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Maeve peers at me with studious eyes. “I bet you can bowl. I want you on my team.”
“Why do you think I can play well?” I ask.
“Because you do pole like a badass babeandyou spend all day doing strategy things at work. That’s why.”
But I don’t do pole like a badass babe. I do it like I’m grocery shopping with coupons, and I’ve found a cheaper way to make chickpea salad. I find substitutions. I don’t go all in. I do it like I’m holding back because…I have to hold back.
“I don’t feel very strategic these days,” I admit, since I’m more than ready for the wallow hour. “Either in pole or life.”
Maeve sets down the box wine. Fable shrugs off the jacket and pats the seat next to her. I take it.
Josie sits next to me, wrapping an arm around me. “What do you mean?”
I lower my face for a second, considering whether I’m going to say this or not. But they have to know. They go to class with me, and really, it’s easier to talk about pole than to deal with the wild mess of my feelings for Max. I look up and face them. “I just…sometimes really want to do…these other tricks. Ayesha’s a dream move. So is Iron X. I’d love to be strong enough someday. But also, I’d just like to do a real outside leg hang. Without holding on, you know? Or…anything. And I should try, but I don’t, which is so dumb.”
“It’s not dumb,” Josie says, emphatically. “It’s where you’re at right now.”
“The fact that you goto pole class at all after what happened is a big fucking deal,” Maeve says, squeezing my thigh. “The PTSD has to be real.”
I sigh. “Sometimes it is,” I say. “But is that really an excuse?”
“That sounds like someone else talking,” Fable says, then gives me a gentle but firm stare. “And as someone who’s got a dad who takes up too much space in the room too, I bet that’s where it’s coming from. But don’t beat yourself up because you’re not ready to try a new thing,” Fable adds, and way to read me.
“She’s right,” Josie seconds.
“But it’s just such a…vain reason,” I say.
Maeve shakes her head. “It’s not vain. It’s how you feel. You went through something huge, and you don’t have to recover at any particular pace. Do it at your own speed. And if I could do a stargazerat allI’d be seriously impressed with myself. Don’t knock what you choose to do. Maybe the strategy you’ve taken with pole is exactly the strategy you need.”
I mull on that for several seconds. She might be onto something. Perhaps I have been strategic in the way I need when I go to the studio. But I need to be strategic about Max now. I need tostopfeeling. I need to move forward. “I need a strategy for how to deal with all these wild feelings,” I say, squaring my shoulders, looking for help.
“For the sex pirate?” Fable asks.
“Yep. Because I need to resist him. I mean it this time,” I say, then because I’m trying to be more strategic, I peer around, checking my surroundings. You never know who might be here. Satisfied that it’s not crowded in the alleytonight, I turn back to my friends and lower my voice as I update them on everything from Elias to the equipment room to Max’s shirt, while Maeve pours the wine.
“Damn, he is down bad for you,” Fable says, with a low whistle.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he hates me.” But that doesn’t ring true anymore at all.
Josie shakes her head. “I think hate turned to not hate pretty quickly.”
My chest tingles, but that’s the dangerous feeling I’m trying to avoid. “Same for me. That’s the issue,” I say with a helpless shrug, then asking the big question. “How do I handle seeing him again? Every time I see him I?—”
“Take off your panties?” Josie offers.
I laugh, but I’m laughingat mebecause she’s so right. “Yes, get me panties that lock, please.”
With a thoughtful gaze, Maeve taps her chin. “I saw a pair just like that at Risqué Business. They have a padlock. And you have to open the padlock with your tongue,” she says, and she’s totally serious.
“That’s a whole new form of tongue exercise,” Fable remarks.
“Yes, and if a man can open a padlock with his tongue, I’m not sure I want to resist him,” I point out.
“That’s sort of the point of the panties,” Maeve stage-whispers.
“Gee, thanks. I didn’t realize,” I say dryly.
“But the point is, you need the equivalent. What if we’re your padlocks?” Maeve suggests.
