The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,28
was with that incense smell? They were probably smoking weed. Next thing you know, they’ll want us to meditate and go on a vision quest.”
That was it. I’d had enough. “You haven’t changed a bit, huh? You are so closed-minded. Not everyone has to share your views on life. It’s America, Bret. You know, the country that you fight so hard to protect. You’re defending our freedom to be individuals, not self-righteous clones.” Everything was black or white to Bret. Not a single shade of gray. Or pink. When we were young, I thought I could change him. But clearly this older Bret was even more set in his ways.
I considered myself a freethinker. Open, liberal, honest. The more time I spent with Bret, the more I realized that we were way too different to ever make a relationship work.
“Don’t talk to me about freedom,” he said. “I’ve watched my buddies die protecting our country. Of course, everyone has the right to believe in whatever ludicrous ideas they want to. Just like I have the right not to be forced to listen to their crap.”
Bret pulled up in front of the hotel and scribbled his number down on a napkin. “Good night, Sel. Call me if you need anything. I’ll just be five minutes away. See you tomorrow.”
I took the paper and then watched as he drove away. Walking into the lobby, all I wanted was a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, I could focus on dancing, and stop stressing about the life I could’ve never had with Bret.
The next morning, I sat at Caffe Acri in downtown Tiburon sipping my vanilla latte. The rich roast of the espresso beans was divine, and the strong vanilla syrup didn’t have a hint of an aftertaste. If I’d been in LA, I’d have felt guilty that the milk wasn’t fat-free, and the syrup contained real sugar. But in Marin, I was at peace, especially since the barista designed cool latte art in the shape of a heart.
Bret would be by any minute to pick me up. I looked out on a ferry docked on the bay. I’d forgiven Bret for his judgments last night and was ready to start fresh. I could open up his mind. Maybe on a day off, Bret and I could ditch practice and take the ferry to San Francisco. When we were kids, we used to watch the skateboarders shred around the Embarcadero. Bret always wanted to jump in and join them, but I wouldn’t let him, fearing he’d be injured and unable to dance.
Last time Dima and I came to San Francisco to compete, I was saddened to learn that all the skaters had vanished, banned by the city. The new generation probably had nice skate parks. But my fond memories of seeing the young teens breaking the rules and living on the edge had always been a welcome change from my life back then of nonstop training and competing. Maybe I should’ve let Bret break the rules, but young me always had been completely focused. My goal had always been to be a ballroom champion—no matter the cost.
My phone blinked with a text from Bret. I looked outside. His truck was stopped in front of the coffee shop.
I gathered my latte and purse and walked outside.
“Hey.” I cautiously climbed up onto the seat of the high-lifted truck. I decided to ease into the conversation, hoping Bret had calmed down from the previous night. “Did you have a good night?”
Bret looked more relaxed than he had yesterday. A loose polo shirt wrapped tightly around his bulging biceps. Dima had nice, lean, toned arms, but nothing like Bret’s strong muscles.
I turned my head away from him and stared out the window—afraid he would read my mind and know that I was imagining what his pecs and abs must look like underneath his shirt.
“Yes. Just ordered pizza, then watched a Warriors game with Banjo. Perfect night. And my neighbor is watching Banjo today, so he won’t be lonely.”
“Neighbor? A lady, I presume? One night in town and you already have a new girlfriend,” I teased playfully, at the same time praying he hadn’t already met someone.
“Yeah. She’s a looker. Old enough to be my mother, though I guess that’s the ‘in thing’ these days. Hey, you should get yourself one of those boy-toys that are all the rage.”
“A boy toy? I’m twenty-eight. So some eighteen-year-old? No thanks. I want a man.”
Bret glared at me. “That’s the same age difference