“There’s something else.” She hesitates and there’s so much fear in her eyes that I breach the distance between us and pull her to me.
“I get it, you’re scared, and I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to. If you want to be friends first, that’s fine by me. If you can look past the gossip and the pressure and my past.”
“Your past?”
“After Olivia, I kind of went overboard with enjoying the attention I was getting.”
“Is that code for you slept around?”
“A lot.” I kiss the top of her head and am so tempted to run my hands underneath her silky cream-colored shirt. Her skin is smooth, darker than mine, and I love the way she feels. “Listen, I’m going to get out of your way, let you go talk to the director of your ballet company. Remind him, he can’t say anything until mid-afternoon, or Grégoire is going to lose it. Big time.”
She opens her mouth but I continue. “We’ll talk about this again. Maybe tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“If your director is okay, we’re going to go over the script later this afternoon.” I slap my forehead and then wince, because the pain is still pretty strong. “I forgot, I’m supposed to ask you about your friend…Alisha.”
“Steve asked you?” She smiles and this time it’s genuine and it takes all my self-control to not steal a kiss, because she’s still so close, so warm, so soft and sweet.
“He did. It seemed Alisha really impressed him, but she kind of pushed him away.”
“I can get the story from her. At least, try to. She seemed to like him, but she kind of closed up fast when we talked about it.”
I wrap my arms tighter around her and lift her off the floor for a bear hug, kiss the top of her head again, then her cheek and her neck… she doesn’t stiffen in my arms, instead there’s a throaty sound that gets me instantly hard. I let her back down and mumble, “I’ll see you later…” before gathering my clothes, wallet and phone in a hurry.
Once I’m out, I take a deep breath.
She surprises me by opening the door again, with the bag of croissants. “Here, take one at least, you’re going to need it.”
And she’s right.
CHAPTER 24 – JEN
I could have melted in Lucas’ arms. Melted right there. Melted and not even regretted it. He’s got this tough look about him: in the way his jaw hardens when he’s upset, in the way his muscles flex, in the way he closes up. Or maybe it’s the tattoo. When he was without his shirt, all I wanted was to reach out and trace the shape of the birds flying away, but I can’t do that. Not until I tell him the truth.
I wanted to. I really wanted to. I was about to, but he cut me off and the way he looked at me, like I was special and couldn’t do any wrong…
My heart screams it’s not real, my brain screams we need to show each other our weaknesses if we really want to give each other a chance, but can I enjoy this phase a bit longer? He already knows me better than a lot of my so-called friends. The only other people who have seen beyond the surface are Em and now Alisha. I thought Nick did too, but he was too busy dealing with his own demons and with Emilia’s to really dig deeper into my issues. And I didn’t want to let him.
I finally move away from the kitchen and plop down at my computer. My therapist gave me the name of a colleague who works in Paris and is American. Doing therapy in French wouldn’t have worked as well. I enter the number in my phone and Google him. His office says it opens at 7:30 a.m. So I leave a message.
I grab my coffee and sip on it, taking a bite of the croissant I picked up at the bakery around the corner—they were still warm when I got them. I’ve only had croissants three times since I’ve arrived and they’re still as delicious, melting in your mouth. With one hand, I log into my emails.
An email from Em.
Hi Jen,
How are you? I know I texted you yesterday but I had to update you on the salt/sugar situation at the culinary school. The guy who did that also tried to mess with my flour. Luckily I saw him before we started baking, otherwise I would have been screwed. Except for that little healthy competition (as the director calls it), I’ve been doing well. I miss you though. Yes, I know, you don’t want all the mushy stuff but see, I think you do, you’re just too afraid to admit it, which brings me to my next point: have you met someone?
Oh, I also wanted to share that meme I found online the other day, I know it’s going to make you laugh.
I got to go. Call me maybe?
Emilia.
The meme she sent me is of a ballerina screaming at her director. And it does make me smile because I’d give anything to put Igor back in his place. I make a mental note to reply to her later today. I still can’t believe Em and I moved past all of our issues to actually become friends. Granted, Nick came between us, but the main reason I was always so angry with her was because I knew she didn’t want to be dancing, and she was taking the spot of someone who might really want to make a career out of it and couldn’t.
There’s a short email from my dad telling me he loves me and that they’ll call next Sunday. I can’t wait to tell them about the video and even though I’m still wondering what brought their change of heart and their desire to work on themselves, I’m all for it. I could learn one or two things from them.
My computer dings with another email. It’s from Grégoire. I scratch my temple—what does he want? He doesn’t seem to be a fan of mine, at least I didn’t get that impression during the auditions.
Subject: Important – Contract/Communication
Jennifer,
I’d like to ensure that you understand the terms of the contract when it comes to communication. You are not allowed to give any types of interviews or background talks about your work with Dire Blue. If you do, this will be found in breach of contract and you will not receive payment. In addition, we would be obliged to bring you in front of the court for possible defamation.
Please read the article attached to understand what I mean when it comes to dealing with the media. We would not want Lucas or the band to find themselves in the midst of a scandal which could hurt their chances.
I look forward to working with you.
Grégoire.
I click on the pdf he attached. It’s a screenshot of the article which was published last night, the one that had Lucas all up in arms.
There’s a picture of Lucas leaning toward Olivia as if he’s kissing her. I know he hasn’t. I believe him. I believe what he said but my stomach still plummets to the floor like a ballerina who can’t land a grand jeté. Because it hits home and because what if some journalist ends up finding out about my overdose? There was no article in the press and I don’t have a record, because my parents made sure of it, but what if someone still remembers me, and they dig through everything?
Lucas would know. Everyone would know.
Promise me you’re going to fall in love. Mia’s words come back to haunt me. Promise me you’re going to love. Like Beauty. Like all the princesses. You’ve got to pinky swear.
Words are easy but actions are so much harder. What happened was more than four years ago, and even though my therapist managed to convince me I don’t have to keep on punishing myself for it, I’m not sure that past isn’t coming back and ruining everything.
CHAPTER 25 – LUCAS
The ride back to my place is quiet. I close my eyes in the car and take a little nap. Even though my life is all about going out, showing my face, performing, it’s still been a while since I drank that much.
The driver clears his throat, probably to wake me up gently. “Should I take you to your place or do you want to go anywhere else?”
“To my apartment, please.” And thoughts race through my mind. Sleeping is not going to be possible. We drive past the club where I first laid eyes on Jen and pride bursts within me as I remember how she stood up to that guy, as if she was ready to fight, even though it was clear afterw
ards that it was the adrenaline working.
I scratch my nose. Thinking that Grégoire walked by without even asking if she needed any help baffles me. Benji told me once it used to be his routine. Asking for help but no one caring. Acting out so someone would care. He thought if he made enough noise his parents would come back for him. But they never did. His grandma told him his mom died giving birth to him, and his father couldn’t deal with the pain so he ran off. He never even called for Benji’s birthday or anything. Benji loved his grandmother fiercely, but he still wanted more. He said he got the “more” he’d been looking for when Olivia and I ran into him at that soccer field by the American School of Paris.
But it wasn’t enough. If we had been enough, he would not have died.
The pain over his death comes and goes in waves. The guilt eats me. “Can you turn on the radio, please?” I need noise to drown my thoughts.
“Sure, what station?”
“Europe 1.” At this hour, that station has the news, guests coming. It will distract me until we’re home. Some days, I feel like the guilt will win. Other days, it’s the anger. The anger of not realizing how far he’d gone. Then I’m also angry at him. Too many emotions and not one clear winner.
Outside, people are going on with their lives. Cars honk every few minutes, people hurry on the sidewalk to their destination. The buildings stand—they’ve seen wars and they’ve seen lovers. They’ve seen everything and they still stand. Some date from the Middle Ages. They keep on standing through fire and floods.
And that’s what I should do. I need to keep on standing and living. Because living is also a way to honor Benji’s memory, living my dreams.
That evening with Jen, I felt alive for the first time in months. I don’t think it’s because she didn’t know who I was, but because she paid attention. She listened and she cared. She made me laugh. She let me talk without expecting anything.
I can’t complain about being successful. Hell, I’ve always wanted to be a singer, a performer, ever since Dad took me backstage at a Blood concert when I was little. He had gone to high school with one of the guys working with them, and they reconnected on Facebook. When Dad told him I played the piano and loved to sing, the guy told Dad he should nurture my talents.
Dad and Mom enrolled me in music lessons, voices lessons, but my real beginning was with Olivia and Benji. Olivia and I wrote music together, we sang, we played at school events, at our parents’ parties. Benji brought a different touch. He had learned the guitar on one of his old grandfather’s guitars by watching YouTube videos and taught himself to play the piano at the local community center. He could harmonize like no other. He could replay a song he heard only twice. He had an ear and an aura.
He simply got lost.
Lost in the newfound fame, lost in his dreams and lost in finding himself alone after his grandma got diagnosed with Alzheimer. His troubles began when he was little. He was pushing for attention, the only way he knew how.
“Lucas?” The driver says my name like he maybe had to repeat it a few times. “We’re blocking part of the road.” His other way of telling me that I probably should get my ass out of the car.
“Of course.”
“Do I need to pick you up at one thirty to be at the studio?”
“That would be great.” I could take the metro and lose myself in the crowd. With sunglasses and a hat, people simply walk by me without recognizing me. But Grégoire usually freaks out. He’s told me before he wanted to hire a full-time bodyguard, a full-time security service for us. But for now, I don’t think it’s necessary. “Thanks again,” I tell the driver before entering the building.
Once in the apartment, I sit down at the piano, play a few songs. My mind races through the hangover fog. Singing with Olivia isn’t such a bad idea. My eyes find the frame on the bookshelf. I never had the heart to take it out. Olivia and Benji smile one of their happy smiles.
My phone rings and I hesitate before picking up because I’m sure Mom saw the headlines and is worried Olivia and I are back together, worried I’m going to get hurt again. However, if I don’t pick up, she’s going to be even more worried and probably will come here herself to make sure I’m okay.
“Bonjour Maman,” I say in French.
“You’re on loudspeaker. Your dad is with me.” She sounds out of breath. My dad speaks almost perfect French, but for some reason they talk in English to one another. Maybe because they lived in the US for such a long time after meeting. “What’s going on? That picture in that magazine.” She sneers at the word “magazine.” Probably very unhappy with their decision to post that picture. “Are you okay? Did Olivia do something again?”
Mom used to be able to pretend she liked Olivia. Now, she only seems to tolerate her. She stays out of my business as much as possible, but it’s pretty clear she’s not a fan.
“I’m fine.”
“See, honey, I told you you were worried about nothing,” she tells my dad.
“In one of the pictures, you look so sad. I only wanted to make sure you’re doing fine.”
“I only saw one picture.”
“Oh.” Mom sounds like she wishes she could take her word back. But it’s too late.
“Mom?” I probe her.
“There are several articles talking about how depressed you are and that yesterday you were letting loose after not finding someone to dance in the music video which is dedicated to Benji.”
“How do they know about this video already?” I clench my hands into fists. Stupid Grégoire.
“Anyways, we only wanted to make sure you were doing okay. Are we still seeing you for lunch on Sunday?”
“Of course. I’ll be there.”
“We love you, honey.” And she hangs up. Mom and Dad keep me grounded. I never miss a Sunday lunch unless we’re on tour or performing, and I’m already looking forward to next Sunday. At my parents’ table, nothing is expected of me except setting the table, and clearing out. Mom and Dad have disagreed with me a lot in the past years. Even though they supported my music career, they didn’t expect me to not go to college and to drop everything to tour. Benji’s death really hurt them. He was like another son to them. And Mom broke down at his funeral.
It’s too much at once. The auditions, the stupid gossip rag playing on Benji’s death again, being so close to Jen but knowing I can’t have her.
The sun shines through the windows, illuminating the keys of the piano. I play for a few more minutes, losing myself in the music, and then yawn loudly.
Taking a nap so early in the morning might not be considered napping, but I don’t really care. I stand up and unfold my wide frame on the couch. And I close my eyes.
A pounding of my door wakes me up from a very bizarre dream, where Grégoire was a snake attempting to eat Jen and me. And we weren’t mice or anything.
“Open up!” And the snake is at the door.
“I’m coming. I’m coming!” I drag myself out of bed and unlatch the door. “It’s twelve. I’m not late to any appointment and you’ve got yours soon.”
“Look at this.” He shoves his iPad into my face.
‘What?”
“Read the headline.”
“This is ridiculous.” I sigh—irritated, but glance down at the headline. “Dancer chosen for Dire Blue new music video. Is she the new Benji?”
Fuck.
CHAPTER 26 – JEN
As soon as I enter the studio, Alisha rushes to me. “I saw the news online. About you know…and you know who. Are you okay?” She looks worried.
“I’m fine. I don’t think it’s true and even if it was, we’re just friends.”
“Yeah okay.”
“Stop probing or I’m going to talk to you about a certain Steve who’s been asking about you.”
“He has?” She has the dreamiest look on her face mixed with so much fear.
“He has.”
Erin—the dancer who also tried o
ut for the auditions—enters with her head down. When she sees us, a ghost of a smile appears on her face and she walks to us. “How did you guys do yesterday?”
“Hmm-hmmm.” That’s the best reply I can come up with. Clearly, I’m going to be amazing in interviews if Grégoire decides I need to do any.
“I was a bit distracted, but I did pretty well,” Alisha answers. “How about you?”
“I panicked, but like you said, I gathered everything I had and still danced, but the choreography I prepared was too short and it didn’t fit the mood of the music. It is such a sad melody.”
“True,” I reply—keeping the rest of the story inside because it’s not my story to tell.
More dancers trickle into the room. Many are talking about the article in Le Monde about the dance company. It made a big splash on social media, apparently, and some seem to be anxious about their jobs. “If we don’t sell out at the next show, we can forget it. This company has so much debt. They should have been upfront before offering us a position.”
John—one of the choreographers—enters and goes straight to business like he usually does. He’s not as mean as Igor, but he does push us to our limits. “Let’s go. Enough of this chitchatting. I have you with me for three hours and you’re going to work for three hours. Not talk. Do you hear me?”
Everybody quiets down. “Let’s get started.”
After three hours, I’m out of breath, my feet are bleeding and my entire body is shaking. John seems pretty pleased with our performance. “I’ll let Igor know that you did well today.”
It’s like throwing us a bone—we’re all so eager to please Igor, even though that’s Mission Impossible. It’s sad in a way how much power ballet directors and choreographers have over us. If they decide we’re not good enough, or we didn’t do something properly, we don’t get a good part, we can get fired, we can be burned on the entire circuit.
Love in B Minor Page 11
