Page 85 of Let’s Make a Scene

I’ve only danced with Jack once before, and it was on-screen in A Lady of Quality—a carefully choreographed Regency number that involved very little touching. Now, I realize that while I’ve been worrying over the documentary, he’s been leading me with the graceful ease of a man who knows what he’s about.

In answer to my comment, he twirls me away, reeling me back in and catching me in his arms, almost before I know it’s happening. When I look up, his white teeth flash.

“You’ve had lessons.” It’s not a question, just an observation.

“For years,” he agrees. “All part of my theatrical training. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a song-and-dance man.”

“You can tap-dance?” I ask carefully, because we’re straying into more of my childhood fantasies here. Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain? HOT.

I feel him shrug under my hand, and it looks like that’s all the answer I’m getting.

“You’re a good singer, too,” I say, remembering his karaoke performance. “So what happened? You went off the idea of being Gene Kelly and decided you wanted to be Olivier instead?”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not exactly. When I told my parents I wanted to go into musical theater, they told me in no uncertain terms that it was not a dignified job for an actor, and that the singing and dancing had to come to an end.”

“What?” I pull back to look at him, but he doesn’t look hurt or unhappy; if anything I’d say his expression is one of resignation. “That’s some elitist bullshit,” I fume. “And you listened to them?”

“It was kind of my thing for a long time. Listening to them.”

I let that sit between us for a moment, while he pulls me back in close and we dance. What I’ve heard about Max Jones and Caroline Turner leads me to believe they are not ideal parents. “I’m sorry that they had that sort of hold over you,” I say, finally. “It must have been difficult.”

The song comes to an end, and Jack spins me one more time. When I end up back in his arms he smiles down at me, a soft smile. “Thanks for the dance,” he says.

I’m about to suggest we track down Theo and Clemmie when I hear a familiar voice, and my entire body descends into chaos so fast I barely have time to register what’s happening.

“Cynthie?” Jack’s voice sounds urgent, but also far away as I turn. My limbs move slow and heavy, like I’ve suddenly found myself under water.

It’s easy enough to find him. In a cruel twist, the lights from the dance floor spotlight him perfectly, as if he’s been placed there, center stage.

Shawn Hardy is here. And he’s not alone. He stands next to his pregnant wife, laughing at something someone else is saying. He shifts, and his gaze meets mine. It’s like an electric shock, and not the same way it is with Jack—not the sparky, tingling, thrill—no, this is more like my organs are shutting down and I’m about to collapse. A call-911 kind of shock.

Something flares for a moment in his eyes, but otherwise there’s no sign that he’s even recognized me. He lifts his hand, but it’s not to acknowledge me, instead he places it on his wife’s waist, and then—very deliberately—he turns away.

“Cynthie.” Jack’s voice is louder now, closer to my ear. His hand is on my shoulder and he tugs gently, so that I spin around, so that I’m facing him.

“I can’t… I can’t breathe,” I manage to whisper over the frantic clattering of my heart. My fingers are full of pins and needles.

Jack wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. “Okay, we’re getting out of here.” The words are soft, and he’s already guiding me toward the back of the room, away from the crowd. I don’t know if people are watching me melt down. I can’t bring myself to care about it right now. Every bit of my focus is on the air sawing in and out of my lungs.

“Just take it slow,” he says, and I cling to his voice as dark spots start to dance in the corners of my vision.

“Hey, is there a back door out of here?” I hear him ask. He pulls something out of his pocket with a rustle, and dimly, I understand that it’s cash changing hands. There’s the murmur of more conversation, and then we’re slipping behind one of the swags of navy silk that line the walls and through a door into a narrow corridor.

“Just down here,” Jack says, and then at the end of the corridor there’s another door, and this one—blessedly—leads outside.

We’re in a dingy courtyard, the home to a couple of large recycling bins, but the air is cool and sweet, and I try to pull in more of it.

“Cynthie.” Jack comes to stand in front of me and takes my hand in his. Carefully, he places my palm over my heart. “Do you feel your hand against your chest? Do you feel your heart beating?” His voice is low, hypnotic, and I nod. “Okay. Now, picture yourself sending warmth through your hand into your chest,” he says.

I try to concentrate on what he’s saying, and something is working; I feel more connected to my body, my fingers on my skin, my heart thumping under my palm. The tight bands wrapped around my chest start to loosen.

“Concentrate on the pressure of your hand,” he says again, “and take a deep breath with me.”

I do as he says, and this time the breath comes easier, the buzzing in my ears starting to recede.

“That’s good, now take another one. In and out, just like that.”

I keep my hand on my chest, and close my eyes, focused only on the sound of his voice curling toward me like a golden thread in the dark. I don’t know how long we stand there, but eventually I settle, feel my body come back under control, and my eyes flutter open.