by Debra Doxer
I’m not upset because of my mother’s failing health. I’m upset because I don’t care.
As I get to my feet a little too deliberately, Cole frowns. “Nichole, I think you’ve had—”
“I’m fine.” I interrupt him before he can say I’ve had too much to drink, and I smile to take the edge off my abruptness. I sense his hesitance but when I meet his gaze with an unwavering one of my own, Cole’s reluctance fades. I need him tonight. I need him to make me feel something.
Out on the street, Cole hails a cab, and the next thing I know I’m giggling because I can’t get my key into the lock of my apartment door.
“Are you sure?” he asks softly beside my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
When I nod, he smoothly takes the key from my hand and lets us inside. The rest of the night is a strange mix of hazy memories and vivid ones that sear themselves into my mind.
There are certain events in your life that leave an indelible mark. They change you because they write themselves on your soul. This night falls into that category. I ride a high that erases my inhibitions and opens my eyes to a truth I’ve known for a long time.
I choose the wrong men, but tonight the right one chose me.
Cole treats me unlike any man I’ve been with before. His eyes are heated, but his touch is reverent. When the lips I’ve been watching all night finally meet mine, the kiss we share is charged by the natural electricity between us. I’ve just decided he’s going to be a tender lover when he fists his hand in my hair and tugs to get a better angle on my mouth, making my knees go weak.
Despite the need I sense building in him, Cole stays in control, taking his time to undress me as he drops tender kisses on my newly exposed skin. He told me I was beautiful in the bar, but now he makes me feel beautiful, like I’m special and not some stranger he just met. He looks into my eyes with such intensity, I think he sees me, the real me, a person I haven’t let anyone see in a very long time.
At some point, I make the decision to pretend Cole isn’t a stranger. He’s my partner, my best friend, the person I come home to each night. I run my fingers through his hair and imagine that we belong to each other, relishing the moment he lifts me in his arms and lays me across the bed. We touch each other, breathe each other in, and I let myself fall into the fantasy.
When he braces himself above me, I admire his muscular chest, sighing at the delicious friction of skin on skin. The low groan that vibrates through him as he slowly enters me sets my body on fire. As I watch him move rhythmically, I’m completely captivated by the mask of ecstasy on his face.
I’m close to the edge when I arch my back and wrap my arms around his neck, anchoring myself to Cole, preparing for the climax bearing down on me. My muscles tense, and then I’m convulsing around him as I shatter to pieces in his arms.
Those arms are still around me when my breathing returns to normal and the world coalesces back into the familiar shape of my bedroom. Cole’s rough cheek scratches mine as he drowsily whispers one word in my ear.
Perfect.
When I gradually come awake the next morning, blinking against the sunlight, my head pounds and I can smell his aftershave on my sheets. After drinking so much last night, my thoughts are strangely clear. There’s no fuzzy hangover muddling my mind. I know exactly where I am and precisely what I did. I also know I’m alone. I can feel it in the quiet, in the stillness of the air.
He’s gone.
As images from last night flood my memory, I wait for regret but it doesn’t come. There is no What have I done? moment of shame. My only regret is that I don’t remember the entire evening as sharply as I’d like. But if I hadn’t been drinking, it wouldn’t have happened, and that would have been the real shame.
I pull the sheet up to my nose to breathe him in, and his lingering scent makes my skin flush with heat. I close my eyes, recalling the feel of his hands on me as they skimmed down my sides and smoothed over my hips before gripping them firmly. I imagine him here and think about him touching me.
My memory is good enough to cause a steady pulse between my legs. I had sex with a stranger last night, but I’m not ashamed of myself. I can’t be. I enjoyed it too much, even though it was reckless and dumb. I got lucky. Cole turned out to be a nice guy, more than a nice guy. So much more.
I don’t recall him leaving, and it’s just as well. My impression of our night together and of Cole might not stand up to the scrutiny of daylight and sober thinking. I fantasized all kinds of things about him when we were together. Thank goodness he couldn’t read my mind, because he probably would have knocked the door off its hinges trying to get out. I turned him into my dream man, a dream I didn’t even realize I had, and I know that’s all he’ll ever be. A fantasy. A myth. An unrealistic hope.
As I sit up and place my feet on the cool hardwood floor, I wonder what Cole’s impression of me was. My skin heats again, this time with embarrassment. What do men usually think of drunk women who sleep with them the same night they meet them? They don’t respect them or take them home to meet their mothers. It’s a double standard, but a reality just the same.
I scrub my hands over my face, feeling so unlike myself because I’m sore, not from dancing, but from being with Cole. Pulling my hair back into a knot, I trudge into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.
When I look up at my reflection in the mirror, I spot a note taped there.
Unexpected emotion clogs my throat. I pull the note off the mirror and trace Cole’s bold handwriting with the tip of my finger.
When I brought him home last night, there was no question of exchanging numbers or seeing each other again. That wasn’t going to happen. It was meant to be one night, and I can’t describe how I knew that. I just did. It was there in his cool blue eyes, and one night was fine with me.
That’s what I wanted too. To leave myself behind, give in to the lack of inhibition too much alcohol provided, just be with him without any expectation of more.
At least, I thought that’s what I wanted. But looking at Cole’s note, I sense a tug at my heart, a heaviness in my chest I didn’t expect, and it feels like longing but it also feels like loss.
The loss of something I didn’t know I wanted, but understand I’ll never have.
Almost two years later . . .
My phone vibrates from inside my bag. The staccato buzzing noise, like a manic bee, tempts me each time I pass the metal folding chair where my bag rests. But I won’t give in.
If I can ignore the pain in my knee, screaming like the lead singer of a heavy metal band, a phone can barely make a dent in my determination to learn this masochistic choreography, meant to push a dancer to her limits. At least, this dancer is being pushed. But it’s not my part I’m learning. It’s the principal role, and each leap I attempt illustrates why I’m not a principal dancer but still a member of the corps.
“Stop thinking so hard, Nikki. Feel it.”
I hear my former dance teacher’s voice in my head. Miss Emily believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. She helped me see dance as a form of expression, a therapeutic release, a way to find joy in my unjoyful life.
With her as a teacher, dancing felt like flying. I could soar above turmoil and disappear into the dance for just a little while. Miss Emily taught me that each muscle has a purpose and each pose can be a work of art. Because of her, I fell in love with dance. Because of me pushing myself too hard, I’m losing that love, and I don’t know how to get it back.
I try the leap once more, doing it for Miss Emily this time as I struggle to find the joy and not let the pain overshadow it, but my knee gives out. It buckles again and my ass hits the floor with a bone-jarring thud.
“Dammit,” I mutter as an exasperated breath leaves my lungs.
Tchaikovsky continues to play despite the abrupt end of my performance, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the buzzing of my phone.
As I continue to mutter miserably to myself, I inch my behind across the fl
oor and toward my bag. I don’t want to put pressure on my knee yet.
“What?” I grumble when I see it’s my best friend Deedee calling.
“Excuse me, princess.” The sarcasm dripping off her voice practically flows through the phone.
“Sorry. I’m cranky.”
“You’re not still at the studio, are you? Rehearsal ended hours ago. You said you’d meet us at Boomers.”
“I hate Boomers.”
“We all hate Boomers. But the drinks are cheap and the guys are hot. Hence, we hang at Boomers.”
“Yeah. Hence.” After a moment, I ask, “Is Tag there?”
“Yes.”
“Is Meredith there too?” I hold my breath.
After too long a stretch, Deedee says, “Yes.”
I picture them together and my shoulders slump.
“They’re talking to each other at the bar. You should probably get down here if you want to salvage things with him.”
I laugh bitterly. “How romantic.”
“Romance isn’t always flowers and hearts, Nikki. Sometimes you have to fight for what you want.”
“Right,” I reply, but that doesn’t sound right.
If Tag doesn’t want me anymore, am I supposed to fight to keep him? Some fights are worth the effort while others aren’t. If Tag is going after Meredith without having the courtesy to break up with me first, she can have him.
But I can’t let him humiliate me in front of everyone we know. At the very least, I should go down there and hold my head high, let them all see I’m not sitting at home alone, crying into a pint of ice cream.
“I’ll shower and be there soon.”
“I’ll have a drink ready for you,” Deedee says before ending the call.
In a ballet company, there’s always someone new coming in, a rising star. At the beginning of this season, it was Taggart Wilson. You could practically hear the sucking sound as the dressing rooms cleared out and all the girls in the corps rushed to get a look at him on his first day. He was fresh meat, covered in compact defined muscles with arrogance shining out of his emerald-green eyes. But Deedee and I just shook our heads. She’s been with her boyfriend for nearly a year, and I avoid conceited soloists as a general rule.
But Tag wasn’t conceited, just confident in a seductive and surprisingly humble way. He worked hard at being good, almost as hard as I worked, which was why we kept running into each other at the studio long after rehearsals were over. We’d talk for hours, and I felt myself falling for him. Now he’s fallen for Meredith.
Tag and Meredith. The thought of them together should hurt more. It stings, but I’m not exactly devastated. I was wrong about Tag. He’s not who I thought. He has a well-concealed mean streak that reveals itself when he no longer wants something from you.
That’s okay. I never opened myself up to him, never dropped my facade and let myself be vulnerable. That’s sort of my superpower. Indifference. At least, that’s how I think of it. I don’t have to feel something if I don’t want to. That way, no one can hurt me. No one can break through. I simply don’t let them.
If Tag were being honest, he’d admit he liked my aloofness in the beginning, and the fact that I made no demands on him. How many times did he complain about clingy girlfriends from his past? I’m the antithesis of clingy, but that doesn’t seem to suit his ego anymore.
Using the chair for leverage, I push to my feet and put some weight on my knee. It twinges. It’s been giving me trouble on and off for a long time, but lately it hurts every time I dance. Gingerly I put more pressure on it, shifting my weight, and breathe out in moderate relief. It hurts, like always, but I don’t think I made it any worse. I walk on it carefully and try to put it out of my mind as I gather my things and turn off the music.
Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and changed into jeans and a sweater, I join everyone at Boomers. The best thing about Boomers isn’t the cheap drinks, since I normally don’t drink much, or the hot guys, since most of them are assholes—it’s the proximity. It’s across the street and down the block from the studio.
I spot Ian first, Deedee’s boyfriend. He’s a tall, lanky graphic designer covered in tattoos, most of which he designed himself. Deedee stands beside him.
I have to hand it to her. It’s not easy to find a nice guy in the Bay Area, but somehow she managed it. They met at the park when they were both walking their dogs. She’s been telling me to buy a dog ever since, or to at least borrow hers on the weekends to attract animal-loving single men. Thankfully, her nagging ended when Tag and I started dating, although I expect it to start up again soon.
Deedee’s grin is wide but also tense when she sees me. I notice she looks exhausted with shadows beneath her eyes. We were both up at five this morning for rehearsal. Everyone in the ballet corps had the same call time and yet they’re all here, drinking, laughing, and gossiping.
She pulls me into a hug, even though I saw her a couple of hours ago. When Deedee leans back to look at me, her smile is gone, and I follow her gaze across the room to where Tag and Meredith are swaying together on the tiny dance floor.
“They weren’t doing that when I called you,” Deedee says by my ear. “They were just talking.”
Ian gives me a sympathetic look and pats me on the shoulder. As I scan the room, I notice several pairs of eyes on me, and beneath them are tight smiles of pity. They all know us and they know what’s happening here.
The unwanted attention makes my stomach queasy. Maybe coming down here wasn’t such a good idea.
“Should I beat him up for you?” Ian asks.
“Okay.”
His eyes go wide.
“Kidding. But thanks for the offer.” I say the words calmly, but I’m far from calm. I can sense humiliation waiting in the wings.
When I look at Tag and Meredith again, the way he’s publicly humiliating me is so consciously hurtful, I don’t understand it, and I know I can’t just walk away with my tail between my legs. It’s not that I care so much what other people think. It’s about maintaining respect within the company. I can’t let Tag take me down a peg in their eyes, and not in Dennis’s either.
I see our notorious choreographer standing in the far corner, nursing a drink. Two of the newer dancers are talking to him, kissing up, making nice as they seek to win his good favor. They haven’t yet learned it’s better to keep their distance from Dennis. No one stays in his good graces for long, and I should know. One day you’re the teacher’s pet, his shining star, then you do something to earn his displeasure, and no matter how good a dancer you are, you’re never good enough for him again.
Deedee slides a drink in my direction but I slide it back. I want to stay sharp for this. After taking a fortifying breath, I paste on an expression I hope is more lion than lamb and slip through the crowd, zigzagging my way across the room until I’m beside Tag and Meredith.
I know he senses me the moment I arrive, but Tag takes a long, excruciating moment to give me his attention.
“Nikki,” he says, feigning surprise.
His dark blond hair falls into his eyes and he flicks it back with a quick jerk of his head. His attitude is so overtly rude, I question my own judgment. Why did I ever want to be with him?
“You’ve got something on you,” I say, pointing to Meredith.
Behind me, someone snickers. Meredith’s head lifts from Tag’s shoulder, and she looks at me for an uninterested moment before she rests her head back where it was.
“Can I talk to you?” I glare at Tag.
He nods, his posture stiff as he disengages himself from Meredith.
I retrace my steps back through the crowd and head for the small hallway behind the bar that leads to the bathrooms. My chest compresses as I move and suddenly this feels like a death march, a slow, deliberate walk toward an ugly, inevitable end. With Tag’s mean streak, he won’t like me confronting him, and I have no doubt he’ll retaliate.
The soles of my boots stick to some unidentifiable c
rud on the floor as I pass by the bar. Once I reach the hallway, I brace myself before I turn around to see Tag standing behind me, wearing a resigned expression.
We stare at each other for a moment before I raise my brows questioningly. As much as I want to rant, I hold back, knowing a big scene is something he would scoff at. He would think I was a typical irrational woman and dismiss anything I said out of hand. So I resolve to remain calm as I give him a piece of my mind.
“What is it, Nikki?” he finally asks.
I grind my teeth at his impatient tone. “When you decided we were through, it would have been considerate of you to inform me. Don’t you think?”
“When I decided.” He steps closer. “This is your doing, not mine.”
“Excuse me? Meredith is my doing?” I can’t believe his gall.
He takes a step closer. “When was the last time we were together? Not just to fuck, but to do anything?”
I cringe at his crudeness. “We’re always together. I see you every day at—”
“Rehearsal? Is that what you’re going to say? That’s work. When was the last time we were together outside of work?”
When I think back, I realize he has a point. “I have to rehearse. You know I’m trying to get a solo part.”
“It’s hardly a sacrifice, though, is it? You don’t care about me. You only care about yourself.” He crosses his arms and shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t want to have to say this, but you need to hear it. You’re a good dancer, Nikki. When you dance, it’s a beautiful thing to watch. It truly is. But you’re not a great dancer, and there are very few people on this planet who can tell the difference. I’m one of them, and so is Dennis.”
My mouth falls open.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Dancing is everything to me too. But you need to put it in perspective. One day you won’t have dance anymore, and you’ll look around and realize you don’t have anything else either.”
