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Our parents divorced when we were much younger and it was so messy, so rage-filled, that I think we both saw no choice but to get out.
I park my car and shuffle to the door, unlocking it and stepping in. Gavin’s on the couch again, something I haven’t quite gotten used to yet. There were so many times I would come home to an empty apartment, or to Gavin in his room working, or at the dining table on his laptop until late at night, not talking to anybody. Not giving me a second glance.
We’re back to Netflix, apparently.
“What’s up?” I ask as I step out of my shoes.
“Remember Woodstock 99? There’s a wild documentary on it right now.” There’s some semblance of excitement in his voice, but it might sound forced.
“Oh. Cool.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Also, did you know that otters love to play in toilets? I watched that documentary earlier.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He keeps his eyes on the TV.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks … sad. He looks lost.
“How was your day?” he asks.
I walk over to sit on the couch with him. “It was good. Started up a new session.”
“And Tara’s still leaving?”
“Yeah, she is.” I nod.
“You okay?”
“I’mfine.” Too many people are asking at this point. “Just going to figure out what I’m doing next.”
“You’re going to stop teaching?”
This question from him feels more accusatory than he probably means for it to, and I never quite know how to answer it.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say, sighing. “I don’t know, maybe not.” My response is a jumble of words that make no sense to me, let alone him.
I don’t know why I say it, or why I’m fighting any of it. Maybe I am just having a minute like I told Tara that night at Waffle House. I need to get over my shit, get over this hump of whatever and keep moving forward.
The truth is the last competition we were in, we didn’t even place. Tara and I had worked on that routine the bare minimum. She decided to head back to school for her master’s and I had picked up another job as a choreographer for a local dance group production. We’d both struggled with finding the time and energy. And when we competed, it was clear that the want was not there like it once was. Some critics had things to say. They always do. Like how our routine had become derivative and stale, how the spark seemed to be dwindling.
“Where were the champion dancers tonight? This is not the Logan Beck and Tara O’Byrne we once knew. This is not good.”
Those words still play on in my mind every so often, reminding me of the failure. Pushing on it like a fresh bruise, recklessly wanting to feel the pain. I was embarrassed by that result. Angry. I had let myself down, and I had let Tara down. I had, indirectly, let Gavin down, too. I told myself I was done with it, and I wasn’t going back. I wasn’t going to throw myself into that again, bruising my ego for whatever I was chasing. That was the last one.
“Want to watch this show with me?” he offers.
I can’t remember the last time we just hung out. I can’t remember the last time we’ve talked this much. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll grab some beers.” I head to the fridge, pull out two bottles, and bring them back over to the couch.
Gavin and I sit on opposite ends, and he presses play.
Tara’s leaving, so I don’t have a partner. A new session just started, and Gavin is home, sitting on the couch with me, while we drink beers and watch some bullshit on TV.
Maybe it’s time to really move along and find something new. I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen. I can’t do it forever. But even as I think it, I feel a lump in my throat start to form. That’s a long time to do something. To be attached to it. To have it define me.
After my part time stint last year, the local production said they would gladly offer me something full time. The same theater would eagerly take me as their production manager. The options are there. I just have to take them.
Chapter seven
