When I step into the room that houses all the workout machines that belong to my parents, I stutter to a halt. Elliot is still in his dress slacks from work, but his jacket and tie are gone. The sleeves of his Oxford shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and he’s dragging one machine to the edge of the room.
Mom has a ballet bar running along the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was put there by the previous owners for their daughter, but Mom was elated.
She used it as an excuse to sign up for those ballet aerobic classes.
There’s always an eight-foot opening in front of the bar, but Elliot has cleared away a few more machines and the mats they sat on, leaving us with a decent-sized dance floor.
When he sees me, Elliot gives me a smile I’ve never seen. It’s not the doting smile he gives Mom o
