Chapter Eight
Game of Stone

Pierre had termed it my ‘other life’ and that was nearly accurate.  Or at least it felt that way. 

 

I’d spent many years with a singular focus, believing I had to be all-in to excel in my chosen field.  But I’d long since understood that the way I spent my time outside of the courtroom or office positively, and admittedly, at times, negatively, impacted my practice.  Dance had brought about more benefits than other endeavors and that is perhaps why I had tunnel visioned my way into what my future law partner deemed a whole other life. 

 

I somewhat regretted that I had once again taken on a time-sensitive challenge, but that feeling was instantly outweighed by my enjoyment of the no fear sense of things I got to experience by not thinking too much, planning too much or considering my body too much.

 

When I arrived, Natalie was nowhere to be found and I wasn’t surprised.  But my favorite Sailor was already blasting tunes and bouncing from partner to partner.  He nodded in my direction as I entered the room.  After a few greetings to fellow students, I surveyed the group and decided that Natalie had put together the most talented of her class to participate in this event.  There was only one gentleman I didn’t recognize, but after a quick warm-up session with Derek, he offered introductions.

 

“Parker, this is Eddy,” Derek said as he placed a hand on my shoulder.

 

“Enchantee,” Eddy smiled.

 

“Egalement,” I responded.

 

“Okay then,” Derek inserted staring at both of us blankly.

 

“Where are you from?” I inquired of my new dance partner in English, expecting him to respond in French.

 

“London but way of Surrey,” he responded with an incredibly thick accent.

 

“Interesting,” I smiled. 

 

Derek looked back and forth between us a few times and then commanded, “you two are with me.”

 

We followed him to the corner of the studio where he proceeded to teach me the routine that Eddy already had memorized.  Eddy’s hold was light, extremely like, as if he was afraid to break me.  It was difficult to follow.  Noticing Eddy’s hesitancy, Derek snatched me a few times to show my partner how to properly lead in certain moments.  Our teacher assistant’s strong, military grasp, with which I was much more comfortable, effectuated better momentum than my new lead’s.

 

“We’ll get it,” Eddy assured me.  

 

“Si tu le dis,” I responded with a look of insecurity and a shrug of my shoulders.

 

Eddy and I joined the rest of the group after about thirty minutes of private instruction from Derek.  Ninety minutes later, we all exited the studio and made the twenty-minute commute to a local restaurant/bar where we’d be performing.  After learning that Eddy didn’t have a vehicle, as he was only in the U.S. for a two-year stint for work, I offered him a ride.  Derek joined us and asked if I could drop him back at the studio after the show, to which I replied with an inappropriately left-handed salute, “no problem.”

 

With the exception of my recent performance with a talented group of women at a weekend event, and discounting any group projects in college or law school, I hadn’t performed before an audience since I was a teenager.  At that time, we practiced for months, even years, to perfect routines and technique before presenting ourselves to judges and onlookers in the hopes of a top score.  I had long ago realized that I was my own toughest judge and that I only really sought to entertain the bystanders.  That is perhaps why, even after quitting my team, I continued performing for the fun of it, for the teams and even, at times, for the me of it all.  I think I just wanted to see if I could still feel it; that sense of accomplishment when a story is effectively told without words. 

 

I appreciated that Natalie had given me an opportunity to feel it again, but my excitement was evenly matched by the nerves.

 

We were walking into the venue when I saw the text.  “Drinks?” James suggested.

 

“I’m performing at that place we like with the tableside guacamole.  Can you come here?”

 

“Performing what?” he asked and then added a laughing emoji of the seemingly hysterical variety. 

 

“Come and see for yourself,” I replied before tossing my phone in my bag.

 

Upon entering the space, I felt anxious.  It should’ve been less intimidating than my group performance at the event with a much larger audience and scale, or those events as a young woman before entire football stadiums and recorded on lesser watched cable channels, but somehow the size of the space made it feel more intimate and made me feel more in the that spotlight I so disliked.  I was tasked with expressing connection for a group of onlookers with a man I’d just met.  I kind of wished I’d been partnered with Derek, who I had known for only weeks longer than Eddy, but with whom I felt instant connection.  I regretted inviting James to watch, but figured he’d bail or that his typical tardiness would force him to miss it.

 

About twenty minutes after we entered the venue, the DJ cleared the floor and our group took position on the wooded space. 

 

And that is when I spotted her. 

 

I had handled the case five years earlier and I had represented her husband.  It was one of the nastier, higher conflict cases of my recent years and the sight of her prompted my heart to race.  Noticing my apparent freak out, Eddy waited until my eyes met his and offered in a near whisper, “garder le silence.”

 

I accepted his command as the music began to play, took a breath that relaxed my shoulders, offered a little squeeze to his gentle grip and we took our first choreographed step. 

 

As we danced, I forgot about the steps, forgot about the presence of the woman, forgot to look for James, and never let my gaze leave Eddy’s kind face.  We had found a fast, linguistic connection hours earlier, and Eddy used his words to reconnect us seconds before our performance began.  He repeated a phrase that had long since been embedded in my very being, without any hint of accent.  It was almost as if I was looking in a mirror saying it to myself.  He had reminded me of my forever connection.  For me, the beginning and end of all connection. 

 

Roughly translated, his words meant ‘shut up.’  As if he could hear the thoughts circling in my head and was encouraging me to stop letting the thoughts consume me.  He wasn’t wrong.

 

But as with many words and phrases that have so many definitions and define different things to different people, my understanding, what I heard, was both gentler and more impactful than what one may hear as a harsh directive.  As a seemingly self-actualized man had expressed to me as I walked down the streets of Marseilles in my youth, distracted by something unimportant and missing the splendor around me, “be still, my dear.”

 

My eyes offered Eddy a silent ‘thank you’ when the song ended and his eyes appeared to reciprocate.  We broke hold and I looked around the room and spotted James in the distance offering generous applause.  I stopped and chatted with a few fellow dancers and a few onlookers before grabbing my bag and finding James seated at the bar.

 

“I ordered Cava,” he alerted me. 

 

“Sounds good,” I agreed with his choice of the evening.

 

“You did great,” Derek wrapped his arms around me from behind.

 

“Thanks,” I smiled.  “Wanna join?”

 

“Sure,” he took a seat on the stool to my left. 

 

“Derek, this is James.  James, Derek.” I introduced the two men.

 

“Hey buddy,” James shook Derek’s hand.

 

“Novio?” Derek inquired leaning in close to me.

 

“Amigo,” I responded with a smirk. 

 

“Sorry,” Derek chuckled looking around me at James.

 

“No worries,” James chimed in and shook his head a bit.  “We get that a lot.”

 

Derek ordered a beer and the three of us chatted about dance, work, Derek’s prior duty stations and thoughts about the people of the DMV.  At times, they answered each other in Spanish, since they were both fluent, while I sat back and enjoyed listening to a language I still had yet to learn. 

 

“Seriously?” Derek raised his voice at one point, to which James only responded with a smirk.

 

“What?” I sought understanding of their then topic of conversation.

 

“He doesn’t Kiz?” his question was directed at me.

 

“Nope,” I confirmed taking another sip of the sparkling beverage. 

 

“Why not?” Derek asked.

 

“Yeah.  Why not?” I turned to face James.

 

“Just not interested,” he shot me a look.

 

“Maybe Parker here hasn’t done a good enough job of showing you what you’re missing,” he indicated grabbing my hand.  “Come on.”

 

He led me to the same spot where our group had performed and motioned for James to join.  There were only a few people left in the venue, but James looked around as if he wanted to make sure nobody was watching.  He grabbed his glass and stood a few feet from where Derek and I began dancing to a song that had nothing to do with Kizomba.  He led me through several cadences and at times, made faces in James’ direction as if to say ‘see, it’s fun.’

 

“You try,” he suggested to James. 

 

“Nah.  I’ll just watch you guys.”

 

With one hand, Derek took James’ glass from his right hand and with his other, put my right hand in James’ left hand.  James just stood there with a look of abject fear, then looked down at my feet, which were slowly moving. 

 

James cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “Now what?” he directed his question at Derek.

 

Derek instructed him through a few basic moves, trying not to spill James’ drink, and James and I laughed as certain movements worked and others failed in stellar fashion.  I think I caught James having a bit of fun, but when his look turned to indifference or annoyance, Derek stepped in and took over. 

 

When the next song ended, Eddy took over and I got to enjoy my first unrehearsed dance with my partner of the night. 

 

And he was good. 

 

Impeccable timing and brilliant musicality.  In the Brit, maybe I had another go-to partner for events. 

 

On our way to my car, after leaving James at his own vehicle parked conspicuously close to the venue, as always, Derek asked if I was going to the next weekend’s event.

 

“I think I am,” I responded.

 

“You think?” he emphasized the second word.

 

“I am,” I looked at him with a smile. 

 

“I’ll see you there.”

 

The following Thursday night, I packed, repacked, finished up a few work emails, messaged with Elliott and Jerome, messaged with Derek, chatted with James and then placed a call to the mother of one of my best friends.

 

“Mrs. Lewis?” I inquired as she answered the call.

 

“Parker!  This is a surprise.  How are you, honey?” her demeanor was no different than the endless times I showed up at her home to pick up my friend over the course of multiple decades.

 

“I’m good,” I smiled to myself, excited to hear her voice.

 

“That’s a relief,” she sighed.  “So nice to hear from you.”

 

“It’s been too long,” I offered.  “I was hoping we could catch up this weekend.”

 

“This weekend?” she seemed confused.

 

“I’ll be in town and I’d like to take you to lunch,” I suggested.

 

“That would be wonderful,” she sounded genuinely excited.

 

“Will Saturday work?” I asked.

 

“Of course,” she responded quickly.

 

“Great.  I’ll pick you up around noon.  Is that okay?”

 

“Absolutely,” she confirmed.

 

“And then maybe after lunch, we could take one of our walks?” I had the fondest memories of our walks through the neighborhood where my friend grew up.

 

“Of course.  That would be lovely.”

 

“Great.  I can’t wait.  I’ll see you on Saturday,” I confirmed. 

 

“Goodnight, honey.”

 

“Goodnight, Mrs. Lewis.”

 

Shortly after our call ended, I received a message from my best friend.  “So, you’re taking mom to lunch on Saturday?  Is everything okay?”

 

“Yes.  I’m travelling to Charlotte, so I thought it would be fun to catch up.”

 

“Great idea,” my friend seemed to approve.

 

“Plus, I miss her,” I added.  “And you.”

 

She responded with a smiley face emoji blowing a heart-shaped kiss.  “Miss you, Parker.”

 

“When is our next trip?” I asked.

 

“Let me check things out and I’ll send options on the group text,” she replied referencing an ongoing chat with our other best friend.

 

“Can’t wait,” I offered. 

 

I had taken Friday off in favor of driving to North Carolina during the day instead of after rush hour.  I had put in excessive working hours between the recent trial with Pierre and handling the rest of my caseload.  Although I often told myself I deserved a break, I typically didn’t believe it without checking my schedule and billable hours and making sure the world would agree that I really deserved any time away.  That lovely live life to the fullest and work to live attitude I’d experienced as a young woman abroad had long since been replaced by the American dream intellectualized vision of success.  James had inspired a meet in the middle version of the two worlds, also known as the work hard play hard mentality.  Beyond that, the many people I’d met in dance had softened that scheme with impromptu opportunities, an anything can be made fun approach and a schedule isn’t nearly as important as you think it is rejection of my entire daily routine and plan. 

 

My arrival in Charlotte around 4:00 p.m. allowed time to check-in to the hotel and wander around the town before meeting Natalie, Derek and Eddy for dinner at a local pizza spot and then wandering around the town some more before the performances and social of the evening. 

 

Jerome and Eddy were slated to arrive after midnight and I spent much of my social time before their arrival with my dinner companions, serving as Derek’s practice partner as he attempted new tricks, letting Eddy lead me through several songs and then having Natalie grab me on the dancefloor to explain why I wasn’t responding to certain lead positions. 

 

It was nearly midnight, when a friendly man I’d seen tearing up the dancefloor approached and without a word, offered me his hand.  The music was faster than the Kizomba tunes I was used to and I was immediately surprised and intimated by the man’s speedy and excited steps.  I did my best to follow but was distracted by his many facial expressions as he led me through what felt like a celebration or explosion of dance.  He was telling a story and I was trying to read the movements, but falling behind a bit.  In an instant, I was in a horizontal position, nearly on the floor, but for his foot under my right hip and his strong, unrelenting, outstretched arm keeping me inches from total collapse.  And just as quickly, I was upright.  Then I was behind him and my arm was over his shoulder as he released his grasp, turned clockwise and I ended up in perfect position with his handsome and excited expression parallel to my shocked and confused face. 

 

“That was excellent!” he exclaimed while taking a step back, offering a bow and kissing my hand.  “You are lovely, young lady.”

 

“Thank you,” I nearly exploded with laughter.  “What was that?”

 

“Semba,” he responded.  “It’s a celebration.  It’s fun, no?”

 

“Yes, it is,” I attempted to catch my breath.

 

“You should join us tomorrow,” he motioned for a woman to come towards us.

 

“This is my wife and dance partner.  We’re from Brazil,” he informed me.

 

“Pleasure to meet you,” I smiled at the woman.

 

“That was her first Semba,” the man commented to his wife.

 

“First time?  Really?  You did great,” she offered.

 

“Obrigada,” I smiled.

 

“You speak Portuguese?” the woman inquired.

 

“Not really,” I shook my head.

 

“Oh, okay.  Well, we’re teaching a class tomorrow morning.  Instruction in English,” she added with a wink. 

 

“Will you come?” the man asked.

 

“I’d love to,” I responded honestly, excited by the glimpse into a new dance I’d just enjoyed.

 

“Hey,” Derek approached us.  He offered a hug to the man and woman and then turned to me.  “I didn’t know you could Semba.”

 

“First time,” I responded.

 

“Well, we’ll have to try that again later,” Derek suggested.

 

“Sounds good to me,” I confirmed.  “Thank you for the dance,” I smiled at the couple.  “I look forward to the class tomorrow.”

 

“Have fun tonight,” the man offered as he grabbed his wife and spun her elegantly across the dancefloor.

 

“I’m going to grab some water,” I said to Derek as I looked for the nearest fountain.

 

“I’ll come with you.”

 

As we stood to the side of the action and gulped several ounces of oxygenated water, I watched the many skilled dancers enjoying themselves in a ballroom that I imagined typically housed boring work conferences.  The next day, I’d learn that Mrs. Lewis had attended several real estate conferences at that particular venue. 

 

I had taken a final sip from my cup when familiar melodies prompted a smile. 

 

“Let the games begin,” Elliott appeared in front of me, grabbed my hand and led me onto the dancefloor.

 

He had reminded me during several discussions before I travelled to Charlotte of our plan to find each other each time a Davi Stone song played at an event.  Our first dance was decent, although just like that very first dance at the Congress, Elliott had arrived at the hotel just before our dance and was a little keyed up from either energy drinks or sheer adrenaline.  He apologized once during the dance when his foot landed on mine and again when he squeezed my lower back a bit to stop me from turning too far away from him. 

 

But after a few more dances with Eddy, Derek and Jerome, as well as a few new acquaintances, and one man I knew from the DMV, the one who’d taught me the history and meaning behind Kizomba over coffee in the early morning hours of an event, our game of Stone continued. 

 

My second dance with Elliott was fantastic and I felt as if we’d been dancing together for years.  We tried a few sequences we’d discussed from afar during video chats and were excited when they worked out perfectly in person.  But in between certain cadences in that particular Stone tune, in the small, soft, still, quiet moments, there was something nearly perfect in the dance.   I caught myself feeling a meaning in the lyrics, although I barely understood the actual words of a language I’d rarely heard.  I knew two, maybe three, words in Portuguese and when the song was over, I wanted desperately to match the way I felt with the words one of my favorite artists had harmonized across instrumental sweetness.

 

Internally, I assumed the words would disappoint me.  Like when I’d heard exciting walk-up songs for some of my favorite Major League batters and found myself dancing, only to later learn from James that the songs were mildly inappropriate and failed to match what I’d assumed was the character of a group of role models for the kids wearing their jerseys. 

 

But I couldn’t get it out of my head and let’s be honest, I couldn’t stick with not knowing.

 

That is perhaps why, after our dance ended and I thanked Elliott for his lead, I set up position on the sidelines, grabbed my phone and began searching for a translation.  Sitting back against the wall, knees bent and legs crossed in front of me, with my tired feet seemingly holding my thighs inches above the floor, I scrolled through various websites looking for my answers.

 

“What are you doing?” Elliott asked taking a seat next to me, knees also bent, but feet hugging the floor in front of him and arms hanging elegantly across his knees, until one hand wiped sweat from his brow. 

 

“Looking for something,” I responded with a brief look and smile in his direction.

 

“Can I help?” he inquired.

 

“Do you speak Portuguese?” I continued to search and he didn’t respond.  “Our last dance,” I began, “that song.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“I didn’t understand the words but, and I know this is weird, I felt something.  And I want to find a translation so I can define it.”

 

“Why do you need to define what you were feeling?  Can’t you just accept the feeling?  Enjoy the feeling even?”

 

“Hmm,” I looked away from my phone.

 

“Well?” Elliott prodded.

 

After a long pause, I finally decided, “nope.  I gotta know.” 

 

As I continued searching and scrolling, I heard Elliott’s voice over the music of the moment.  Even though it was just above a whisper, it drowned out the lively beats prompting our fellow dancers to glide across the dancefloor a few feet away.

 

“We may not get another round;

 

Another chance to see it through;

 

We may succeed or fail;

 

It doesn’t matter - if we try;

 

Time controls our fate;

 

Unless we play this game;

 

Fear not; make your move; 

 

If we don’t step, we won’t know;

 

‘Cause this is more than a game;

 

In this game, we both win;

 

And nothing will be lost…”

 

Elliott turned towards me for the final line of lyrics, “….unless we don’t play.”

 

My only response was a sincere smile, after which I shook my head a bit and turned away.

 

“I’ll find you later,” Elliott suggested rising to his feet and leaving me sitting against the wall. 

 

I put my phone away and watched as acquaintances and strangers filled the space with elegant moves and enviable sequences.  But none of the masterful artists before me could match the feeling I’d had during that near perfect dance with Elliott, when the cadence of his steps and movements had harmonized with words I did not fully understand at the time.   The music had somehow brought forth a truth or revelation that was only heightened with my partner’s translation minutes later. 

 

“And nothing will be lost, unless we don’t play,” I repeated the lyrics to myself.

 

Sure, there was the obvious connection to the games Elliott and I had played and planned to continue playing at future events.  But to me, it was more about redefining a win.  It was about the try of it all.  If I agreed to try, perhaps the –umph would follow.  Maybe my actual triumph was overcoming whatever fear still lay dormant behind my clever thoughts and just giving in, or giving over and showing up to dance.  Or in a broader sense, just taking the one step further than I thought I could.  A step in the direction of a partner.  I’d come a long way already, further than I thought possible months earlier, but taking those independent steps, while difficult at times, wasn’t nearly as scary as actually walking beside someone, with someone.  Maybe I was ready to finally let someone in. 

 

Maybe I wasn’t.

 

Luckily, Derek’s hand before me asking me to dance interrupted my thoughts and forced me back into action on the dancefloor.

 

Elliott found me for a third time for my last dance of the evening, a little before 3:00 a.m., when a version of one of my favorite of Davi’s tunes, tweaked and expanded by the DJ, filled the room with a sudden burst of energy and excitement.  Despite the sentiment and perhaps sensuality I’d felt in our second dance, this final dance for me, a faster and more celebratory option, was an ideal way to end my evening of dance and curb any thoughts of romance.  And even though Natalie frowned at my apparent turning in early, I’d had a long day and wanted to rest up for another morning and all-nighter of dance. 

 

The Semba class was exciting, even without any of the tricks I’d experienced on the dancefloor with the instructor the night before.  It was hard.  It was fast.  It was exhausting.  And I loved it. 

 

After a quick shower, I headed a few miles West and arrived at Mrs. Lewis’ home just before noon.  She greeted me with a hug and after a bit of small talk, we decided upon a local barbeque joint after I admitted to an insatiable craving.

 

It took us about fifteen minutes to travel to the outskirts of the campus of a popular university nearby, where I recalled visiting when her daughter and I were searching for placement in higher education.  I opted for a pulled pork sandwich on a bountiful Brioche bun and fries on the side.

 

“Do you need any condiments?” the young woman asked as she placed our meals before us.

 

I looked to Mrs. Lewis for a response, but she shook her head.

 

“Do you have Old Bay?” I inquired.

 

“Be right back,” the young woman responded and returned with a canister moments later.

 

“Still?” Mrs. Lewis smiled.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” I confirmed.  “I don’t know how it started, but I remember your daughter and I eating French fries with Old Bay after almost every Friday night football game,” I recalled.

 

She shook her head.  “You were good girls.”

 

“Were?” I laughed. 

 

“Still are,” she assured me.  “So, what’s going on with you?  Any boyfriends?”

 

“Not at present,” I responded.

 

“And how’s the firm?” she inquired.

 

“The firm is great.  I’m considering partnering up.”

 

“That’s interesting,” she seemed intrigued.  “What’s the plan?”

 

Like her daughter, she was thoughtful, organized and always looking out for me.  I informed Mrs. Lewis about the discussions I’d had with Pierre over the course of many years, our recent co-counseling opportunity and our current, more serious discussions about a partnership. 

 

“Do you have any concerns?” she inquired.

 

“No, actually,” I shook my head.

 

“Trust your own judgment and you’ll be fine,” she offered.  “You’ve always made good decisions.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Well,” she looked at me with a compassionate yet stern gaze, “except for your choice in men, of course.”

 

“Agreed,” I quickly confirmed.

 

“You’ll find the right person at the right time,” she took a sip from the water glass in front of her.  “I have no doubt.”

 

“We shall see,” I responded with less confidence than the elegant and brilliant woman before me.

 

“You’ll be fine as long as my daughter and I, and of course your mother, remain on the veto squad.”

 

“Of course,” I confirmed. 

 

When we finished our meal, we decided to walk around the campus and continue our discussions.  For nearly two hours, we enjoyed the beautiful scenery, laughed at silly undergrad antics, reminisced and spoke of the time she lived in Maryland before relocating South and starting a second career.  She’d been an executive at a corporation in Maryland before retiring, obtaining her real estate license and handling the purchase of her home in Charlotte.  She enjoyed the work so much that she decided to work part-time in the field, finding strangers their first home, or a family dream home, and always reducing her fee. 

 

Our walk around the campus reminded me of how wrong I was about my choice of colleges, majors and plans for my educational and career futures.  I’d been dealt several faulty hands on my road to degrees, licenses and practices, but somehow I felt that I’d eventually ended up in the right place.  But for the student loans that still plagued my net worth, I felt like a success in law and rarely experienced the struggles other practitioners warned me about when I first set up my own shop.  I credit the support of my family and friends with the ease I felt in building a business and never really felt the strains those who came before me had forecasted.  Always the outlier. 

 

An Urban Kizomba class with a lead from Austin who everyone except me seemed to recognize provided an afternoon of fun with Elliott and Jerome.  I decided to skip dinner with any friends after I received a message from Rosie that we’d have an Emergency Hearing on Monday related to ridiculous antics that occurred on Friday in one of our cases.  After a couple of hours of telephone calls and preparation with Rosie via video, I took a nap and then ordered room service before changing and heading down to the performances to meet up with friends. 

 

In between a few of the numbers on the stage before us, Natalie informed me that she would be bringing that amazing lead from Austin to our studio for a one-night bootcamp and asked if I’d be present.  It was slated for the following Wednesday evening and after checking my schedule, I agreed to attend.  Derek assured me it wouldn’t disappoint and based upon my experience that afternoon, I was already looking forward to another Urban Kizomba masterclass. 

 

Later that evening, during a break from social dancing, Elliott and Jerome agreed that a class with Jay, known to many as one of the original Urban Kizomba elite, was never a waste a time or money. 

 

Sadly, over of the course of the Saturday night into Sunday morning social, Elliott and I only had one opportunity to partner for a Stone song.  Disappointed by the lack of gameplay, we found each other for a Kizomba classic in the early morning hours, after which I decided to head back to my room for a quick nap before checking out and heading home to finish preparation for the next day’s Emergency Hearing. 

 

The Hearing was a complete waste of time, as is often the case, but we typically had to go through the preparation and participation before the Court ultimately chastised the attorneys for even filing such a thing and failing to promote judicial economy.  And the clients were consistently amazed that their issues were not important to the Court.  In journalism, I’d often heard that ‘if it bleeds, it leads.’  In family law, a practice where clients always believe there’s an emergency when there rarely is, and practitioners are often coaxed into filing pleadings and papers that are not actually time-sensitive to avoid disappointing clients, the Court seems to believe that ‘if it bleeds, it pleads.’ But I doubt practitioners will ever submit to that guidance. 

 

I once contemplated changing my voicemail to say, “You’ve reached Parker’s voicemail.  I know you think you are more important than anyone else I may be assisting at this time, but you’re not.   Accordingly, please don’t continue to interrupt my work by sending a follow up text and email notifying me that you’ve left a voicemail.  I know you think that hiring an attorney means that person is at your beck and call at all times, day and night, and on weekends, and that we have instantaneous answers to complex questions and that we are sitting around waiting for you to call, but that’s just not how this works.  I  know you think you have an emergency, but that term has lost all meaning because everyone thinks everything is an emergency, although most things are not emergent, and when you say emergency, we want to stop everything and help and typically that only serves to jack up our well-planned, already over-scheduled days and then we learn that it was not the least bit urgent but was just something you felt you needed or wanted to take care in that moment that you decided to call, and then we get irritated that our day became several hours longer unnecessarily.  Remember that adage about crying wolf?  All those who came before you claiming emergencies that turned out to be anything but have made it difficult to believe an actual emergency could exist in family law, and now you’re paying the price.  Sorry.  But, seriously, if you have an actual emergency, please dial 9-1-1.  Thank you. Beep.”

 

If only. 

 

I also contemplated creating a voicemail message with Pierre’s go-to response to clients.  “You can have it fast, cheap or right.  Pick one.”  But the way he said it made clients stop and think, promptly understanding his comments, while I couldn’t seem to get away with such a straightforward summary of legal work and advice.  Turns out, Pierre and I complimented each other quite well.

 

My friends were correct about the bootcamp with Jay the following week.  I was excited to learn steps from a master and wasn’t the least bit nervous when I got to enjoy a dance with our instructor during the unscheduled social that occurred after our class had ended.  Zeke cued up some music before joining Derek, Eddy, Sarah, Mari, Natalie and several other acquaintances on the dancefloor of the small studio.  After another hour of dance, I picked up a new pair of dance shoes at the store next door to the studio before heading home.

 

The following week, I was too excited to await the end to rush hour traffic and left the parking garage at my office around 6:00 p.m., bags perfectly packed and repacked the night before.  None of those old crutches found their way into my bags for the trip, except for the heating pad that I placed over the clothes at the last minute.  Just in case the four-hour commute tightened my back muscles. 

 

Along the way, Elliott messaged me that he and Jerome had arrived and were checked in at the hotel.  During my only rest stop to fuel up, I responded that I was two hours away. 

 

Upon my arrival around 10:30 p.m., I found Derek, Natalie and Eddy in the parking lot talking to Zeke and Sarah. 

 

“I’m so glad you came,” Natalie offered.

 

“Hey Parker,” Zeke walked over and offered a hug. 

 

Sarah was right behind Zeke and followed Zeke’s lead, but as she pulled away, she said, “I want to talk to you about something.”

 

“Okay, sure,” I responded. 

 

“I’ll check us in,” Zeke commented to Sarah.  “I’ll let you two talk.” 

 

“So, what’s up?” I inquired of Sarah.

 

“I’m putting a team together,” she started.

 

“What kind of team?” I asked.

 

“A ladies styling team similar to what we performed at the event,” she informed me. 

 

“Oh,” was my only response.

 

“It was all set up by that same celebrity dancer who instructed us and she has groups forming all over the world.  We’d be the DMV team and we’d perform at events next year.”

 

“Wow.  Okay.”

 

“I have eight ladies so far and I’m looking for ten.  I’m waiting to hear back from Mari.”

 

“Sounds fun.”

 

“The group will practice on Sunday evenings at a studio downtown.”

 

“Okay.  Can I let you know?”

 

“Sure.  Our first practice is in about a month, so there’s time.”

 

“Thanks for the invite,” I offered sincerely.

 

“Of course,” Sarah smiled as we headed towards the hotel check-in.

 

As I entered the elevator to head to my room, I received another message from Elliott.  “You make it yet?”

 

“Yes,” I responded.

 

“Great.  See you on the dancefloor.”

 

“See you there.”

 

“Don’t forget our deal,” he added.

 

“Yep.  Game on.  I’ll be listening.”

 

He offered a thumb’s up emoji, followed by a smiley face emoji. 

 

I called my family, let them know I’d made it to the hotel, changed out of my office clothes and into my dancing gear and headed down to the hotel ballrooms.  Checking each room, I settled upon the Kizomba room and found a spot to change my shoes.  Just as I was placing my street shoes into my backpack, Elliott came rushing towards me.

 

“Come on!” he offered is hand.

 

“I’m coming!” I responded getting to my feet.

 

I had hoped for a few warm up dances before our games began.  Despite my master plan, luckily that first dance was an absolute success. I hadn’t had time to get in my head yet and it made for an excellent start with Elliott.  Jerome led my second dance, followed by strangers for my third and fourth.  Then I heard it.  Another Davi Stone favorite permeated the room and as I looked around, I saw Elliott offer apologies to the follow standing next to him and walk towards me.  He did not slow his pace as he approached me and walked us seamlessly straight into another dance. 

 

After enjoying what I knew to be my one dance with Elijah, who had shown up a few hours into the social, I took a turn with Zeke, Eddy, and a few regulars from the DMV, before I found myself led by an Urban instructor who’d be teaching the next morning’s class.  He was kind and as expected, a strong lead filled with clever movements and perfectly choreographed steps.  He was a bit taller than my average lead and he helped me to find a comfortable hold to address the height differential.  As I thanked him for the dance, I felt a hand on my wrist and Elliott offered to the instructor, “sorry man, I gotta.”

 

The instructor nodded and responded to Elliott, “enjoy the games.”

 

I offered Elliott a quizzical look, to which he responded, “tell ya later.”

 

When our third dance of the evening ended, I thanked Elliott and offered, “I didn’t even know that was Davi Stone.”

 

“I thought as much,” he smiled.  And just as he and I both turned from each other to find new partners, yet another Davi Stone song, this time in the traditional Kizomba genre, came across the speakers. 

 

Elliott turned back towards me and chuckled, “here we go again.”  I took his hand and spent the next three minutes in perfect connected bliss.

 

By about 4:00 a.m., twelve Davi Stone songs had played in the social and each time, I followed Elliott’s talented lead. 

 

The next morning, after the Urban class, Elliott asked me to practice with him in a common area of the third floor of the hotel, just down the hall from he and Jerome’s room for the weekend.  He had an idea and needed a partner to see if his plan could bear fruit.  It was what could only be described as a triple-timed saida and I was happy to assist.  About twenty minutes into our practice session, a man walked by us and nodded at Elliot with a smile. 

 

“Isn’t that-” I began but stopped.

 

“The DJ from last night?  Yep,” Elliott responded with a cheesy grin.

 

“Wait a minute.  Did you?” I half-asked.

 

“Did I what?” he couldn’t stop the grin.

 

“Never mind,” I shook my head. 

 

“I mean, I’m sure most events have endless Davi Stone songs playing throughout the night.  He’s a popular artist,” Elliott offered.

 

“I’m sure,” I responded.  “I guess we’ll see at the next event.”

 

“Indeed,” he took my hand and continued our practice session.

 

“Unless you know that DJ too,” I added and he tightened his hold on my mid-back. 

 

After another class mid-afternoon, I accepted an invitation from Jerome for dinner at a restaurant a few miles from the hotel.  Elliott was occupied by a practice session with a partner from his hometown in advance of a Jack and Jill competition he’d agreed to join later that evening.  Jerome and I would be cheering him on from the gallery. 

 

“You busy?” I viewed a text from James while awaiting our food.

 

“Dinner.  Hit you back in an hour or so?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“So,” Jerome inquired, “enjoying the games?”
 

“Immensely,” I smiled. 

 

“You’ve come a long way since we first met,” he offered.

 

“You think?” I asked sincerely.

 

“I do,” he confirmed.  “I’m just glad you forgave my buddy.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Did he tell you about his new endeavor?”

 

“No.  What’s that?”

 

“He’s been DJ-ing back in Nashville,” Jerome informed me.

 

“Really?” I was surprised.

 

“Yeah.  He’s pretty good too.”

 

“I bet.”

 

“Can I see your phone?”

 

“Sure,” I unlocked the home screen and handed it over to him.

 

“Do you mind if I download an app?”

 

“What kind of app?”
 

“Music.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He downloaded an app with free music and searched for his buddy’s screen name.  Upon finding what he was looking for, he clicked the ‘subscribe’ button and my phone detailed several playlists created by Elliott with dates and themes. 

 

Jerome handed the phone back to me and said, “you’ll enjoy these.  There’s a bit of Davi Stone for you in many of them.”

 

“Thanks.  I’ll check them out on the commute home.”

 

“You sticking around tomorrow for the day?”

 

“No.  I’m headed out early.  May just leave after the social.”

 

“Without sleep?”

 

“I can sleep when I get home.”

 

“Hard core.”

 

“A few months ago, I’d agree, but lately, the energy seems endless.”

 

“I get it.  You find something you love and nothing seems impossible.”

 

“Cheers to that,” I clinked my water glass to his. 

 

Back in my hotel room, I called James as I looked over potential outfits for the evening. 

 

“You still in Jersey?”

 

“Yeah.  I’m headed back tomorrow.”

 

“Want to meet me for brunch?”

 

“Sure, but it may have to be a late brunch.”

 

“It should take you about ninety minutes to get to me.”

 

“I don’t drive as fast as you,” I offered.

 

“I’m only about seventy miles East of you.  In Atlantic City.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yeah.  And I’m up a few thousand.  I’ll treat to brunch.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I just sent the directions to your phone.  Just click on the link and let me know when you arrive.”

 

“See you tomorrow.”

 

“See ya.”

 

During the Saturday night social, I waited more than two hours to hear music and lyrics by Davi Stone.  It was worth the wait.  It was a different DJ for night two and rather than have Elliott have a hand in our games, recognizing the surprise play neither one of us expected allowed my favorite partner and I to find each other for a more unexpected, yet idyllic, dance.  The talented DJ only played one other song by our favorite artist and only hours later when I was about to end my fun for the weekend, pack up and head out on the road to meet James.  Elliott coaxed me into staying for strong coffee with he and Jerome at sunrise near the lobby of the fairly forgettable hotel. 

 

“Did you enjoy our games?” he asked as I sipped a strong brew.

 

“Of course,” I confirmed.

 

“It’s only the beginning,” he suggested.

 

“Good,” I responded. 

 

“How about one for the road?”

 

“One what?”

 

“Dance,” he replied but didn’t await my response.  He pulled his phone from his pocket, chose the song that played for our first, worst dance, and put out his hand for mine. 

 

I looked around to see if anyone was watching and noticing only a few people milling about the lobby and small café, I decided not to care and allowed him to place me in our hold.  I felt as if I could fall asleep in his arms, but tried to focus my attention on burning our dance into that photographic memory of mine so I could play it back later.  It was a silly way to experience things, especially since each time I focused on keeping the memory, I lost the best part – the presence. 

 

At the end of the song, he offered me a hug and then pulled away and smiled.

 

“I’ll check out your playlists on the road,” I suggested.

 

After looking over to Jerome, who shrugged, Elliott turned back to me and offered, “I hope you like it.”

 

“I’m sure I will, DJ Kizzell.”

 

“What?!” his voice was elevated.

 

“I don’t know.  Just came out,” I laughed.

 

“I like that.  I’m going to use that,” he nodded. 

 

“Sounds good to me,” Jerome chimed in. 

 

Jerome stood and offered me a hug before I left the gentlemen to their caffeinated beverages and exited the lobby.

 

James had made it easy for me.  One click on a text message from the night before and within seconds, I was following the command of the dulcet, yet pleasant, sounds of a robotic voice directing me through turns until I reached a main road. 

 

In less than ninety minutes, I approached an odd-looking cityscape on the horizon.  I loved any such approach, but I was a little surprised that this one appeared different, awkward even, like it hadn’t really become its true self yet.  I found parking with the valet of James’ hotel and made my way to the lobby.  After a quick message to James letting him know I’d arrived, and receiving no immediate response, I decided to take a turn at the nearby slot machines. 

 

After sticking one dollar bill in the machine and pulling the handle, lights and sirens activated in celebratory fashion and the sound of metal on metal falling and crashing into more metal caused me to jump back a few inches. 

 

“Here,” a man handed me a large cup.  “Use this,” he suggested.

 

“Thank you,” I looked him in the eye, then looked back to the sight before me.

 

“What are you doing?” James was suddenly at my side.

 

“Nothing,” I looked at him and shook my head.

 

“Beginner’s luck, I presume?” he suggested.

 

“I guess,” I smiled as we collectively dumped all of the coins into the cup. 

 

“Thanks man,” James offered to the man who was still standing near us.  “We’re good.”

 

The man turned and left, but looked back at least twice, until James gave him a look and he then hurried off.

 

“Let’s go,” he grabbed the cup in one hand my wrist in another.  “Hungry?”

 

“Starving.”

 

I chose carrot cake pancakes and hash browns, opting for a carb load after another weekend of dancing off too many calories.

 

“Really?” James snickered. 

 

“Okay, fine,” I rolled my eyes.  “Can I add some fruit?” I asked the woman taking our meal order.

 

“Sure thing,” she responded.  “What fruit would you like?”

 

“Whatever you have is fine,” I responded.  “He’ll be eating most of it.”

 

“If you didn’t eat so healthy most of the time, I’d have more to say,” James suggested.

 

“Okay, Dad,” I attempted to offer a serious look but almost immediately broke character with a laugh. 

 

“So, how was the event?”

 

“Great.  Got to play a few games,” I recalled my dances with Elliott.

 

“What kind of games?” James inquired.

 

“Elliott and I came up with this thing,” I started.  “It’s hard to explain.”

 

“Elliott?” James looked me in the eye.  “What’s up with that?”

 

“Nothing much.  Just a friend, I think.”

 

“Ah.  Okay,” was all James responded.  “He lives in Nashville though, right?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Hmmm.  Long distance.  Never works out.”

 

“You’ve tried it?” I asked.

 

“Once.”

 

“I kind of like the idea,” I offered. 

 

“Who likes the idea of a long distance relationship?”

 

“Well, as I see it, you have the space to do your own thing, and every time you’re together, it’s like Christmas.”

 

James shook his head, “really?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, I think it’d be like that.”

 

“Sounds kind of lonely,” James suggested.

 

“Not really.  I mean, I spend so much time with family and friends,” I nodded in his direction.  “Who has time to be lonely?”

 

“I guess.  I just don’t think it would be like you’d think it would be,” James offered.

 

“Maybe not,” I shrugged.  “Sounds like a perfect set up though.”

 

“No such thing.”

 

“True,” I confirmed.  “But I’m not really worried about it now.”

 

“Not a serious option?” James asked.

 

“Not now.  We basically just met.”

 

“You never know.”

 

“He’d have to pass the veto squad first.”

 

“Veto squad?”

 

“Yeah,” I laughed nervously.  “Based upon some previous decisions that were, let’s just say, not quite brilliant, I agreed to let a few family members and friends have a say.”

 

“Have a say in who you date?”

 

“Well, who I date seriously.”

 

“I’m joining.  You need my help.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yep.  Any men on your veto squad?”

 

“No.”

 

“There is now,” he decided and seemed to straighten in his seat. 

 

“Okay.  And I’ll join yours.”

 

“Mine?  I don’t need a veto squad.  I have impeccable taste.”

 

“Is that right?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“If you say so,” I took a final bite of my pancakes and washed it down with a strong brew.

 

“You around on Saturday?” James asked.

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“You want to go to a hockey game after Bennett’s class?”

 

“I’ve never been to a hockey game,” I relayed.

 

“Geez.  Okay.  Then you’re coming with me.”

 

“Sounds fun.” 

 

“Yeah.  My buddy and his girlfriend are coming too.”

 

“Okay.  How are the seats?”

 

“Really?” I looked at me with a frown.  “Who are you talking to?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Big Shot.  I guess the seats are good.”

 

“Yes, of course the seats are good.  My buddy got ‘em.’”

 

“Ah, so your buddy can get good seats.”

 

“I can get good seats any time I want.  You just have to spend that dough.”

 

“Speaking of dough, how much did you lose last night?”

 

“I’m still up,” James confirmed.

 

“Let’s see if we can earn you some more before we leave.  Black Jack?” I suggested.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

We spent almost three hours at a single table and although we were both up and down at times, I ended up a couple hundred dollars ahead and James seemingly ended up on top, although I never inquired as to how much. 

 

At one point during our play, James whispered something to a man who appeared to work for the casino, after which a concierge from the hotel appeared and after another hushed conversation, we continued our game.

 

“What was that about?” I inquired.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” James kept his eyes on the dealer.

 

As we awaited the valet to bring our respective vehicles to the front of the hotel, James walked over to that same concierge, who handed James a bag in exchange for cash of an unknown value.  I looked at James nervously when he approached me and patiently waited for our cars to arrive.  Just as mine appeared, James reached his hand into the bag and pulled out a walkie-talkie and handed it to me. 

 

“What’s this?” I asked.

 

“For the trip home,” he suggested.  “You know I drive faster and you’re directionally challenged and I don’t want to lose you.”

 

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone and held it up. 

 

“What fun is that?” James smirked pulling the second walkie talkie from the bag.  “This will be our game.  Not at all hard to explain.”

 

“Tous chez,” I nudged his elbow with mine. 

 

Our vehicles arrived and with a tip to the valets, we entered our vehicles and I heard James’ voice across the contraption I’d placed in the cup-holder in between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

 

“Parker?  Come in, Parker?”

 

“Yes,” I responded trying to not to laugh.

 

“Away we go,” James’ voice echoed as he pulled out of the hotel driveway and sped onto the main road. 

 

“Geez,” I yelled.  “Slow down!”

 

Throughout the commute, we chatted, laughed and at times, James chastised me for my pace and intermittent tailgating.  He assured me that I would not be driving his car until I improved my skills. 

 

“So, I have a theory,” James offered while we raced up a turnpike.

 

“Hit me,” I responded.

 

“I think you pick the wrong people because you’re scared.”

 

“Is that right?” I pondered knowing he was likely correct but I was as yet unwilling to offer an admission.

 

“Yeah.  I mean, you seem to focus on unavailable people.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

“Maybe not truly unavailable, but this business of long distance kind of clears things up.”

 

“Lots of people make long distance work.  You think they’re all afraid?”

 

“Don’t deflect.  We’re talking about you.”

 

“Okay.  What about me?”

 

“I think the idea of long distance appeals to you because you don’t have to fully give in.  Or let in is a better what to say it.”

 

“How would you know if I fully let in?”

 

“Do you?”

 

“All the time,” I responded quickly.  “Some of the time,” I added after a pause.  With no response forthcoming from James, after a few additional quite moments, I decided, “rarely.”  After a deep sigh, I admitted, “okay, maybe never.”

 

“Wow!” James revealed.

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t even need another person in the conversation.”

 

Laughing, I agreed, “yeah, I guess not.”

 

“So, do you think this Elliott guy may be an option?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What about Derek?”

 

“You know it’s hard for me to pass up the military guys.”

 

“Yeah.  Don’t understand that.  Veto for being military.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yeah.  Next.  What about this new guy?  What’s his name?”

 

“Who?”

 

“The one you performed with at that place with the tableside guacamole?”

 

“Oh.  Eddy.  I don’t know him well.”

 

“Well, he’s leaving in a few months, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Veto.  Let’s stick with people who live on the same continent.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“What about Elijah?”

 

“What about Elijah?”

 

“He seems like a good guy,” James expressed.

 

“He is,” I confirmed.

 

“Partial veto.”

 

“Partial?”

 

“Yeah.  You gotta watch out for the smart ones.”

 

“I like the smart ones.”

 

“And where has that gotten you?”

 

“Okay.  That’s fair, I guess.”

 

“Let’s go back to Elliott.”

 

“No veto?”

 

“Undecided.  Need more evidence.”

 

“Okay.  Maybe you should cross examine him at the next event.”

 

“Great idea.  Maybe, I will.  So, despite the distance, let’s keep Elliott in contention.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“What are you so afraid of?  I’m not suggesting some lifelong commitment.  Just dating.”

 

“I’m not afraid of anything or anyone,” I offered matter-of-factly.

 

“Well, you’re certainly less afraid than when we first had drinks after Court.  Can you imagine if you had never come to that social or salsa class?”

 

“Not really,” I continued following him a few car lengths behind as we entered our home state.

 

“Well, maybe it’s time to try something new with people, instead of just places or things.  I see a new noun in the cards for you.”  As I chuckled at his atypically corny joke, he added, “time to overcome that fear of letting people get close.  And here’s a reminder of what I told you that night after Court,” he added.

 

“You’re always right,” I responded.

 

“No.  I mean, yes, I am always right, but I was talking about the other thing I said.”

 

“You said a lot of things.”

 

“You won’t get hurt.”

 

I didn’t respond. 

 

“Wow, that last one really did a number on you,” James suggested.

 

“You mean my ex?” I inquired.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s not that.  I’m over that.”

 

“What then?”

 

“I’m just enjoying getting to know me,” I paused then added.  “And I don’t think I’m ready to share myself yet.”

 

“You share yourself with me.”

 

“That’s different.”

 

“How is that different?”

 

“You’re easy.”

 

“Well, I never been called that before,” he laughed.  “Hey, this is my exit coming up.  You stay on for another seven or so miles and then you’ll hit your exit.  You good?”

​

"I'm good."

​

“Okay.  Thanks for coming,” James offered.  “Talk later.”

 

“Thanks for the invite.  Over and out,” I laughed to myself.

 

“Exactly.  Get OVER it and go OUT with someone,” James suggested.  “It’s time.”

 

I didn’t know if James was right but I also knew I didn’t want to think about it.  Instead, I found the perfect distraction with courtesy of Elliott’s DJ skills which kept me company for the rest of my commute home.  

 

Pulling into my driveway, I wasn’t ready for the weekend to end and another work week to start. I sat quietly after shifting into park and tried to focus my attention on memories of my two recent trips for dance.   

 

Grabbing my phone and closing out the music app that housed Elliott’s talents, I viewed an unread message.    

 

“So, what do you think about the ladies styling team?” Sarah’s message read.

 

 “So much for giving me time to think about it,” I said to myself.  “I’m in,” I typed in response to Sarah, looking for yet another distraction or delay in the dating challenge issued by James, and another opportunity to keep my euphoric dance ride going.

 

“Great.  I’ll send you the info.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Time to meet the Team.