I hold my top arm straight against the pole and bend my bottom arm slightly as I take a few steps and use the momentum of my body to lift my feet off the ground. I’m supposed to spread my legs into a split as I spin gracefully around the bar, but my arms are shaking like I’ve never done this before, and I somehow feel weaker than when I started my pole dancing lessons four months ago. It’s impossible that I’ve suddenly lost all the muscle I’ve built—I felt so strong last week.
Then, suddenly, my arms give out, and I go sliding down the pole. Luckily, my feet hit the wood floor first, but it’s like my body has turned into silly putty and can’t withstand my own weight. Crumbling to the floor, I lie there on my side. I close my eyes, and despite the thumping of the music and the pink and purple strobe lights, all I want to do is sleep.
“Girl, this ain’t no sleepover. You better get your ass back on that pole,” I hear from above me, and when I open my eyes, I’m greeted by the shiny white leather of Danika’s platform lace-up heeled boots. I don’t know how she walks in those things, much less dances, but on my first visit here, she assured me she’d have me in a pair within six months. That’s never felt less likely than in this moment.
“I can’t.” The words come out like a pitiful croak.
She must squat down next to me, because suddenly her ass is perched on her heels, and across her thick brown thighs rests her leather whip—not that she’d ever actually use it on us, but she threatens us every class. Danika is big, and powerful, and so incredibly badass. I adore her no-nonsense, no-excuses approach. But right now, there’s no amount of threatening that’s going to give me the strength to get back up there.
“Again!” she barks at the rest of the class. Then she reaches out her hand and uses the backs of her fingers to push my damp hair off my forehead. Her fingers feel like icicles as they trail along my burning skin. “You sick?”
Is that concern I hear in her voice?
“I don’t think so?” But even as I say it, I realize that there’s no other reason I could be feeling this way. I must have caught what Graham had. Or maybe not strep—because my throat doesn’t hurt—but some sort of virus.
“You need to get your skinny ass off this floor and get yourself home and in bed.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever referred to my ass as skinny,” I mumble, and my lips curve up in the faintest hint of a smile.
“Yeah, sure.” She lets out a throaty laugh. “Can you walk out of here, or do I have to call someone to carry you home?”
Who would I even have her call? Lauren’s doing me a favor and watching Graham tonight since Jules is out of town. Jameson is at home with the twins, who are definitely asleep by now. Morgan’s on a plane halfway to Las Vegas. A couple of years ago, I could have called Scott—he would have come and picked me up, although probably begrudgingly. I don’t know why my mind immediately goes to Drew, and the way he dropped everything a few nights ago to come bring me ibuprofen. I can’t call him to help me out again so soon, and I shouldn’t be comparing him to Scott anyway. The situations are not the same.
“You got a boyfriend or something?” Danika asks, because apparently, I haven’t bothered to respond.
“Nope.”
“Any friends I can call?”
I push myself up onto one elbow. “No one who’s free tonight. I can get myself home.” I roll onto my hands and knees and muster up the energy to stand. The muscles in my legs protest, the tendons screaming at me as they stretch out. Why does every muscle ache? I hold on to the pole for balance.
“You sure?” Danika asks.
“Positive,” I say. I’ve always taken care of myself, and usually everyone else around me too.
When I make it to my car, where it’s wedged into the tiny lot with too-small spaces, I collapse into the seat. If Lauren wasn’t at my house, waiting for me to return so she could go home to her own family, I’d probably lock the doors, close my eyes, and sleep. But I can’t. Instead, I back out of the space, using all my strength to turn the steering wheel, and then head out onto the street.
I have my car call Lauren’s cell, and when she answers, I tell her I’m on my way home. “Is Graham in bed yet?”
“No. Should he be?”
I glance at the clock on the dash, realizing that I’m thrown off because I’ve left dance early. There’s still half an hour before his bedtime. “No.” The word sounds like defeat rolling off my lips.
“What’s wrong?” Lauren asks, and I can picture the look of concern on her face.
“I’m sick.”
“Oh no. Think you have strep?”
“No idea.”
“Want me to take Graham back to our house? Jameson can bring him to school in the morning. It’s right by his office.”
Tears leak out of the corner of my eyes. I’m so thankful for the offer that I almost can’t respond. I don’t get sick. I haven’t felt this bad since I had the flu in college, and so I’d forgotten how much it sucks.
“Yes, please. His antibiotics are on the counter in the kitchen. Will you bring one for him to take in the morning? I don’t want him to miss a dose.”
“Okay,” she says, then I hear her call out to Graham, “Hey, Bud, your mom isn’t feeling good. How about I bring you back to my house for a sleepover? You can wake Iris and Ivy up in the morning with donuts!”
The tears roll down my face, and I don’t bother wiping them away. I have the best freaking family.
“Thank you.” The words are a whisper, but she must hear them because she tells me that’s what friends are for.
And when I get home, she’s already left with Graham. I force myself to go up the back stairs and into my house, where I collapse on the couch and give in to the exhaustion.
