The Saint (Notorious 3)

“Feels like forever,” I said.

“Six months is only the beginning of a dry spell,” he said. “A year is officially a drought. More than two years and you have a climate change situation.”

Phillip made a joke of it, but that’s what Phillip did. He laughed off the tough stuff—his father leaving, his family on welfare, having to give up dance. He was more handsome than anyone needed to be, so no one ever credited him with much depth.

“How long has it been?” I asked, the pain lacing his joke so obvious it filled the room.

“One year, one month, two weeks, three days.”

“He’s—”

“Getting better.” Phillip’s optimism was sincere. It had been just over a year since his partner, Ben, had been in a car accident that had totally crushed his hips, and it seemed as though corners were being turned every day. He’d gone back to work last month at his law firm as a consultant for the state government. “He’s out of the wheelchair most of the day now. He only uses it at night when he’s tired. And yesterday—” Phillip’s eyes got big “—Ben got a boner!”

“What?”

“We were in the shower,” Phillip said. “Soaping each other up and suddenly, there it was!”

“What did you do?”

Phillip’s laughter was so bright and beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. “What do you think I did?” Phillip asked. “I dropped to my knees and got reacquainted.”

I laughed so hard the baby did somersaults. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Phillip took a sip of my latte. “It’s Ben that’s amazing,” he said. “I swear to God, every day…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Best man in a suit I’ve ever known.”

“Well, I think the suit part gets negated by the fact that he dresses up like Dolly Parton on the weekends.”

“He does look good in sequins,” Phillip said with a smile that spoke of such love I had to look away, choked up.

I wasn’t lonely, not really. But I wanted to feel what Phillip felt for Ben.

And there was the sex. Sex sometime in the future would be nice.

But not with Carter.

No matter how much my body might want it, my head and heart were voting no.

“Honey?” he said, jostling me. “A boner is nothing to cry about.”

“I know.” I smiled, waving my hands in an attempt to laugh off the spikes of emotion that were making me do crazy things. Want crazy things. “It’s the hormones.”

“Do you…like Carter?” Phillip asked, leaning to look into my eyes.

“Sure,” I said, pretending to be casual.

“What’s he like?”

Funny. Sad, a little. Warmer than he thinks. More passionate than anyone knows. Driven. Single-minded. Sometimes cold. Secretive. Confusing in about a hundred different ways.

“Surprising,” I finally said. “But not for me, so let’s stop talking about him.”

The two of us sat in a nice silence, like a warm puddle of sunshine. I ate some salty beignets and decided to put voice to the idea I’d had while tossing and turning in bed the other night.

“You used to take hip-hop classes, right?”

“Like a million years ago,” he said. But I knew Phillip was being modest. He’d been as passionate about dance as I had, but Phillip was one of five kids and his mom hadn’t been able to sacrifice everything the way my mom had. After Phillip’s dad had left, when it had come down to dance class or paying the electric bill—the electric bill got paid.

“You said you were taking classes again a few years ago.”

“I did. I do.”

I turned to him, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s only one class a week. You don’t tell me everything.”

“Touché,” I said, but secretly I was thrilled. This idea was actually doable.

“What about break dancing—”

“That I did in the eighties?” he asked with a laugh. “When I was ten?”

“But you were good.”

He pursed his lips. “I was good, wasn’t I?”

“I was thinking about offering a free class to teenagers after school. Hip-hop, maybe some jazz. Break dancing.”

He swiveled and stared at me. “Where did this come from?”

Carter, I thought, remembering the fire in his eyes.

But instead of telling my best friend the truth, I shrugged, glancing down at a grease stain that looked like a pair of lips. “Just an idea.”

“It’s a good one,” he said, and I knew he was remembering the days when a free dance class might have changed his life. It was why I’d asked him—he had more in common with these kids than I did, and without commonality, this idea was useless.

“I can’t pay you.”

“I don’t need to get paid. I’ll help, but I’m no expert.” He glanced over my head to the mirror. He popped and locked his arms, flipped up his collar, did a wave. “Still got it, though.”

I put my arms around the man in my life and gave him a big hug. “You definitely got it.”