Page 1 of Flirty Dancing

1

Nathan Lane Is Watching

“Twenty-seven is too old.”

Not the most devastating words ever spoken, perhaps, but close.

They echoed through Archer’s head again as the subway car rattled around him. Twenty-seven is too old. Objectively speaking, it was not old. It was just a beginning, really. Too old to start a family? Of course not. Too old to go to college? No way. Too old to write a novel? Don’t be ridiculous, have at it. Too old to quit your job as an accountant and move to New York City with dreams of making it as a Broadway dancer? Well, that answer had to be no too, or else… fuck.

Archer’s phone lit up with a text from his mom. Why aren’t you returning my calls? Did you get the part?

No was all Archer could bring himself to type.

Oh, hon. I’m sorry. I hate to say I told you so, but…

Twenty-seven is too old.

That still counts as ‘I told you so,’ Mom, just so you know.

You’re a brilliant dancer and you gave it a good try, but maybe it’s time to come back home. You belong here, Archer.

Archer slumped into his seat, eyes shutting over the sting of tears. Five months, thirty-six auditions, twelve callbacks… and exactly zero roles. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t quit. His very soul would shrivel up and die if he had to move back to Ohio. Maybe he didn’t belong in New York, but he sure as hell didn’t belong there.

I have two more auditions this week, and a callback, he informed his mom. The callback was for the most ridiculous gig ever, but she didn’t need to know that. If I don’t get those, then we’ll see.

Okay, hon. Have a good night.

The train shuddered to a stop and Archer joined the flow of people up the stairs out into Hell’s Kitchen, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The evening air had cooled but was still thick with the promise of the stifling summer heat that was not far off.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Lynn called from the bathroom when Archer shut the apartment door behind him. “Watch out, Leak Perry is back.”

Archer dodged the half-full bucket of water sitting in the middle of the faded linoleum floor. “And I’m sure Fletcher is on his way to fix it right now?”

“Ha!” came Lynn’s reply. “Yeah, and he’s giving us free rent for the month.”

“Right,” Archer muttered, not even bothering to look up at the wet patch on the ceiling. Fletcher had come to investigate the leak twice already, finally, after multiple texts and phone calls, then informed them both times it was fixed. It was not. Archer dropped his bag on the floor and threw himself onto the old couch that was wedged against the wall, only inches from the kitchen on one side and the bathroom door on the other.

“How was your day?” Lynn came out of the bathroom attempting to jam her abundant dark brown hair into a bun, curvy figure wrapped in a killer sequined dress. Despite the damp and closet-sized apartment that was rapidly draining his savings, he adored living with Lynn.

Archer whistled. “Damn. Where you headed?”

“Out,” she mumbled through a hairpin before she took it from her mouth and stabbed it into her bun. “As are you.”

“Ugh, pass. I’m wallowing.” He clutched a magenta throw pillow to his chest and tried to look pathetic. It wasn’t hard.

“The fuck you are.” She examined him, hands on hips. He didn’t even need to tell her he got another no. His silence said it just fine.

“It’s Sasha’s birthday,” she reminded him. Lynn was an actual responsible adult, with a responsible adult job in a law firm in the Garment District, and she even had a responsible adult relationship.

Archer sighed. He wasn’t sure Sasha’s birthday was occasion enough to be forced off the couch on, this, the day of his thirty-fifth rejection.

“Plus”—Lynn gave him a look that pierced right through him—“you need to get out of your head a bit, my friend. Get drunk. Maybe even get laid.”

“I do not,” he said, even though they both knew all of those things were absolutely true.

Lynn didn’t dignify it with a response. “Let’s go. We’re meeting Sasha at The Fiddler in thirty and she hates it when I’m late.”

He tossed the pillow aside. “You’re only ever late because of me.”

Lynn sighed. “I know, boo. I mean she hates it when you’re late. Now get changed!”

Ten minutes later, Archer followed Lynn out onto the sidewalk. The bar was only a few blocks away and she had decided a speed walk would be faster than a cab. He had gone with jeans and a fuchsia button-down. It was a great color on him against his golden skin and dark blond hair, which he kept shorter than he would strictly like, not wanting to look anywhere near scruffy at auditions. He had left two buttons undone until Lynn had added a third with a wink. “You gotta sell the goods, Arch.”

The bar, dark and well-worn, walls lovingly plastered with queer Broadway paraphernalia, was already packed when they arrived, on time and everything. The music was so loud he couldn’t quite make out Sasha’s shouted greeting before Lynn cut it off with a kiss.

“Happy birthday!” he yelled at Sasha, adding a peck on her cheek. “How dare you look hotter than me?” She was already glowing with sweat and a bit drunk, short blond hair sticking to her forehead.

“Thanks for letting Lynn drag you out,” she yelled back, her eyes a little too wide and lingering on him a little too long. Great, so she knew he was a pathetic loser, too. He threw Lynn some side-eye. She shrugged, handed Archer her handbag, and pulled Sasha back out onto the dance floor.

Archer sat at the table Sasha had pointed to and nodded at a few of her and Lynn’s lawyer friends. That was another thing. He’d been in New York for five months and had zero friends of his own. Thank God Lynn took pity on him.

He ordered the cheapest beer they had from a passing server and eyed the dance floor, wondering if maybe he could relax enough to actually try and hook up tonight. It seemed unlikely because, so far, he’d only managed it once, and the guy—part of the lighting crew on an experimental nudist Hamlet —left right after, mumbling something about an early call time, then ghosted him entirely.

Not like he wasn’t used to rejection in New York. No doubt the audition tomorrow would result in more of the same. He nursed his beer, talking himself even deeper into a pit of despair, until there came a tap on his shoulder. Archer turned and was startled by the beauty of the man looking at him. He smiled on instinct, even though he was sure this guy had made a mistake.

“Hey,” the man said, sliding onto the stool next to Archer. “I’m Lachlan.” Lachlan had light brown hair styled into an achingly perfect tousle, thick eyelashes, and, quite frankly, a killer body, from the very quick and discreet glance Archer took.

“Archer.” They shook hands, Lachlan holding on a second longer than necessary. “Nice to meet you.” He waited for Lachlan to realize his error and make an awkward excuse as he slipped right back off that stool.

“Who you here with, Archer?” he asked instead, eyes narrowing as he smiled.

Archer liked the way his name purred off Lachlan’s tongue. “Just my roommate and her girlfriend,” he said, nodding at them on the dance floor.

“Hmm.” Lachlan leaned forward and Archer caught a whiff of his cologne—something spicy that sent his stomach swirling. “So, you’re all alone, then?” The curl of his lips suggested this was a good thing.

“I guess,” Archer replied, then cringed. God, I’m terrible at flirting. Say something flirty. “Less alone now.”

He must have said the right thing because he got a heated look in return. “And what do you do, Archer?” Lachlan’s eyes slid up and down Archer’s frame.

“I’m a dancer.” Still sounded ridiculous to say out loud, but accountant was worse.

His eyebrows jerked up. “Oh, yeah? Broadway?”

That was always the first thing everyone asked. “Not yet.”

“Off, then? Anything I might have seen you in?”

And the second thing. “Not unless you caught Guys and Dolls at the Beavercreek Community Theatre in Dayton five years ago.”

Lachlan bunched his brow. “Uh…”

“I mean, I just moved from Ohio and I’m, um, still looking to, you know, break my way in.”

Lachlan took him in again, only this time his gaze was analytical. “Aren’t you a little old to be ‘chasing your dreams’?” He gave a derisive chuckle but read the clench in Archer’s jaw. “Don’t get me wrong! You’re crazy hot, but how old are you? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”

Archer cleared his throat. “Twenty-seven.” For another month anyway.

Lachlan grimaced. “No offense, but, like, you showed up here, have zero connections, and you’re almost thirty. What did you think was going to happen?”

The cheap beer gurgled up Archer’s throat, fighting with the welling disappointment and leaving no room for words.

“Anyway.” Lachlan laughed, although nothing was funny. “Bet you could make a killing if you started stripping.”

Archer stretched the corners of his mouth out to nowhere, and then he lurched to his feet without looking at Lachlan. Twenty-seven is too old. “I just have to…” He dashed through the bar and into a bathroom stall before the tears spilled over.

Twenty-seven is too old. He heard it in his own voice now, instead of his mom’s.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Is this what his stupid dream had come to? Crying in a bathroom with a picture of Nathan Lane over the toilet, all because a hot guy told him he should be a stripper? “Goddamn it, Archer,” he muttered to himself, furiously wiping the tears away. His head thunked back against the closed stall door under Mr. Lane’s steady gaze, unsure if he was more mad at himself for bolting, crying, or being a total failure in general. He decided it was a three-way tie, then stayed there for a good twenty minutes, figuring Lachlan wouldn’t wait around for more than five, but just to be sure.

And he was right. When he made it back to the table, Lachlan was already chatting up a new guy across the bar, younger and hotter. Archer diverted his gaze to Lynn and Sasha’s smiles as they bounced around and forced himself to stay for one more beer, three more songs, then he stood.

“I gotta go,” he yelled at Lynn over the music.

“Nooo, staaaay!” Lynn was drunk now and leaned on him heavily. “Who was that hottie you were talking to?”

“Just another reminder of my horrific life choices.”

“Archer…” Lynn threw her arms around him and squeezed. “I love you. I’m so glad you answered my roommate ad.”

“Me too.” She was, after all, the only good thing he had going in New York. “But I gotta get out of here.”

“Okay. Don’t wait up.”

He kissed her forehead and waved at Sasha. “I won’t.”

“Liar.”

Each audition had gotten harder over the months, as the desperation grew. The pressure, then the panic, layer upon layer, hunching his shoulders, tightening his muscles, wringing the air from his lungs. The audition the day after Sasha’s birthday was a no, as was the one the day after that. His mom sent him a link to available accounting jobs in Dayton.

The night before the callback, a foreboding sense of It All Comes Down To This hung over him, and he barely slept. If he failed again, on a gig this lowbrow… surely that would be the final sign that this whole attempt was ridiculous. He’d have to go back to Ohio, tail between his legs, back to the place that had never really wanted him to begin with. Dancing was the only thing that had given him comfort growing up, that had made him feel like he had gifts to offer the world. The only time he really felt like himself. He definitely did not feel like himself drowning in tax forms and spreadsheets. He could not go back.

It was cliché, but it was true. The big city. The freedom to be unapologetically yourself. In some ways he had never been happier, dedicating himself to dancing. But how long could he keep pretending he belonged here? He needed a yes.

The callback was nothing to write home about, that was for sure. He certainly hadn’t. He was almost embarrassed to admit he even went to the audition in the first place, but, well, something about desperate times… The show was not Off Broadway, or even Off Off Off Off Broadway. It wasn’t even a real fucking show. It was a summer cabaret at an LGBTQ+ resort in the Catskills called Shady Queens. But it was a gig, and at this point he had no business turning one down, no matter where it was. In fact, it was his only hope.

He might have slept a little, finally, slipping in and out of restless dreams, then dragged himself out of bed at eleven, equal parts dread and exhaustion. Lynn had long since left for work, but she propped a note next to his granola. YOU’RE GONNA KILL IT, ARCH. He stared at it while he crunched, holding his bowl at the counter.

The audition was in an old warehouse two trains away at the ass end of Brooklyn, the building so run-down he almost didn’t go in for the first round. The only thing that actually got him in the door was the fact that the director of the show was Stewart Harpham-Lale, a figure well-known in the musical theater crowd who had never quite found mainstream success. Apparently, retirement bored him, and he was now filling his hours at Shady Queens. Worst case, Archer figured he could learn a thing or two from Stewart.

He approached a woman sitting at a folding table inside the rusty doors. “Hi, I’m Archer Read, here for the callback?” His voice was small in the vast space.

She barely glanced at him as she checked a clipboard and gave him a sticker with a number ten. “You can go ahead and warm up,” she said, nodding at the floor.

He slipped his sweats off and did some stretches at a shaky barre. There were about twenty other people in the room who clearly couldn’t land anything better either. And yet… each one of them was incredible. That made him feel worse. Talented and still not happening.

They started with Latin ballroom. He was paired up with a tiny slip of a blond girl for a samba, which worked in his favor because he was able to whirl her around with ease. Next, they danced hip-hop to Missy Elliott, which he felt good about, pushing through the tiredness and hitting it as hard as he could. Last was lyrical, his favorite, thanks to his ballet training.

As he stood in that moment of stillness before the final run, between the last breath and the first note, the thought came to him. This could be it. Inhale. This could be my last one. Exhale. The tightening in his chest loosened.

He danced. The beat of the music thrummed in his blood, the stretch of each finger and toe reached to the ends of the earth, every breath was fuel in the fire. He flew around the floor like gravity was merely a suggestion, with a lightness that he hadn’t felt in a long time. When he stopped and stood in the silence at the end, his eyes were wet.

He stood, heaving in formation with the other dancers, while the panel sat staring, impassive.

“If you could all give us a few minutes,” the one who seemed to be in charge said, before they turned their chairs and huddled for about ninety seconds. They turned back again. A silence grew, stretched, grabbed Archer’s chest and squeezed. “Numbers three, four, ten, and fourteen, you can stay. The others, thank you.”

Archer stared at his number ten. He blinked, confused. Surely not. He watched as the rest turned and left, leaving him, two other men, and the tiny blond slip on the floor.

“Congratulations,” the boss said, now allowing a smile. “We would love to offer you a spot at the Shady Queens cabaret this summer.”

I did it.

He sucked in a shaking breath. I fucking did it. He didn’t care how small it was, or that it was a two-hour bus ride away. He did it.

Archer called his parents on the way home. “Don’t get too excited,” he started, once his mom put him on speaker, “it’s totally not a big deal, but I got a small job.”

“Honey, that’s great! What’s the show?”

“Well, it’s a cabaret… for the summer… in the Catskills.”

There was a pause. “The Catskills?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but Stewart Harpham-Lale directs the show, he’s kind of a big deal, and tons of theater people go to the resort and it might actually help me network and stuff, you know. Someone might even see me in the show and remember me.” He was babbling but couldn’t stop. “I feel like it’ll be good for me, then I can come back to the city and give it one last try, after that. Just a few more months.”

He could feel his parents having a silent conversation with their eyes. “That sounds fun, Archer,” his mom said.

“So I’m actually gonna bus up there tomorrow and I’ll be there for about four months, until the end of August,” he continued, blazing through the noticeable drop in their enthusiasm. He forced a laugh. “It’ll be just like camp.”

“Mm-hmm,” his mom said absentmindedly. There was rustling in the background. “What about your apartment?”

“Oh, uh…” His mind whirred. “I don’t know, I’m sure Lynn will—”

“You should get something in writing, so she doesn’t try to scam you.”

“What? Lynn would never…” He trailed off. What was the point?

“Have fun, Arch,” his dad said after a beat of silence. “Let us know when you get there.”

Lynn was much more excited for him—more than she should have been, really.

“That’s amazing news!” she cried, jumping onto the couch, bag of roasted chickpeas flying. “Babe, I’m so proud of you!”

Sasha retrieved the bag from the floor and gave Archer a much more reserved look. “Congratulations.” She tugged at Lynn’s shorts. “Sit down, sweetie.”

“It’s not that amazing,” Archer said, trying to suppress the smile that wanted to unfold across his face.

Lynn flopped back onto the cushion. “It is. It’s a great gig. You’ll have so much fun.”

“I guess so.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Then you know what this means…”

He watched her grinning when it clicked. He grinned back. “You’re right. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.”

Sasha looked back and forth between them. “What?”

Archer hustled to the fridge and dug around in the back until he found what he was looking for. He held it up for Lynn with two hands, like Rafiki presenting Simba on Pride Rock.

Lynn cackled while Sasha looked perplexed. “A bottle of gross, cheap champagne?” She squinted at the label. “Jesus, how much did you pay for that? Five bucks?”

“Two ninety-nine,” Archer said proudly. “From the first liquor store I saw when I set foot in Manhattan.”

Lynn jumped up and took the bottle from him, cradling it lovingly. “He’s been saving it to celebrate his first job. Go grab some glasses… Ew, Archer, why is it sticky?”

It was the worst champagne he’d ever had, and the best.