How It Feels to Fly(64)

“What’s a so-tay?”

I step toward him. Stand in front of him, facing away. Try to quiet the pounding in my chest. “Put your hands here.” I pat my sides, and then I feel his hands resting lightly in the same spots. “I’m going to jump, and you’ll lift me.”

“Sounds easy enough.” His breath tickles my neck. It reminds me of the blindfold exercise last week, when he helped me knot the bandanna at the back of my head.

“So I’ll go one, two, three—and bend my knees—and then jump on four.”

“Okay.”

I count us off. I jump, lifting my arms into fifth position, pointing my feet, squeezing my thighs together, holding my core muscles strong. My fingers almost touch the gazebo ceiling. Andrew puts me down a little hard, but otherwise—it worked. And it felt great.

“Again?” I say. “Try to help me not crash down to the floor, okay?”

“Got it.”

I count, and jump, and float. This time I’m able to roll through my feet and bend my knees to cushion the landing. No thud. “Good!” I’m getting excited—and it isn’t just Andrew’s touch. I haven’t been lifted like this in so long. “Want to try a leap and carry?”

“Sure. Whatever that is.”

“I’ll prepare like this—” I take two small running steps toward him. “And then I’ll leap and you’ll use the momentum to carry me forward. As far as you can; it’s not like we have a lot of room here.”

“So I just stand here and catch you?”

“No, you take those two steps behind me. This is me being you.” I demonstrate his part, even miming lifting myself and putting me down.

He’s nodding. “Okay.”

We try it. The first one isn’t great, but the second one is better, and the one after that is even better. Andrew isn’t graceful, but he’s strong. And he listens. When I tell him he’s squeezing me too tight, and not to grip me with his fingertips, he lets go really fast and waits for me to show him how much pressure to use. When he doesn’t count off the timing properly, he wants to do it again right away to fix it. Maybe it’s the sports discipline, or maybe it’s just Andrew’s personality, but even in his first and probably last ballet lesson, he’s taking it seriously.

It only makes me like him more.

I don’t have any idea what we look like—we might look horrible, probably do look horrible—but I’m walking on air. I’ve missed this so much. Touching the sky. Hovering above the ground for a second before I land. It’s amazing.

“Let’s try a fish dive.”

“A fish dive?” Andrew cracks up. “Is that, like, a seafood restaurant that makes you puke?”

I laugh louder than I mean to. “No, um, I’ll go into arabesque in front of you. Like this.” I lift my left leg behind me and extend my right arm forward. It’s a position that feels as natural as breathing. And yet I’m having trouble breathing with him standing there. “You’ll put one arm under my leg and the other around my waist, okay?”

He does, being careful about where he grabs me. It’s not just that he’s trying not to hold me too tight. He’s staying far, far away from any . . . delicate areas.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. But you’re going to have to, um, pull my body against yours. So the weight isn’t all in your arms. Ready?”

His grip tightens around me. “Ready.”

I pick up my standing leg and point my right toe toward my left knee. “Okay. Now dip me.”

“Do what?”

“Dip me.”

“Fish, dip—you’re making me hungry.”

“Just . . . bend me forward so my leg goes up and my body goes down, and— You know what? Put me down.”

He does.

I mimic the guy’s position in the lift, holding my own imaginary ballerina, and show him the dip. “Once you have me in the pose, you bend your knee like this and lean this way.”

“Got it.” He repeats the move a few times. “Wanna try again?”

“Yeah.” I get into position. He lifts me. And then, as if he’s been training for years, he dips me and brings me back up.

“I think I’m pretty good at this partnering thing.”

“You’re a natural.” I drop my bottom foot to stand on it again. When he lets go, I miss being in his arms. I miss having my back pressed against his chest.

“Having fun?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say fervently. “Thank you.”

“Then let’s do another one.”

I wonder whether he’s having fun too. Whether he wants to hold me again, like I want to be held.

When his phone alarm goes off to signal the end of our hour, he has me in a shoulder-sit lift. I jump down and we rest, side by side, on one of the wooden benches. We’re so close, I can feel the sweat soaking through his T-shirt. I don’t move away. Neither does he. We’re still and silent for a second, staring toward the house. That second feels like an eternity. I don’t want this eternity to end.

He stands up, and it’s like he’s being ripped away from me. He extends his hand to help me to my feet, and I take it like I’m drowning and he’s my life preserver. When he lets go, I can’t stop feeling the absence of his touch.