LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Was that how she saw me? I felt like I’d gotten so much wrong in my life.

  “You are a very intuitive dancer,” she said calmly, as if her words hadn’t shifted my view of the world, of myself. “You dance from your emotions. When you trust people, you care about them. You can’t help it.” She tilted her head to look at me. “Is this what happened with Sarah? You think you have to take care of her?”

  “I love her,” I said defensively.

  “I know. You love all your dance family,” she said seriously. “But you’re not in love with her.”

  My mouth opened to deny it, but I just couldn’t.

  My head dropped to my hands, and I felt Yveta’s soft touch on my rough cheek.

  “You have to take care of yourself as well, Luka. Is unhappiness what you want to teach your child?”

  “That’s . . . that’s not fair!”

  She shrugged, and turned to Ash, mentioning a song that she thought would work for the new show, and our moment of shared truths was over.

  Would that be my legacy to my child? No! I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that. I’d grown up in a house where I wasn’t wanted. I knew what unhappiness looked like.

  I felt Yveta’s hand squeeze mine, although she didn’t look at me again.

  After five hours of tossing around songs and working on some dance ideas, we all headed back to Ash and Laney’s place for dinner.

  She was having a good day, so wasn’t using her wheelchair. I gave her a huge hug when I saw her, careful not to squeeze too hard.

  “Luka! It’s so good to see you. How are you? How’s Sarah? I can’t believe you’re going to be a father.”

  And she hugged me back tightly.

  “Good to see you, too, little sunshine,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Are we ordering in pizza?”

  She swatted my ass as I danced away from her.

  “No! I’ve spent the whole day in the kitchen cooking, and you’re going to love it. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Yveta perched on the couch with Gary, while I sat on the floor with Oliver, our plates loaded with a weird assortment of party food. Who knew that couscous worked on pizza? Yeah, wouldn’t recommend that. But the lasagna was good, and Oliver was eyeing the mountain of cupcakes with appreciation.

  Laney curled up on the only armchair in the room, as Ash sat at her feet, his head leaning against her knees.

  A flash of jealousy shamed me. I wanted that, the closeness they shared. I sure as fuck didn’t have it anymore with . . .

  I stopped the thought dead.

  They started asking me questions about working on The Bodyguard, Ash especially wanting to know if I’d picked up any tips that could work in the new show.

  “Yeah, wear an athletic cup if you’re dancing with someone ballet trained.”

  I raised my eyebrows and they all laughed.

  “But as far as the show goes, I’d say avoid the pop video style—it’s become a cliché—just grabbing your cock and grinding, you know.”

  “If only,” sighed Gary, and Yveta tossed a cushion at him.

  “Or use that style, but subvert it—use it where it’s not expected. I don’t know if I’m making sense . . .”

  Ash nodded, a small frown on his face as he followed my ramblings.

  We talked about dance, gossip in the industry, and how we’d go about pitching the new idea to Selma, our producer/manager, so she could sell it to theaters across the U.S. If that went well, who knew what was possible?

  Eventually, Yveta, Gary and Oliver left, and Laney piled sheets and blankets on the armchair for me before she headed for bed.

  “Don’t drink too much,” she said, smiling at Ash as we slouched on the sofa, a bottle of Hennessy whiskey between us. “Night, Luka.”

  The bedroom door closed and Ash poured us each a shot.

  “So what’s going on with you and Sarah?” he asked.

  He’d dropped into Slovene now we were alone. It was a relief to speak my own language again after so long.

  “The baby is due at the end of February.”

  “It happened at the wrap party?”

  I grimaced and lined up another shot. “Yeah.”

  “You said . . .”

  “I know what I said! It was one time. She was drunk, I was drunk. It wasn’t supposed to . . . but it did.”

  “And now?”

  “And now we’re trying to make it work.”

  Ash frowned.

  “It works or it doesn’t: you can’t force it to work. I know you care about her. Is that enough, brother?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Yes, I think so. I’m going to be a father,” I said, looking up. “I want to be a good one. Better than . . .”

  I didn’t need to finish. Ash knew how I’d grown up.

  “And Seth?” he asked carefully.

  “That’s over.”

  He nodded but didn’t ask for details.

  Instead, he filled our glasses for another shot.

  “I thought you’d be . . . happier,” he said at last.

  “It’s complicated. Sarah doesn’t know about Seth and . . .”

  “Shit, Luka!”

  “I know! I know, but Seth didn’t want her to know. Fuck, her own mother demanded that I never tell her. I didn’t agree, but now I don’t know. She’s changed. She’s so . . . unsure about everything. She does everything her mother tells her. I can’t reach her . . . I don’t know what to do. I thought when I asked her to marry me that she’d know I was committed, but it hasn’t made any difference.”

  “You’re sure?” Ash stared at me uncertainly. “I don’t know, brother. A lifetime is a lot of years to be with someone . . .”

  “It’s hard to explain, but the moment, the second I heard the baby’s heart beating, that’s when it became real. And . . . and I felt . . . shit, I don’t know, like I’d fallen in love.”

  Ash nodded, a sad smile on his face as his eyes drifted to the bedroom door.

  “Sounds nice.”

  “I WANT TO sleep with you.”

  I spat coffee all over my sweat pants as I stared up at Yveta, unsure that she’d really said that.

  “What?”

  She waved her hand impatiently. “Not fucking, just sleeping. I want to sleep with you.”

  “Um, I’m a bit confused, Yvie. What the hell are you talking about?”

  She sighed and slumped down on the floor next to me.

  We were both in the studio early on my last day in Chicago, working on an idea for Life Circles. Steven Curtis Chapman’s song ‘Cinderella’ had been going around and around in my head, the words significant and poignant, for me, at least. It was about a father watching his daughter grow up, wanting to be near her, afraid at how fast time was passing. And his daughter begging him to dance with her—because his little princess, his Cinderella, was going to the Ball. I wanted that to be me. I wanted to be the kind of father who tells his daughter fairytales and builds a pretend palace from cereal boxes and living room furniture; a make-believe world where my daughter is a princess.

  With that on my mind, the last thing I’d expected from Yveta was . . . whatever the hell this was.

  “I’m so tired of being afraid of . . . of men,” she admitted, thrusting her chin into the air defiantly. “It’s been two years, and if a guy so much as smiles at me, I feel panic inside,” and she placed her hand over her chest. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want those monsters to still control me.”

  I put my coffee down and reached out to hold her hand.

  “You are so strong, Yvie. But it’s going to take time.”

  She huffed impatiently, tugging her hand free.

  “I know this! I have seen all the therapists,” and she rolled her eyes. “Nothing works. So, I will make my own therapy. I need to sleep with a man. I need to share a bed, to be close to someone. If I can do that, I think I can move on.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sure Gary would . . .
”

  She laughed.

  “Yes, he has offered, but I need it to be a man who likes women. I’d ask Ash, but Laney . . .” and she wrinkled her nose. “You’re the only other choice.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said raising an eyebrow. “Uh, look, I wish I could say yes, but Sarah would really freak out about this.”

  “Then don’t tell her.”

  Yveta’s face was serious, not seeing a problem.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I chuckled uncomfortably. “But honestly, Yvie, you know secrets have a way of coming out, and I don’t think . . .”

  “Luka, please. I’m so tired of being afraid. I trust you—I know you won’t hurt me. And I’ve seen you—you have such a big heart. Is there room for me? For you to do this for me?”

  Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away angrily.

  “Maybe I should just get drunk and let a man use my body. Then I will forget.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Yvie! Don’t be stupid!”

  “Stupid? You think I’m stupid? I have figured out a way to start over and I need one small thing from you! But you won’t do it. You’re too scared of your precious Sarah.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  She gave me a cold smile.

  “No, life isn’t fair. Didn’t you know that yet?”

  Her hand instinctively went to her scar as she stood up and stalked away.

  Did she understand what she was asking of me? It was hard to imagine how things could be worse with Sarah, but I knew without a shred of doubt that she wouldn’t understand. She was friends with Yveta, as much as anyone could be, but she’d draw the line at that. I think anyone would. But my heart felt heavy when I thought about everything Yveta had been through.

  Ash arrived with Gary and Oliver, and Yveta didn’t mention her ‘therapy’ again, thank God. I felt bad that I wouldn’t help her out with something so simple—although sleeping with someone, lying side by side while you dream, there are few things more intimate. I hoped that she wouldn’t hold it against me. I couldn’t stand losing another friend.

  During the last five days, we’d put together the outline of an amazing show. I felt incredibly proud to be a part of it, and to know that my idea was at its heart.

  Tired, but feeling a real sense of achievement, we all went back to Ash and Laney’s apartment, and this time Ash insisted on ordering in food, on the grounds that Laney worked hard enough. She knew exactly what he was doing, but she just handed us a bunch of takeout menus and gave him an amused look.

  He grinned and kissed her, whispering something in her ear that made her blush.

  Why can’t I have that?

  I hated being jealous of my friend, my brother.

  Yveta nudged me gently, and I looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring.

  “It’s the small moments, isn’t it?” she sighed.

  Gary popped open a bottle of champagne, handing us each a wineglass.

  “To us,” he said, his voice more serious than usual. “To our amazing dance family.”

  “To family,” we echoed.

  “And because we’re hotter than the devil’s dick.”

  Oliver choked on a mouthful of bubbles and ended up spitting all over Gary.

  “You deserved that,” Laney snorted, wiping her hand over her mouth. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  Gary tossed his head, shooting an angry look at Oliver.

  “I’m talented like that.”

  “I’m going to miss you guys,” I said sincerely.

  “Oh God, don’t go getting all mushy,” Gary moaned, rolling his eyes. “You’ll be quoting Liza Minelli next.”

  Yveta nodded, her eyes sliding to me accusingly. “Hard body, soft heart.”

  “Fuck off the lot of you,” I smiled, raising my champagne glass in a toast.

  We drank and we laughed, we ate cold pizza and Lo Mein. I soaked in the last moments of friendship with my dance family.

  Yveta snuggled next to me on the couch, forgiving me.

  Ash and Laney had flaked an hour ago, and Oliver was snoring next to Gary on the floor.

  “We’re all misfits,” I think, Yveta said, solemn and drunk. “But here we fit. Why is that?”

  “Fucked if I know,” I yawned.

  She poked me in the ribs, making me squirm.

  “I’m serious. We were strangers, but now we are family. I don’t always like you,” and she gave me a hard stare, “but I love my dance family.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I know,” she said, sighing against my chest.

  We fell asleep like that: friends, innocent. So I guess Yveta got her wish after all.

  When I slipped away before dawn to catch my flight back to London, I hoped that it had helped her.

  The days in Chicago had passed too quickly, for me, at least. I felt like myself again and realized how lost I’d been in London.

  I knew that I needed to make things right: for Sarah, for the baby, and for me.

  My plan was to marry quickly, before the baby was born. It would give Sarah reassurance. Also, I’d sell my apartment in Koper. It was possible that my sister, Lea, would buy it from me, if my parents agreed to help her. The money could go toward buying something bigger in London, although the real estate prices there rivalled New York.

  When the new show went on tour later in the Spring, Sarah and the baby would come with me. I had it all figured out.

  But you know what they say, If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.

  The trip to Chicago had been just what I needed. I hoped Sarah had benefited from the time apart, too. Or maybe that was too much to hope since she’d ignored my calls and texts the entire time I’d been gone. I’d even texted Seth when I knew he was back from Singapore to make sure that she was okay, and he replied with two words, She’s fine.

  I didn’t sleep much on the flight to London. My eyes were closed, but I was too wired to rest. I had my plan. It had to work. But as I approached London, my confidence and certainty began to drain away.

  I should have had time to go back to the apartment for a couple of hours, but my flight was delayed—of course—so I went from Heathrow to the theater. Not an ideal way to prepare for a show, but nothing I hadn’t done before.

  I texted Sarah as soon as I landed, but she still hadn’t replied. So I was very happy to delay the shit storm that I guessed was waiting for me at the apartment.

  It felt good to walk inside the artists’ entrance, to smell the greasepaint, and feel the mounting excitement as the performance time neared. Everyone seemed pleased to see me, which was more than I’d get in Camden. Probably. I was caught up on all the backstage gossip within ten minutes.

  It seemed like all the dancers had slept with the musicians. Even little Alice. I shook my head, but didn’t say what I was thinking: keep the drama on the stage.

  The show was ten minutes from ending when Kathryn gestured to me that I’d gotten an urgent phone call from Sarah. She mimed taking a call, and curved her hand over a pretend belly. For the second time, Sarah insisted that the baby was coming more than two months early.

  “It’s another false alarm,” I said tiredly, hovering in the wings before my final entrance. “She’s probably just pissed that I didn’t go back to the apartment. I’ll finish out the show.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I am.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if Sarah was resorting to some sort of psychological warfare, trying to make me freak out or feel guilty every time my cell rang. It still worked, but that didn’t mean I was going to play her game anymore.

  I took my time showering, determined not to show up at the hospital in my costume and stage makeup again.

  But when I finally checked my cell, I had 23 missed calls: 20 from Sarah, and three from Seth.

  I felt the blood drain from my face as I realized it was really happening, and ran outside to find a cab.

  When I arrived at the ho
spital, it was ten minutes before someone could tell me which birthing suite was Sarah’s, and then I was given a set of blue scrubs to wear.

  Delay after delay left me half-crazed when I was finally shown where to go.

  The room was silent except for the sound of a cat yowling.

  No, not a cat.

  They didn’t allow cats in hospitals, did they? My jet-lagged brain was struggling to catch on.

  A baby. A baby was crying.

  The floor tilted and I had to grab the door handle. My baby?

  I opened the door and found the midwife holding a tiny, squirming pink thing, covered in blood and shit.

  My shocked gaze found Seth standing in a corner, his hands on his mother’s shoulders, while Sarah lay in the bed, staring up at me exhausted and soaked with sweat, her eyes accusing.

  “You weren’t here. You promised you would be, but you weren’t here.”

  “I’ll just go and clean her up,” said the midwife, her eyes ping-ponging between us. “She looks fine, but Dr. Aspen wants to run through a few checks. All completely normal for prems.”

  “Wait!”

  I stared down at this strange creature and its eyes opened. Her eyes opened. Blue-gray, just like her mama’s.

  “I’m calling her Beth,” said Sarah.

  Her voice was tired but clear. We’d discussed a few baby names. Beth wasn’t one of them, but I liked it.

  “Zdravo, Elizabeta,” I said, mesmerized by her red face and tiny fists.

  Her skin was so thin, I could see the blood vessels underneath. She was so fragile, so very, very breakable.

  I laid a trembling finger against her cheek, and she mewled softly.

  “Just give us a minute,” said the midwife, smiling, “and we’ll clean up this little one and Mum.”

  “Is she . . . okay?” I asked nervously. “She’s so small.”

  “She’s a good size for 31 weeks, and a good weight—four pounds, 11 ounces. We’re just going to give her a little oxygen to help her breathe, but she seems healthy.”

  “And . . . Sarah?”

  “Just give us a couple of minutes,” one of the nurses said diplomatically as Sarah refused to look at me.