I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 102: Dancing in the Crossfire
Jon's Perspective
If someone had told me two weeks ago—casually, maybe in the middle of a class or over coffee—that my life was about to spiral into a full-blown dance odyssey, I would've laughed. Loudly. The kind of laugh that says, "You clearly don't know me." The idea of me dancing—seriously dancing—would have sounded like the setup to a really bad sitcom joke. Turf wars, poetic metaphors shouted at high volume, and intense, borderline unsettling eye contact? That would've sounded more like a fever dream than my day-to-day reality.
But that was before the standoff. Before Gloria and Jay declared what can only be described as a cold war over my two left feet.
It all started in the living room. One minute I was awkwardly trying to keep up with the fast-paced rhythm of Gloria's footwork, and the next, Jay stepped in with a curt, "You're overcomplicating it." A few sharp remarks later, and we had a full-blown showdown: one fiery, Latin-inspired ball of intensity versus a gruff, old-school pragmatist with a deeply held belief in correct posture. The two of them couldn't agree on a single thing—except, apparently, that I was hopeless.
In the aftermath of their living room battle, a fragile peace treaty was forged. The terms were clear: no more tag-team teaching. Gloria would have Tuesdays and Thursdays, Jay would take Mondays and Wednesdays. Fridays, in theory, were meant to be my "days off." In practice, "rest" was a foreign concept in the Pritchett household. Even the air felt like it was vibrating with competitive energy.
Each lesson had its own... flavor.
Gloria's sessions were a full-body experience. And I don't just mean dancing. I mean the drama of it all. The woman taught with the fervor of someone directing a telenovela and choreographing a flash mob at the same time. Every instruction was delivered like it was a matter of life, death, and rhythm.
"Jon! You must move like your heart is escaping your chest because you see her—and she is so beautiful, you cannot breathe!"
Meanwhile, I was mostly focused on not stepping on Ghost, who had taken up permanent residence in the exact center of the dance floor. By "dance floor," I mean our living room rug.
Jay's approach was the polar opposite. He was a technician—obsessed with form, balance, and the rules of ballroom like they were laws of physics.
"Jon," he said, more than once, in the tone of a weary football coach, "you're flailing. Dancing is not interpretive arm waving. Keep your frame. You look like you're solving a crime mid-step."
At first, it was a comedy of contradictions. Gloria told me to unleash my inner wildfire. Jay told me to rein it in like I was operating heavy machinery. Their feedback collided like opposing weather fronts, and I was smack in the eye of the storm. The arguments escalated. By the second week, they weren't even arguing in normal sentences anymore. They were speaking entirely in metaphors.
Gloria shouted, "You are teaching him to be a folding chair! Folded! Stiff! No soul!"
Jay countered, deadpan, "Better that than whatever this is. He looks like a balloon man outside a car dealership."
And me? I was the balloon man. Flapping in the breeze. Caught in the crossfire of two wildly different dance philosophies, trying to spin without spinning out.
But here's the twist. Somewhere in the chaos… I started to get it.
Not all at once. Not like a movie montage where I suddenly become a star dancer. But little by little, I went from "electrocution victim" to "mildly coordinated human." I could actually finish a dance sequence without tripping over furniture, feet, or felines. That alone felt like a small miracle.
The hardest part was rhythm. I could memorize steps, sure. But as soon as the music started, my internal compass went haywire. Gloria would scream, "Let the rhythm enter your soul!" Jay would grunt, "You're rushing again. Slow down. You're not escaping a fire."
Then, as if things weren't confusing enough, Phil entered the picture.
Of course.
One afternoon, I came home to find him in the living room, arms wide like a game show host revealing a brand-new car. He looked almost too excited, which, in Phil-speak, meant danger was near.
"Jon," he said, eyes gleaming with dramatic purpose, "your problem with dancing—it's not your body. It's your mind."
I blinked. "What?"
"It's psychological," he insisted, placing a hand on my shoulder like a spiritual guide. "You're thinking too much. Rhythm isn't something you do, it's something you feel. It's like showing a house. You build up the anticipation… then BAM! Show them the walk-in closet."
I had no idea what that meant. None. But weirdly, my brain sort of… got it?
And then he added, in his best magician voice, "Dancing is like magic. The trick isn't in the move—it's in the pause before the move."
Now that I understood.
As odd as Phil's TED Talk from another dimension was, it unlocked something. I stopped rushing. I started listening. Not just to the beat—but to the silence before it. Jay's structure gave me footing. Gloria's passion gave me motion. And Phil, well… Phil gave me the strangest kind of clarity.
I wasn't suddenly amazing.
But I wasn't terrible either.
One afternoon, Jay watched me finish a rumba sequence and grunted, "You're not half-terrible." That was practically a standing ovation from him.
And Gloria? She clutched her heart and said, eyes misty, "He dances like a man in love."
I wasn't sure if she meant with Sam… or just with dancing in general. Either way, I took it as a win.
Because for the first time, I wasn't afraid of the music.
I was ready to dance.