her the phone. “Will you take a picture…for me?”

  Her smile is proud. “I will.”

  Then I do something incredibly hard. I take off my shirt, leaving on only my sports bra with my short shorts. I roll my lips together, bracing myself.

  But Kyla doesn’t cringe at all the scars on display, the zigzags down my back, the jagged cuts on my arm, the raised one across my shoulder. She looks at me…the same. Before and after, scars and all. I walk to the pole, feeling horribly vulnerable that the parts I like least are visible at last.

  But then…fuck it. I grab the pole and kick up into my outside leg hang, dropping my head toward the floor. I’m still holding on like I’ve done every single time, in every single class. My life hack. My workaround.

  Except…what if?

  I let go, and press the outside of my now bare arms against the pole—skin to metal for the first time ever.

  She snaps a shot and cheers. “You nailed it,” she says, even brighter than before.

  I stay upside down for a beat, savoring the way my arms tingle, how I feel the slightest bit lightheaded but in a good way. Mostly, how I’m strong and powerful.

  When I step off the pole my throat is tight. Quickly, I pull the shirt back on. “I don’t know if I’ll do that in class,” I say quietly.

  She gives a one-shoulder shrug and a smile. “We’re all ready for things at different times in our life. Wear what you want. Try what you want. Just keep coming.”

  “I will,” I say, then I leave, feeling like I’ve reset my mind in the most necessary way—through my body. Pole dancing has always done that for me since I started it. It’s a reclaiming of my body. Of myself. Of being alive.

  I head home, hop into the shower, and wash off the chaos of the day and the hard work of the class. When I’m done, I tug on sweats and a tank top, then head to the kitchen as the door buzzer sounds from my phone. Worry races through me. It’s evening. I’m not expecting a delivery. And I certainly don’t answer the door to strangers.

  Like it’s a gun I need for protection, I grab my phone from my sweatpants pocket.

  Oh.

  The camera app tells me it’s not a stranger with a delivery. It’s Max with a delivery. An annoying burst of excitement rushes through me, along with nerves too. No idea why he’s here. I wish I weren’t excited at all to see him. I wish I felt nothing.

  But I don’t. I feel too much for a man I can’t have. That’s the problem.

  I grab a hoodie and zip it up halfway since I might be ready for my teacher to see my scars but I’m not ready for Max to see all of me.

  I buzz him into the building, and it feels like it takes an eternity and no time at all for him to bound up the stairs. When I open the door he’s holding two paper cups, like he’s weighing them as his eyes lock with mine. “I didn’t just get an extra London fog that day in Seattle by chance. I got it for you.”

  31

  THE BOYFRIEND TREATMENT

  Everly

  My heart bounces from the admission. But does it really change anything? I don’t know. That’s the problem with Max—I’ve never had answers. Maybe because I haven’t ever known the questions.

  Or the score.

  I try to tamp down my emotions as I hold open the door for him. He’s a guy coming to apologize, and that’s that. “It’s a London fog latte,” he explains as he hands me a cup.

  It’s just a caffeinated beverage. I take it, trying not to clasp it as if it’s some incredible gift while I berate myself for wishing it were one. I shouldn’t want his gifts so much, or the boyfriend treatment behind them. I shouldn’t want them to mean something…big.

  Like he’s mine.

  He swallows roughly, then nods to the cup in my hand. “I didn’t know if you liked decaf at night. So I got you both. That’s the caffeinated one.”

  I clutch it tighter. “I live for caffeine.”

  “Me too,” he says, but his voice sounds raw. “Everly, I didn’t know she was coming.” It’s said like a confession—one that’s vital for me to know.

  “It’s okay. I’m not upset.” That’s mostly true. Pole got me through my topsy-turvy, terrifying feelings—I have too many of those when it comes to this man. But I don’t have a right to be upset. He’s not mine, and he can’t be mine.

  Max steps closer, pushing the door closed behind him. The last time we were alone in my house I wound up against the wall, in his arms, falling apart. I can’t let that happen again tonight.

  “I feel like shit because she texted me a few days ago,” he adds.

  I freeze. “She did?” I’m so confused now. I don’t know what to think.

  “She said hi and asked if we could talk. I ignored it,” he says, like that was the worst thing he could have done when I probably would’ve done the same if I were him. “That was a mistake. I have no idea why she showed up today. No clue what she’s up to. But I probably could’ve stopped her if I’d picked up the phone and talked to her.” He drags his free hand through his wildly messy hair that he’s likely been making messier all night. “Like I could have stopped all those goals tonight. I fucked that shit up too.”

  “It’s one game. The season is long. You put it behind you like you always do,” I say, reassuring him because he’s surprisingly hard on himself tonight after a loss. He’s not usually like this.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he says, but his eyes betray his frustration.

  Then I remember what the press said—that she consoled him after losses. Maybe they know more about him than I do. Maybe this is how he normally behaves when they don’t win. Maybe I know him less than I’d thought I did.

  I feel so unmoored. I take a drink of the beverage rather than speaking. I’m not sure what I’m ready to say to him.

  When I lower the cup, he says, “I brought you something else too.” He dips a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and takes out an envelope.

  I wasn’t expecting anything at all. I gesture to the purple couch and we sit down, setting the cups on the French blue wooden coffee table across from me. He hands me the white envelope, and it’s from You Look Gorgeous Today. “That’s my salon,” I say.

  I look at the card as if it’s an oddity, then at the man who’s not scowling at me, or smirking. Those are his usual expressions. But right now, his face is open, hopeful.

  Curious, I slide a finger under the flap, then take out the card and flip it open. “A lifetime supply of blowouts for Everly Rosewood,” I read out loud, my mouth falling open in shock before I say, “You covered all of my blowouts for the rest of my life?”

  Max smiles, that familiar cocky variety that hits me right in the heart and in the panties. “You once said if you had a dollar for every time I turned down a media request, you’d have enough for a lifetime supply of blowouts from your stylist, Aubrey. So I googled stylists named Aubrey in the city and went to her salon tonight.” His smile burns off. “I wanted to give you something you wanted. Something you’d never do for yourself. Something that mattered. Because I know the event didn’t go perfectly and even if she wasn’t there, I wasn’t…” He stops to collect his thoughts. “I’m not some affable guy. Like Asher. Someone the press loves. Or even Wesley who has this easy way about him. That’s not me. I don’t know if it will ever be me. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to pull this off. I really don’t like all the attention.”

  He’s not complaining. He’s simply laying himself bare.

  Something in me softens. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him he should just be himself and that none of this image stuff matters. But we live in a world of reputation and perception. We work in that world. We don’t have the luxury of shying away from the public. “It can be hard and uncomfortable,” I say gently, wanting him to know I understand where he’s coming from. “But for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job. I don’t think anyone expected you to transform overnight or to become somebody who loves that stuff. I know I didn’t expect that.”

  He sinks into the couch, blowing out a breath like that eases his mind somewhat but perhaps not completely, since he adds, “But you are good at it. You’re good at all of this. And I want you to know how much it means to me. If it wasn’t for you, I probably would’ve gone full beast in Beauty and the Beast today. And I mean the bellowing beast,” he says with a wry grin, and it’s like he’s waiting for me to laugh, but with that comment I’m even more confused by this gift. Is it a professional gift or a personal one? I turn the card over a few times, wondering if it’s a thank you for my hard work, or if it’s…more?

  There’s no room in your professional life for more. “You didn’t have to do this,” I say of the gift, since that’s the easiest reply to give.

  He sits up straighter. “I wanted to. I wanted you to have something you like,” he says, then goes quiet, perhaps waiting for me to look at him again in the silence. And I do because I’m too drawn to him. When our gazes connect, he says, “The only thing on my mind during the event was you. All I could think about was you. I was so fucking worried you’d think I was back together with Lyra.”

  You. All I could think about was you.

  Those words wrap around me, like an embrace from a lover. Like a whispered confession. Like everything I secretly wanted to hear. My chest swells with emotion. I close my eyes because it’s all too much tonight. All these feelings I never wanted to have for him are bubbling up, overwhelming me. I hardly know what to do with them—whether to give them voice or keep them safe, locked up inside me.

  Another question I don’t have the answer to.

  His strong hand cups my chin, his touch tender. My eyes fly open, and he’s looking at me with so much longing in his blue eyes. “The whole time I was there, the only thing that mattered was what you thought. I know what everyone else was saying. They were acting like I’d gotten back together with her. They were trying to create this story that she was there to support me. But all I cared about was what you thought. You, Everly. Just you.”

  My heart pounds mercilessly against my rib cage, fighting to get into his arms. It’s such a lovely, gorgeous admission and such a dangerous one too. And I hate that I love it so much. But he’s cracking open his heart. I can try to open some of mine. “I honestly wasn’t sure what to think. And I didn’t want everything we’d worked for to fall apart. I felt so much pressure. I feel all this pressure every day at work—pressure I put on myself. Pressure they put on me. It’s good pressure, mostly. But it’s still pressure, and I really needed the event to go well. Then, out of nowhere she appeared, and everything went off the rails. The press lost their mind, and she became the story—not everything we were trying to build. And even though I felt so unsteady, I had to ignore all these feelings inside me and…right the ship somehow. I had to find a way to put everything back in order. It’s silly but I felt like I was the only one who could do it. I wouldn’t let it fall apart,” I say, taking a small step closer as I speak the truth on all those fronts. As I let him in.

  “And you did it. You’re a fucking goddess. But you have to know why I’m so bad at pretending in front of the media. I couldn’t think about the event, not even the dogs, not the script you gave me. All I could think about was you. And whatever it is that you’re doing to me…that I just can’t stop,” he says, and this feels so unreal. Like it’s happening to someone else in another world, in another story. Someone who has a different job that isn’t hemmed in by so many unwritten rules.