Not a Reaper in sight. With the weight off my mind, I looked forward to getting to dance class so I could channel my nervous energy into something meaningful.
Warming up, I sighed as I caught sight of Pasha out of the corner of my eye. His well-defined, muscular legs and broad shoulders were a testament to his dedication to the art of dance. My chest rose and fell as I took a deep breath and turned.
“Hi again. Are you joining us for class?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. His beautiful golden eyes bored into mine, imploring me to admit I recognized him.
“Myshka, why are you doing this to me?” His voice was so different, all manly now.
“Mr. Lenkov, I do—”
“Pasha. Please call me Pasha,” he requested.
“Mr. Lenkov, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m not this ‘Myshka’ girl. My name is Kinsley,” I insisted.
“How old are you? At least answer me that?”
I hated the confusion and hurt in his eyes. It pained me to be the one who was causing him turmoil. “You know, we Americans find asking a woman her age or her weight insulting. We don’t like that,” I said, trying to deflect.
“Dance with me just once, and I’ll know if I’m right,” he declared, grabbing my hand. He went to maneuver our bodies in an old formation, and I gulped, willing my body not to respond.
I’d give anything to dance with him one more time. But instead, I pulled away and left him standing alone by the mirror, both of us feeling miserable.
“This makes me even more sure that you’re my little Mouse. If you weren’t her, you wouldn’t be afraid to dance with me so I’d finally leave you alone,” he said softly to my retreating back.
I ignored him and continued walking over to Mr. Dulaine, tears pooling in my eyes. He was mid-demonstration while “Ashes”blared in the studio speakers. He glanced at me in concern, so I put a fake smile on my face and got into position.
As I looked at Pasha once more, my heart ached like it was being ripped from my chest. Fighting back a quiet sob, I shifted my focus to the routine instead.
Doubt crept in, unsure if I could do this with him standing and watching. Never had I allowed myself to dream of running into him again, let alone being in the same room. A memory resurfaced, and a pang of sadness filled my heart. I think he may have been twelve years old, making me seven.
“Myshka, I can’t marry you. You’re like my little sister.”
“Nuh-uh. We’re not related, and one day you’ll love me as I love you, and we’ll have babies who dance and take the world by storm. You wait and see, Pasha.” I poked him in the stomach.
“Myshka, you don’t even know how babies are made, you silly girl.”
“I do so. My papa and mama are making one right now.”
“Right now? Oh, Myshka, you have so much to learn.” He shook his head at me, making me upset.
“Yes, Pasha, you don’t know everything.” I stood on my tiptoes, trying to appear taller.
He tossed me high into the air effortlessly, his grip providing a sense of safety even as I soared. The rhythmic beat of the music dictated our moves and routine. Standing precariously on his shoulders, I placed my hand on his head to push myself into a handstand.
As I stretched my body into a straight line, I marveled at how the sun shone through the window and glinted off his thick brown hair.
“He is so making a baby. He loves my mama, and that’s how babies are made—with love,” I exclaimed while upside down.
The room filled with his laughter, followed by thethumpof my feet as he set me back down and tugged on my long braid.
“Myshka, your papa is standing over there talking to mine. Babies aren’t made when a man speaks to another man, trust me. Your parents aren’t making a baby right now.” He stretched and rolled his shoulders as our silly argument continued.
“It takes a long time for a baby to be made, Pasha. You and I will have a baby too. I may have one already being made.” I pushed my belly out, which only caused him to laugh harder.
Both of our fathers noticed and came over to see what was going on.
“You should be practicing. Now, tell us what’s so funny,” my father asked.
After all was said and done, everyone had laughed at my foolishness. I remembered my papa telling me we’d talk about how babies were made another time.
