Dance For Me

I’m not sure which day changed everything for me and my girl forever, but I remember how it started, and it started with her. I don’t mean Tristin, I mean her. I’d been with Tristin for two years. We met while I was working as a bouncer at a gentlemen’s club in Huntington Beach, California. I fell for Tristin and hit the ground hard. When she made up her mind to move to Nevada with her dad and her stepmom, I uprooted and followed her to the desert. I was that in love. Distance wasn’t an option for me.

The first six months were clear skies. I got a job in construction, making that money. Labor had never bothered me, but sooner or later I wanted to own my own jiu jitsu center. I rented an apartment in North Las Vegas that Tristin never moved into because she claimed she felt her dad wasn’t ready to see his baby go. She divided her time between my place and her dad’s house. And honestly, I didn’t mind. I still had my privacy.

Like Tristin, I made friends fast. On weekends I spent entire days fight‑training; some nights I hung out with friends, some nights with Tristin. Other times I stayed home. This was one of those times. It was a Friday, and I was tired as hell from working in the heat. I was stretched out on the couch wondering what Tristin was up to. I texted her and waited a few minutes for her to text me back.

“Sup baby, I’m driving… I’ll call u when I get home,” she texted me.

Fifteen minutes later I received another text.

“Can’t hang out tonight. Goin with my dad and Josephine to dinner.”

Lately her texts were always like this, so I wasn’t surprised. I texted back:

“ok, call me when u get home.”

Back to the point… My trash was stinking up my apartment. It had to be the lasagna I’d dumped the night before. I slid open a window because the apartment was warm and airless. I twisted the trash bag at the top and lugged it outside and down the stairs. As I crossed the parking lot toward the dumpster, I saw her black Honda Civic pull up.