by Cate Holahan
But she had no right to feel that way. They weren’t together. She had Peter.
Her new boyfriend had purchased her return ticket for exactly thirty minutes after the show’s scheduled end—just enough time for a cab to drive the two miles from Lincoln Center to the train station, allowing for ten minutes or so of city traffic. She couldn’t exactly argue for more time. As it was, she wouldn’t arrive in Claremont, where Peter was picking her up, until 11:00.
“I have to catch a train.”
The sparkle left Dimitri’s eyes. He stared at her hand in his palm. His thumb brushed her knuckles. “I thought you would stay.”
“I can’t. I have rehearsal in the morning. The show is this Friday afternoon.”
“I can drive you.”
“I already have a ticket.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll take the taxi over with you.”
They stepped into the cold night. Wind attacked her face and shot through her sweater-dress as they walked to the corner. She huddled into Dimitri’s side for warmth. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Her head fit in the crook of his neck.
Headlights inched toward them. Vehicles crawled. Manhattan was notorious for Saturday-night traffic. She scanned for a lit taxi sign as Dimitri raised his free arm.
“Remember that night when we finished Cortège Hongrois and went out right after, still dressed in the costumes?”
Nia laughed. “Ms. Pavlik was not happy about that. What were we thinking?”
“We were excited. It was our last performance with SAB.”
“I think I just didn’t want to take off that white-and-gold tutu. I felt like a princess. It was like having an overdue sweet sixteen.”
A taxi light shone from the far left lane. Dimitri extended his hand and waved. The cab’s blinker flickered. A wall of cars refused to let the vehicle through. The taxi continued through the traffic light.
Dimitri shrugged. “Yeah. Like Cara did. That was an overtop party.”
Her eyes rolled. “I saw the pictures.”
He pulled her closer into his side and rubbed her arm. “You looked beautiful in that costume. I must have looked like a weirdo, though, because no cabs would stop for me in those white tights.”
“I think they thought we were on a reality show or something.” She laughed again at the memory. “Eventually one stopped.”
“Well, he stopped at the light. Then I kind of just opened the door and he said . . .” Dimitri cleared his throat. His voice reemerged from his nose, an imitation of a thick Queens accent. “‘I don’t think so, Shakespeare, I am not headed out all the way to Roosevelt Island.’”
A yellow cab with a darkened sign pulled over. The man shouted out the cracked passenger window. “Where you go?”
It was illegal for drivers to ask. Either you were on duty or you weren’t. But no one wanted to travel to the outer boroughs at the end of a shift.
“Grand Central,” Dimitri shouted.
The locks clicked. He opened the door for her, always the perfect gentleman. She scooted over to the far side of the plastic bench. He slid in beside her, close enough for their thighs to touch. A chill ran down her spine. She wanted him to kiss her. What was she thinking? She looked out the window. A line of livery cabs and fancy cars crept beside them. The theater crowd had left the building.
Dimitri continued the story. “That guy must have thought we were in the circus.”
“Then you started doing Goodfellas, but really badly.” She mocked his fake New York City accent. “‘Do I look like a clown? You think I’m here to amuse you.’”
“That did not help.”
“I think we ended up walking to, what? The Olive Garden?”
“We did.” He grinned. “I believe I convinced the waiter to serve us wine without carding.”
“He figured anyone crazy enough to show up as a courtier at the Olive Garden had to already be drunk.”
They laughed. The mirth in Dimitri’s eyes morphed to desire. His hand brushed her thigh. She turned her attention toward the traffic beyond the window. The headlights blurred like a long exposure photograph. She should not feel this way. Peter was waiting for her. He would pick her up in a few hours. He loved her.
Dimitri touched her cheek, urging her to look at him. Brake lights illuminated his face.
He cupped the back of her head in his palm. She closed her eyes as their lips touched. The cab seat seemed to fall away. She felt displaced, suspended in water or time, weightless. She forced her eyes open. The cab turned onto Forty-Second.
She pulled away. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m with someone.”
“Who, that Peter guy? Just leave him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You’ve been together, what, a month? We were together for four years. You can’t feel for him what you feel for me.”
“I don’t know.”
She glanced at the time on the cab’s dash. It read fifteen minutes until nine. She would barely make the train.
“What do you even really know about this Peter Andersen?”
The use of Peter’s last name surprised her. She hadn’t ever mentioned it. Dimitri avoided talking about him whenever he called. Had he searched the Wallace roster for Peter?
“I know that I care about him.”
“Did you know that he was married before?”
The romantic sheen had disappeared from Dimitri’s eyes. A vein in his neck throbbed.
“Yes, I did. And I didn’t have to scour the web to find out. He told me. His wife left him after he decided he wanted to finish his novel instead of slave on Wall Street.”
She added the last part to give Peter artistic cred. Dancers, like all artists, lauded their higher calling to compensate for the money they didn’t make. Dimitri would have to respect the fact that her new boyfriend had abandoned the life of a banker for loftier pursuits.
Dimitri’s chin tucked into his neck, as if surprised. The rest of his expression seemed satisfied. “She died.”
“What?”
“It’s in the fourth link after his name. She was killed.”
“No. That’s not right.”
It couldn’t be. Peter would have told her that his wife had been murdered—unless he’d feared it would be awkward with the talk of Lauren’s killing. But after all this time, certainly he would have said something. And he wouldn’t have made up that story about his ex-wife leaving him.
“It must be another Peter Andersen. The name is common.”
“Their wedding photo was in the article. It was the same guy in Wallace’s online faculty directory.” Dimitri looked like a parent struggling not to say I told you so, simultaneously smug and concerned. “He never mentioned it?”
The cab stopped. Grand Central Station’s red awnings spread out across the street. Shop windows glowed along with the street lamps and headlights, an electric sunset illuminating the night sky. The brightness added to Nia’s disorientation. It didn’t make sense. Dimitri wouldn’t lie to her. But would Peter?
“This good?” The cab driver shouted from the front seat.
“Actually, we might not get out here.” Dimitri responded. “You can keep the meter running.”
Nia barely heard the exchange over the questions rattling in her brain. Why wouldn’t Peter have told her? Why make up an elaborate story about his wife leaving?
“Did the article say how she died?”
“She was found in the East River.”
Lauren’s bloated body floated into Nia’s mental vision. She forced her eyes shut, squeezing the image out of her mind. Had Peter’s wife jumped off a bridge? Maybe she’d been depressed after the dissolution of their marriage. Was that why Peter hadn’t said anything?
“So she committed suicide after their divorce.” Nia said the words to herself, testing them aloud to see if the theory sounded sensible.
“No.” Dimitri touched her arm. “The article said she was stabbed multiple times.”
He
r vision swam. She felt as though the car was moving, taking corners too fast. But the taxi hadn’t budged from beneath the overpass that funneled traffic around Grand Central’s second story. She could hear vehicles rumbling overhead.
“Stabbed?” The word didn’t make sense. “But why?”
“Police aren’t sure. Apparently, she was driving an expensive car in a bad neighborhood in Brooklyn. The police found it someplace in Miami a few months later with different license plates.”
Peter’s wife had been killed during a carjacking? And he’d never said? She had to talk to him. She reached into her purse for a twenty.
Dimitri placed his hand atop hers. “I got this. Are you really going back?”
Nia glanced at the time on the meter. She’d already stayed too long. “I have to ask Peter about this.”
“Who cares what he says? He’s lying to you. He told you his wife left and she didn’t.”
“You don’t know that. There must be some mistake.”
“I’ve never lied to you.” Dimitri’s eyes were deep pools, sucking her in. Again.
“You said you wanted to be together forever, remember? Before you changed your mind.”
“Nia, come on. That’s not the same.”
A line of taxis crawled in the opposite direction in front of the station. People hurried from passenger doors into the massive building, running for their trains. She glanced again at the clock. It was 9:02 p.m. She’d already missed hers.
“Stay with me.”
Dimitri’s voice pleaded, but his face betrayed a satisfied confidence, as if he knew that he’d damaged her relationship.
She had to go. She couldn’t trust herself with him, especially not after this revelation.
She freed her hand from Dimitri’s grasp and handed the twenty to the driver. Dimitri grabbed for her fingertips.
“No. I can’t.”
She slammed the door behind her.
39
Fouetté [fweh-TAY]
Whipped. A term applied to a whipping movement. The movement may be a short whipped movement of the raised foot as it passes rapidly in front of or behind the supporting foot or the sharp whipping around of the body from one direction to another.
The BMW’s lights cut through the darkness. They flashed as she exited the train into the frigid air. It had grown colder. The wind ripped through her tights and sliced into her skin, penetrating her bones. Nia hurried down the steps from the platform to the parking lot, desperate to get into the warm vehicle, burning with questions.
She yanked the door handle. It didn’t budge. She wrapped her arms around her torso and hopped, generating heat any way possible. The figure behind the tinted windows pressed a button. The lock clicked. She jumped into the passenger seat and shut the door, barring the cold outside.
The BMW’s interior was only slightly warmer. She rubbed her legs as though trying to light them on fire with friction.
“Thanks for picking me up. I’m so sorry that I missed the earlier train. You wouldn’t believe the traffic.”
“You said on the phone.”
“Would you turn on the heat?”
Peter’s eyes rolled over her chest. His mouth set in a tight line. He didn’t touch the dial. A sweatshirt hood bunched around his jacket collar. Maybe he was hot.
“Funny that it took so long. It should just be a ten-minute taxi ride. You can walk it in thirty.”
Nia rubbed her arms, still trying to shake the chill from outside. “I couldn’t walk in this cold.”
He pinched the thin, knit fabric on her arm. Even in the dark, she could see the fire in his narrowed eyes. “Not really a cold weather dress.”
With all her obsessing over Peter’s ex, she’d forgotten to change back into her sweater and leggings. She could imagine what he must think.
Her lips parted, ready with an explanation. She shut her mouth. If he wanted to accuse her of lying, he could say so. She’d love to have a conversation about honesty given that he’d apparently lied about his ex’s murder.
She reached over the gearbox for the heat dial. She turned it to maximum. Hot air blasted into the car, smothering all other sounds. She fiddled with the vent on her side, angling it so the air hit directly on her torso.
Peter’s hand curled around the steering wheel. He grabbed the stick shift. Nia buckled her seat belt, prepared for him to peel out of the lot. She looked out the window into the black night. Claremont was such a small city that ambient light from buildings didn’t illuminate the train station.
Peter’s palm slammed into the edge of the steering wheel. The horn sounded. “Damn it. Did you fuck him?”
“What?” Her head snapped back toward Peter.
“Your ‘friend,’ who we both know isn’t a woman and isn’t just a friend.”
Guilt at kissing Dimitri and her unspoken feelings for her ex heated her insides. She wanted to apologize. But she couldn’t admit what had happened. She quenched the feeling with anger.
“No! How could you ask me that? And Dimitri,” she said the name for the first time, confirming her friend’s gender, “is just a friend.”
“Guys don’t want to be friends with girls that look like you. So unless he’s gay—”
“He’s not gay.” Nia crossed her arms over her chest. “But I’ve never given you any reason to distrust me.” She sounded like Dimitri. I never lied to you. Technically.
“Really? So you two never had sex?”
“We dated for a bit at SAB.”
He slammed his palm into the steering wheel again. “I knew it.”
She grabbed his arm. “It’s been over for a long time. I went to see him perform because I love the New York City Ballet. It used to be my dream to dance with them, and I am still trying to keep up my contacts to get in with other companies. That’s all.”
His eyes burned into her. He looked like he wanted to hit her.
“I left right after the show. It took a bit to get a cab and then, with traffic, I didn’t make the train. It was tight. You know it.” She reached out to touch his shoulder.
He recoiled from her. “You lied to me.”
“No. I said Dimitri is a friend. That’s all he is. I just didn’t want to make a big deal of the past.”
“A lie by omission is still a lie.” Peter growled the words under his breath. He palmed the stick shift and pushed it into drive, as if that would end the conversation. She couldn’t let him act so high and mighty.
“Really? Then what about your wife?”
His head snapped around to face her as though rebounding from a hard smack. “What?”
“Dimitri looked you up online. He found an article about your wife’s murder. You said she left you.”
Peter’s voice assumed an icy calm. “Why did he look me up?”
“He’s protective.”
“Of course he is.”
She hardened her tone to match the man in the driver’s seat. “Dimitri and I were together over a year ago. We are just friends now. I told you the truth. Now why did you tell me your wife divorced you?”
He raked his hands down his cheeks. Breath steamed in the air in front of his face.
“We were separated when she died. She’d moved back home with her family in Manhattan. I guess she was robbed coming back from seeing a friend somewhere in Brooklyn. The cops said her car was spotted on a traffic cam parked near Prospect Park.”
He looked out the window. “She always just assumed that if there was a ritzy high rise, then the area had to be as safe as her parents’ place on Park Avenue. She didn’t realize that it was crazy to park a Bentley on some side street in Brooklyn.”
He rubbed his temple, as if warding off a headache. “When you asked me why I was in the dorms, I didn’t want to say, ‘Oh, well, I got pretty depressed after my wife left me and was killed before we could patch things up, and I needed to be around people.’ You would have run right back out into the rain.”
The memory of their first romantic meet
ing intensified her guilt over kissing Dimitri. She lowered her head in contrition.
“I’m a writer. Sometimes I invent a little fiction for myself where she’s happy in a new life in a fancy house to avoid the fact that I drove her away and she ended up dead.”
Nia winced at the description. Of course he hadn’t wanted to tell that story at their first meeting. Some people would never want to tell that story ever.
She met his gaze. His blue eyes still looked hard, but his mouth had softened. She leaned closer to him. “I am so sorry.”
Peter looked up at the car’s interior, rolling his eyes or blinking away tears. She couldn’t tell. She touched his arm. “And I am very sorry about not telling you about Dimitri and my past. I should have. It was wrong.”
“I don’t want to be the guy always asking where you went and what you did. I’m not that possessive.”
“I know. I wasn’t upfront with you. I’m sorry I made you have to ask.”
Peter settled back into the driver’s seat and pressed the gas.
“Let’s just go home.”
40
Variation [va-rya-SYAWN]
Variation. A solo dance in a classic ballet.
Nia peeked from behind the curtain shielding the dancers from the bright auditorium. More than a hundred tickets had sold, enough to fill the orchestra and pack the balcony. Moms, dads, and grandparents, most brandishing flower bouquets big enough to adorn a casket, filled the first three rows. Behind them sat Ms. V, Battle, and other faculty. The next two rows were reserved for school alumni, retired-looking couples wearing Wallace blazers over dress pants. Students filled the remaining seats.
Nia spied Peter in an aisle seat before a row of students, mostly girls. Her limbs tingled at the sight of her boyfriend in the audience, there just to support her. Dimitri had always been backstage, gearing up for his own performance.
Nia tried to identify her students’ families. Two sets of parents that likely belonged to the T twins chatted with one another. She guessed June had brought the large Asian group in the front row. A statuesque couple resembled Alexei. Joseph’s mother had the female version of her son’s face.
