Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

“Yeah, she is, but I kind of wish she wasn’t. I miss her. I just don’t want her to see me like this,” he mutters, glancing down at his worn dressing gown. “And you know she’s going to fight with my mother. It’s not going to be easy.”

“Well, I’ll be there every step of the way.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Always.” I clap him on the back and head back to the couch. When I lie down, all I can think about is Max never getting better. I remember thinking about him dying when we were younger, but then the cancer went away. It has to go away again, right? He’s not even thirty, and we’ve barely lived.

“There’ll be more time,” I reassure myself even though I’m not sure I believe it. “It’s going to be fine.”

Chapter Two

Aubrey

“Excellent work, Aubrey. Very impressive,” the shrew that is my instructor points out as I rehearse for my final. I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and smile. Finally, I feel like I’m getting somewhere.

This is by far my favourite class, even if it is the most punishing on my body. My dad’s only condition about paying for college was that I double major in dance and something else. I chose business. So, while the other dancers only had to worry about their final performance—which would also serve as an audition piece—I was studying my life away for the Econ final. Dad said I needed a backup plan, so a backup plan I have. However, if I’m not accepted at a good company, I’m not sure how well that backup plan will be while I wallow in his basement as a homeless bum with no job.

Toeing across the floor en pointe, I rest in a final bow. When I drop, I glance around the room and find twenty eyes on me and me alone.

“That was amazing!” Jacey whispers, staring at me with glazed-over eyes.

“It’s just a little something I threw together, no big deal,” I mumble, brushing off the compliment. I’ve never been really good at accepting the praise of others when I dance. Everyone has an outlet to escape the tragedy of real life, and this just happens to be mine.

In only twenty-one years, I’ve tried to study every form of dance I can—from tap to hip-hop, and jazz to ballet—but ballet is by far my favourite. There’s just something about the fluidity of the movements—the grace, elegance, and strength. Anyone with rhythm can practice enough to learn a hip-hop number, but for a dancer to stay en pointe for more than a second or two—that’s true strength.

“You could just say thank you, you know,” Jacey teases, and I blush. Again, not good with praise, except from the professors, instructors and company leaders, as their opinions are the only ones which will decide my future.

“Only a few more weeks until your final showcase. Remember to rehearse in your spare time and use class time effectively. Until next week,” the instructor says, dismissing class.

I slip out of my pointe shoes, tossing them in my bag, and slip into a pair of flip-flops. Jacey does the same and follows me out the door.

“Are we going to Kappa tonight?” she asks, and I groan, pulling my long, chestnut hair out of its tightly-wound bun and tying it back in a loose ponytail instead.

“I can’t,” I laugh. “I have so much homework. I’ve kept a 4.0 GPA this long, it seems silly to throw it all away in the last semester. I’ll see you later, though?”

“Maybe not,” she jests with a wink. “Raul’s been sending some serious signals my way. I might just act on them tonight.”

“Don’t you dare bring him back home. I can’t deal with you guys burning up the sheets when I need to burn the midnight oil. I swear I’ll have to kill you this time.”

“Oh, shush. I won’t bring him back. If I’m not home by one, just assume I’m at Kappa, and I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

*****

After rushing through a quick shower and not bothering to wash my hair, I slip into a pair of Nate’s baggy sweat pants and an equally large tee shirt. Spreading all my books and notepads across the bed, I dig into studying until my eyes refuse to read another word. Knowing I got a few solid hours of work done, I neatly put everything to the side and curl under the blanket for some much-needed rest.

What the actual fuck?

The shrill ringing of my phone pulls me from a deep sleep and a fantastic dream about the boy who lives down the hall. Not only am I annoyed that someone has the nerve to interrupt the few hours I have to myself, but my dream was just getting to the good part. Typical.

As I flick on the bedside lamp, the dim glow is bright enough to let me blink a few times to allow my eyes to adjust. Frustrated, I reach over to the nightstand to grab my phone, only to find it’s not there. Then it stops ringing. Pulling my hand back, I try to decide whether to get up and check or roll over and go back to sleep. How important can a call be at three in the morning? J

acey could need me, but she’ll keep calling until I answer. More than likely, it’s Nate looking for a little drunken booty call. On any other night, I’d be cool with it, but I’m too exhausted for him or his penis. My dilemma is decided for me when the stupid thing starts up again. Groaning, I climb off the bed, trip over my Econ book and rummage through my duffle bag until I find the ringing bastard.

I’m ready to rip Jacey a new one, but her name’s not the one illuminated on the screen. Neither is Nate’s. Looking toward the heavens, I ask whoever’s up there, “Why me?” and watch the name flash over and over again.

Mother. I groan and rub my aching head. Why would she ruin a perfectly good year by calling me? It’s been nearly five years since I’ve had any communication with her. We don’t talk. Like, at all. We don’t even email. It’s not that I don’t love her; I think human beings are programmed to love the person who birthed them, regardless of wrongdoings. It’s that whole unconditional love thing. And I know my mum loves me, but we don’t like each other. We haven’t in nearly a decade since I left Australia.

In all my pondering, the ringing stopped again and just as quickly started back up.