The Billionaire's Club Trilogy: Deluxe Box Set

by C. L. Donley

  For the last few days, I’ve been a wreck.

  On the first day off after Midsummer concludes, I skip my exercises for the first time. In life.

  First, I learned that Dale was spotted at no less than three shows.

  It’s enough to send me right out into space. For a full 24 hours I imagine his confession of love, how he’s obsessed with me and lost without me. I try to guess the when, where and the how. It’s over the top, but it’s fun. He sent the troupe a bouquet of 5 dozen assorted roses with a simple note that said “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce!’ Bravo! Dale Abernathy.” A quote about Hermia from the Shakespeare play. I’m pretty confident the quote was Bryan’s affectation. Aside from that, I hadn’t heard a word from him, a detail I tried not to read too much into. My plan was a longshot, after all.

  Then it was reported that he’d brought significant others. Separately to each show.

  I suspended all emotion until I could find out for myself just who these bitches are.

  When I see that they’re all his sisters, I don’t let on to the rest of the troupe how relieved I am, nor do I tell anyone how Dale and I are connected.

  His sisters had come, but no sign of his mother? I found it odd.

  Then one day, I bothered to read.

  Abernathy’s mother Collette Gerard-Abernathy, who had once played Helena as a principal ballet dancer for the San Francisco ballet from ‘72-’75, lost a short battle with cancer six years ago— which explains the mogul’s keen interest in the ballet’s resurrection.

  Oh my God.

  Dale’s mother, whom I had insulted at dinner, who I’d become increasingly eager to meet and keen to impress for some reason, is deceased.

  How hadn’t I picked up on that?

  I desperately recalled the details to see where I’d heard wrong, but I hadn’t. He talked about her as though she was alive.

  Or had I merely assumed she was, and that Dale’s is a problem free life? That because my mother’s alive, that everyone’s mother is?

  His sisters didn’t mention her at all at the wedding.

  Because they hadn’t wanted to.

  Not because they were ballerina haters, but because she’d fucking died of cancer.

  And he was there to see Helena three times. Not Hermia.

  I want to throw up.

  Such a naive, self important, bitter, bitch.

  My best friend is happy and I can’t stand it. A great guy wants me and I arrogantly turn him down. Then my scheme to seduce him with dance falls flat because it turns out there are other people in the world that matter other than me. Obviously. If he wanted me that way in the slightest, he would’ve just picked up the phone. Not paid for three ballet tickets and a big ass bouquet of flowers addressed to me and a dozen other people.

  I want to collapse, because my whole life is stupid.

  Everything I do is because other people told me I couldn’t, or shouldn’t. What do I have to show for it?

  A body, that would easily be like everyone else’s without my constant vigilance. Slow clap.

  A shot at being the first black white swan? For what? Because it would start a riot among ballet enthusiasts and so “fuck all y’all”? Is that really a good enough reason? To do anything?

  The week that Sleeping Beauty rehearsals began, I get another piece of news that would’ve sent me straight into the afterlife a week ago.

  Nederlands Dans Theater in Holland wants me.

  No audition necessary.

  Nederlands Dans Theater is in the Netherlands, as the name suggests. Known for its rigor and innovation. No more dusty Tchaikovsky ballets, I would be part of the innovators now, creating traditions instead of reviving them.

  Of course I’m honored. And of course I’ll say yes.

  But it’s coming at an odd time in my career, right when I’m feeling fatigued in almost every way. I’m going to be about as important as a fly on a horse’s ass there in a company that size. But I don’t care about that. I don’t even know if I’m the first black this or that.

  I don’t know what to live for anymore. I’m having an existential crisis. Brought on by sex.

  Or is it love?

  Perhaps I owe Dale’s mother the ultimate apology.

  Yes, she quit. And in the end she got out of it love and family. A wonderful son. Something that she worked for, more than she had for ballet, yet at least it would outlive her.

  I’m a wretch. A wretch that’s going to Holland.

  There would be no Dale. Probably no love, period.

  Maybe I’ll have more luck in The Hague. But judging by their schedule, it’s best not to hope. It’s best to continue my devotion to ballet. It’s the one unselfish thing I can manage.

  I’ve no expectation of seeing Dale at another show. Unless Sleeping Beauty also holds some sort of sentimental value I don’t know about. As it is, I won’t be featured until the third act, so there’s no point in being excited. About anything.

  I still have Swan Lake to look forward to, but even that ambition has diminished. I’m not sure if I even want to run into Dale anymore, let alone the entire bunch of them.

  But the day Amara calls, she’s particularly determined to get me to come over.

  “We’re having dinner, come stay the night. You can stay in town, save yourself the drive.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Just the usual. Me, Grayson, Rosetta. Dale, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” I parrot. I hate the fact that seeing Dale is suddenly tainted with an unbearable insecurity, worse than the one I started with.

  “He’s been ranting and raving about your performance. Thought you’d might like to hear it in person?”

  Ranting and raving. More compliment cunnilingus. The stupid kind that I don’t care about.

  “Can I bring a date?” I ask.

  “Girl, stop.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Then no, you cannot.”

  “But he can??”

  “There will be no dates, will you relax? It’s just dinner. Amongst friends.”

  At least I can be assured that he’ll be alone.

  I sigh.

  “What’s the matter?” Amara pleads.

  I well up. I’m so close to giving her an unintelligible mass of emotion over the phone.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you. In Spain,” I say instead.

  Amara is silent.

  “You wanna make it up to me?” Amara asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thursday. 6:30. Show up. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I sniffle.

  When Thursday rolls around, I don’t leave my house until 6:30.

  I don’t mean to do it, per se. I’m sure if I leave by six I’ll be fine, but then 6 suddenly becomes 6:30.

  The guilt sets in as I barely make it out of the house and it’s 6:47. I can always blame traffic. I can hear the bleeps of what are probably Amara’s texts on my phone. Finally at 7:15, a phone call.

  “Girl, what the hell.”

  “Sorry, I left late, and then I caught the traffic. I think there was an accident or something,” I lie.

  “How close are you?”

  “20 minutes, tops.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You’re not waiting for me are you? Please don’t.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Well, let me off the phone, I’m on my way.”

  I end the call. I roll my eyes.

  And like that, I’m already at 10 with Amara again.

  Amara is 100% out of touch with reality now. She lives a fucking hour away! Gas costs money, all these fucking “dinners amongst friend”s are costing me a fortune, not to mention wearing on my dependable yet life-weary Civic. So that I can sit around and listen to them laugh about their “life challenges?” Yes, I’m saving myself a trip tomorrow, but sleepovers at Davis Manor are not my idea of fun. They’re always tip-toeing around trying not to have sex where I can hear it. Excruciating.

  Fi
nally, I arrive and I pull up behind Dale’s luxury SUV in the driveway, a full hour and ten minutes late. My heart pounds, both with dread and excitement to see Dale for the first time in months. Part of me wants to rush in. I don’t make a habit of keeping people waiting. I hate the feeling. But… I just need a minute before I put myself in the company of the happiest fucking people in the world.

  My confidence is in the toilet. I don’t even want to look in the car mirror because I’m pretty sure I will cry if I do, and the questions would be worse.

  I make my way up the stairs. I can hear the laughter from the doorway.

  I should’ve cancelled.

  I ring the doorbell and when the door opens, there is Dale.

  His brown eyes are tender as he smiles.

  I’m suddenly ambushed with happy feelings.

  He greets me by kissing me on the cheek.

  He’s wearing a black v-neck sweater with gray slacks, his hair in his signature combed back state, the front portion threatening to rebel.

  My body is in complete shambles. I feel hot and cold. I don’t want dinner. I want to be lying down, and I want Dale to also by lying down. Making me feel like I felt that weekend in June. Like royalty, like a sex goddess. I should’ve grabbed his hand and walked out with him. But it’s been four months, and our rapport feels the same as it did when we last had dinner here.

  I walk past him toward the kitchen, feeling like the biggest hypocrite in the world. I can feel his eyes on me but I don’t even have the courage to look back.

  I pass the underutilized dining room and go straight to the kitchen, where Grayson and Amara sit at the breakfast nook, Sam between them in a high chair.

  “I know I’m going to cry when I finally see that baby again,” I announce.

  Amara doesn’t answer. Probably still salty about my late appearance. I’m definitely going straight to bed after this.

  “Mya,” Grayson greets me cordially.

  “Grayson,” I send back, in an attempt at rapport.

  I see a plate on the stove, put down my things and slowly begin to pick at it with a fork. Beef wellington? Really?

  “I brought cake,” Dale volunteers. “I already cut into it, I couldn’t wait.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” I dryly reply without looking up.

  Dale is conspicuously silent. Grinning.

  Grayson and Amara look at each other. They didn’t get the joke, but they can guess.

  “Did you get my flowers?” Dale continues.

  “They were beautiful. Everyone was very taken with them,” I reply.

  “What about you?” Dale asks.

  But I haven’t heard. I’m looking at Amara, who is sitting casually at the breakfast nook.

  Dale

  “Your hair is different,” Mya suddenly directs at Amara.

  As Amara turns, Mya notices that her hair is shaved on one whole side, her locs high and stacked on the other.

  “Do you like it? It’s a little punk rock.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Just…a lady I found in Oakland.”

  When Mya doesn’t answer, Amara interprets her silence.

  “You were at practice eight hours a day, I wasn’t about to bother you about my hair—”

  “Since when?”

  “Since… I don’t know. We’ve got separate lives now. I can’t just make you drop everything to twist my hair for an afternoon.”

  “I was relying on that money,” she says in a low tone. Inwardly, I’m squirming. It’s obviously the closest thing to not being a handout that she can endure, and Amara, attempting to be thoughtful, inadvertently took it away from her.

  The energy in the room changes. Amara knows better than to suggest writing her a blank check right now.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be relieved,” Amara says.

  “Don’t lie. You knew I’d be pissed, which is why you sat over there in the corner with your head turned.”

  “I didn’t know how you’d react, that’s true. I never know how you’re gonna react these days,” Amara dares to add.

  Mya just shakes her head, eyes back on her plate.

  Grayson and I are quiet. We’re no strangers to intense conflicts, and that’s putting it mildly. Did I also mention that I have three older sisters? So as you can imagine, I can feel a tempest brewing.

  “It’s something different. Plus I can cover it up if I want,” Amara takes her hair down and demonstrates.

  “How can you let a stranger just cut thirteen fuckin’ years off your head like that? In an afternoon?”

  Mya’s not talking about hair anymore, I sense.

  “Rosetta, can you lay the baby down for me? I’ll be up in a minute.” Rosetta moves soundlessly and grabs the baby from the high chair.

  Mya shakes her head again, laughing to herself and stabbing her food to death with her fork.

  It’s at this point, it seems, that Amara’s patience runs out.

  “Say what’s on your mind, Mya,” Amara’s voice begins calmly.

  “Don’t you wonder what Rosetta would like to do with her life, other than put your baby to bed?” Mya challenges.

  “Not really, no.”

  “Put your own fuckin’ baby to bed, Amara, and let Rosetta go to bed at a decent hour.”

  “Rosetta is well aware of Rosetta’s job and its description, but you’re not. Which is why she’s not trippin’ but you are.”

  “I’ve never once seen you put that baby to bed.”

  “That’s a lie, first off,” Amara is still calm, but clearly not holding back anymore. “Secondly when you’re here, which is what, four days out of the year? Someone else takes over so that I can spend time with you. Ever think of that, genius?”

  “Yes, because I’m sure you’re completely wiped after a long day of making mindless videos at ‘work,’” Mya puts the word “work” in air quotes.

  “And you’ve never seen a single one.”

  “Actually I’ve watched nearly all of them. How many ballet performances have you seen?” Mya digs.

  “I’ve sat through more hours of boring balls ballet than you have of my videos, so let’s not compare friendship stats right now.”

  “No let’s not, because it would be embarrassing for you,” Mya hisses.

  “What is this world you live in, where you’ve been a better friend than me? Because that has literally never been the case.”

  “Is there asbestos in this fucking palatial monstrosity? Because you are out of your mind.”

  “First of all, dance class. Secondly, dance class. So let’s stop acting like you were one of the fuckin’ Golden Girls. Everyone took a backseat to Mya’s dance class, including Mya,” Amara growls.

  “Yeah, and then I came home from dance, twisted your hair, and listened to your boring ass, only child problems ‘til 1am,” Mya’s volume rises.

  “And now you’re bitching because I got someone else to do it? I got plenty people to do all that now, and you’re still not happy!” Now Amara is yelling.

  “No I’m not! Because the moment someone dangles balls in your face for money, you leave me out in the lurch!” Yikes. Yikes. Now Mya is also yelling.

  “I never left you out in the lurch, I always paid my half. And then I paid your half.”

  “The old Amara would know damn well I wasn’t talking about money!!”

  “Yeah, well old Amara isn’t around for you to feel superior to!!”

  I brace myself. I’ve witnessed plenty of lady shitstorms in my day, but this one’s pretty bad. This is deep shit to be fighting about, out of the blue. Neither of them strike me as the type to let an issue get so bad that it comes to this. Mee…yow. It’s a little bit hot, a little bit scary but mostly surreal. Just when I think I’m going to have to hold Mya back, which I’m not all that confident I can do successfully, Mya brings her volume chillingly back down.

  “You’re right, I do have to feel superior from a distance now,” Mya coldly responds.

 
Amara scoffs. “Is that why everytime you come around you make everyone miserable? Because you realize just how wrong you are about everything?”

  “It’s just that I’ve known you ten times as long as anyone here, so I know how fake you’re being. If I make everyone miserable, I wonder why you keep parading me around like your fuckin’ negro mascot.”

  I think back to Mya’s behavior at the wedding as the two have it out. I knew she felt like a third wheel, knew that she always seemed to resent us on some level for “stealing Amara away from her.”

  But I’m jarred by her deep feelings of abandonment and betrayal.

  Amara is married with a kid, but the boundaries of their close relationship have yet to be redefined. And now it’s been over a year.

  So the two of them had never been good, not really. Not at the wedding, not at the engagement party. Not since I’ve known of her.

  She seems miserable around us because she is. The realest, most functioning part of Mya had been what I saw on stage. In the ballroom. In the bedroom.

  Does anyone even know this woman? I wonder how much more captivating she could be when she’s happy.

  Grayson was right. She had been wound up. Just… not about what we all thought. And now she’s breaking before our eyes.

  Amara laughs. “You know, I knew you were salty that I finally made something of myself so fast—”

  “I’m sorry…you made something of yourself?? You’re a fuckin’ prostitute,” Mya spits.

  Fuck. There it is. The site of the wound. I feel bad that Amara can’t outrun what we did. I feel bad that Mya doesn’t understand.

  “Watch yourself, Mya,” Grayson bellows from the corner.

  My jaw is tightly clenched. I suddenly go light headed with anger. I’m pissed at everyone in the room, including myself. I’ve led Mya into an ambush.

  Mya is rigid. She obviously hadn’t expected Grayson to come to his wife’s aid. I want to defend Mya too somehow, but on what? The entire fight is pure emotion and speculation about who’s the better fucking friend. My hands are tied.

  Mya is nearly shivering with anger.

  “At least I didn’t sell my virginity to the highest bidder,” Mya dares to make what sounds like her final caustic remark.

  “No, you had to put your shit in the bargain bin,” Amara shoots back without hesitation.