Waltz Time – Entry 19: Why Wasn’t I Surprised!

 Waltz Time – Entry 19: Why Wasn’t I Surprised!

“Some reactions stay with you — not for what was said, but for what wasn’t.”

I called you next.  My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, still riding the wave of disbelief. The message on my answering machine had just changed everything, and all I wanted was to hear your voice, to tell you the news.

When you picked up, your tone was warm, calm, and steady — not surprised, but sincerely happy. “That’s incredible, Bruno,” you said, your voice breaking into that deep, genuine laugh I loved. “A Chorus Line? You did it.”

There wasn’t a hint of hesitation, not even the flicker of ego or envy that I had learned to expect from men in my past. No subtle competition, no need to balance my joy with their insecurity. Just pride, pure and unfiltered. You hadn’t auditioned because you were working another gig, a steady one that kept you dancing, but you were truly glad it had happened for me.

That kind of reaction was new to me. It caught me off guard, not because it was dramatic, but because it wasn’t. It was real.

In other relationships, success had always been a delicate subject, something to tiptoe around, to soften so it wouldn’t bruise a man’s confidence. But you, somehow, didn’t make me smaller to make yourself comfortable. You let me shine. You celebrated with me.

And it hit me, that’s what surprise feels like when it’s healthy.

Still, as we talked, there was a quiet undertone I couldn’t name. Maybe it was the distance of the phone line, or maybe it was me already thinking that our paths, though parallel, would never fully cross.. not sure.

When we hung up, I sat for a moment in the silence, the receiver warm in my hand. I replayed your words in my head, trying to memorize how it felt to be met with genuine joy instead of quiet resentment.

I smiled, then exhaled softly, why wasn’t I surprised? I shouldn’t have been, because your support always extended beyond my expectations. But I was.

Then, I called my mother, 

My mother, a huge fan of theater and film, was over the moon.

“You need to come home so we can get the family together and celebrate!” she exclaimed, her voice bursting through the receiver like confetti. I could practically hear her pacing the kitchen, probably already pulling a cake mix from the cabinet.

I told her everything, the audition, the call, the movie, and then, almost as an afterthought, I mentioned, “I met a nice guy.”

There was a pause, the kind of pause only mothers have — filled with curiosity, calculation, and love all at once. Then she laughed. “Bring him too! I hope it’s not too serious,” she teased. “Your career needs to come first. You and your sister are living my dream.”

Her words landed somewhere between pride and longing. It was the kind of love that carries its own ache, the dream deferred, but realized through her daughters. I could hear it in her tone: the admiration, the caution, and a touch of envy for the kind of independence she never had the chance to fully claim.

I promised her I’d come home soon.

As I hung up, I looked around my small apartment — a tangle of dance shoes, scripts, and takeout containers — and felt, for the first time, the weight and wonder of what was happening. My world was shifting, and everyone who mattered felt it too.

I remembered you had asked me to call you back, so I did. We talked again that night, and you said, “How about dinner at my place? I would like to make you dinner.”

Never had a guy cooked dinner for me — ever.  Another first.  

And that simple gesture, so unexpected and tender, felt like its own quiet miracle.

💗

Anna