by Renee Fowler
Chapter 3
Penny
I made it all the way through the show, and nearly all the way back to my dressing room before it hits me. The image of John with that other woman is seared into my brain. Every time I close my eyes, even to blink, I see it again.
“At least you found out before the wedding, Penny. Right?” Seth says softly.
I know he’s right. Logically, I know, but it doesn’t quell the ache in my chest. How long has that been going on for? Just the once? Days? Weeks? Months?
I remove myself from his arms and go over to grab a makeup wipe. What a mess. One of my fake eyelashes is stuck to my cheek. Black tears are trailing everywhere. I scrub it all off the best I can, and pick up my phone. There are missed texts and calls galore. Most of them from John. One from my stepfather. I don’t want to speak to either of them at the moment.
“Get your things, and come with me tonight. Evan is expecting me.”
I shake my head quickly. Seth’s sugar daddy is a weird guy. I’ve only been to his place once, and it’s an experience I never want to relive again. “I’m okay. Maybe I’ll go stay with Paige,” I lie. I have no doubt my sister would invite me in, but I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see anyone right now. I just want to be alone.
“Are you sure?” Seth asks.
I nod. “I’m sure.”
“Let me drive you.”
“I’m fine. I promise.”
“Be careful, Penny.”
“I’m always careful.”
Seth gives me another hug and a pitiful look before he departs. I close the door behind him, and stare around my cramped dressing room. Part of me wants to curl up on the couch and sleep here. It sure beats facing what’s waiting for me back at my place, but I know better than that. I can’t sleep here, and who knows when and if I’ll actually be able to fall asleep.
I cry a little more. Wipe off the last remnants of my makeup, then change out of my costume. I put on slouchy sweats and a cotton cami. No bra. I don’t really need one. I take down my hair, and run my fingers through.
My hair isn’t anything spectacular. The color is a nice golden blonde, but it’s baby fine and hangs limply unless I add in volumizer and use a blow dryer, which I almost never bother to do. Still, it’s probably my best feature when I take the time to do something with it. John used to brush it for me. The first time I had asked him to do me that favor, he laughed a little, like it was a joke. Then I explained how my mother used to do it for me when I was young, how it was one of the few pleasant memories I had of her, and he stopped laughing.
Why did I ever tell him things like that? I’m a bit of a strange creature, which I think I mask pretty well most of the time, but I foolishly let myself believe he was different. I let my guard down. I let John get to know the real me, and look what I got for it?
I’m not crying as I bend down to pluck up the wedding invitations from the trash. I really should’ve known, I think as I pause to rip each one individually. When I asked for John’ input on the stationary and typography, he shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t have much of an opinion on the wedding venue, or flowers, or any of it. “Whatever makes you happy,” was his answer to every question, and I was happy enough to plan it all myself.
The truth is, I’ve been planning my eventual wedding for years now. I even have a scrapbook full of ideas, which of course I showed John. No doubt he thought it was ridiculous. Perhaps a sentiment he laughed about with Car-ah behind my back.
Even though it’s warm out, I shrug on my hoodie and zip it up. The snuggy, cotton softness of it is a welcome layer between me and the rest of the world. I pull the hood up around my head to mask my hair which is flat against my skull and crunchy stiff with hairspray, and because I like the warm cocoon of it close to my face.
Outside my dressing room, it’s quiet. I was in there a long time. Most everyone is gone, but I hear some muffled voices off in the distance. There are still a few lights on. I love the theater when it’s like this, mostly empty, almost silent. I like it best when it’s completely empty and totally silent. Andrea gave me a key for the back entrance, and made me swear not to tell a soul. I haven’t. Not even Seth. She trusts me, I guess, but maybe wouldn’t trust some of the others.
Occasionally when I can’t sleep, or the tiny walls of my tiny apartment start to feel too close, I walk the two block over and let myself in. Sometimes to practice. Sometimes I just meander around the empty halls, or sit in my dressing room.
It’s dark, warm, and humid outside. The heavy door scrapes closed behind me. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. John. I’ll have to face him eventually, but not yet. It’s too soon.
I want some time to piece together what I’m going to say first. I need to find the perfect combination of vicious and hateful words to make him feel a fraction of what I felt when I came upon him and Car-ah. And unlike most people, I need time to rehearse, even for something like chewing out my former fiance.
“Are you walking?”
At the sound of that voice, my footing nearly falters. I take a quick peek back to see Liam climbing into a car further back in the nearly empty back lot.
That decade since I’ve seen him last hasn’t aged him much, not that I can tell anyways. Who knows if he still has that same taut, muscular dancer’s body beneath the slacks and button down shirt, but his face is still beautiful.
It’s not an adjective you’re supposed to attribute to men. Handsome. Yes. He is that too, but there is a strange beauty to his features. Individually, maybe not so much. His nose is almost too big. His lips are wide, but thin. His green-brown, hazel eyes are recessed beneath a heavy brow. For some reason it all comes together in a way that is very aesthetically pleasing. Of course I can’t see all that from this distance, but I studied his likeness a great deal back when I was caught in the grip of idle, girlish infatuation.
In light of everything else, I haven’t had much time to process Liam Thibault’s sudden and random reappearance in my life. What is he doing here? Him? Here? It doesn’t make any sense. The intense, bitter animosity I feel towards him makes even less sense. He called me a fat cow ten years ago, and I’m still mad? Sometimes my own thoughts and emotions are a mystery to me, and I’m too drained to give it the proper thought right now.
“Penelope?”
I stare down at my phone and keep walking.
“Penny?”
I really should go talk to him, or at least acknowledge him in some way since I’ll be forced to work with him in the very near future, but it feels like I’ve already set my course and now I should just keep walking. Tomorrow, if he asks, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear.
A car door slams behind me, and an engine purrs to life. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, that’s all I have to do. I turn at the edge of the lot, and pass in front of the theater.
There is a huge photo of Seth and I behind plexiglass out front. John took that picture in his studio/home. We had posed right where him and Car-ah were having sex earlier, but this current production won’t run forever. Then there will be another picture, and I won’t have to face that reminder every day.
Liam idles along at a snail’s pace near the curb. The passenger side window rolls down. “Should you be walking here this time of night?”
Should Liam Thibault give a crap about an unimportant nobody like me? I barely trust myself to speak, but I have to say something. “I live close.”
“Let me drive you.”
“I’m not getting in the car with you. I don’t know you.”
He laughs. I’m both annoyed and charmed by the sound. Mostly annoyed though. I keep walking, and he drives slowly beside me. There’s no traffic this time of night. No one else out on the sidewalk. Just me walking briskly, too warm in my excess layers, and Liam Thibault driving slowly to my left. He follows me the entire two blocks, which infuriates me for some reason.
Maybe I should’ve accepted his offer of a ride, but why should I be exp
ected to make idle chit chat with this man? I’ll be answering to him, at least for the next few months, but that doesn’t extend beyond the confines of the theater.
He probably expects me to fawn all over him, trip over my own words trying to please him. My guess is, Liam Thibault is accustomed to having his ass kissed. Well, I’ll do my job. I’ll do what I’m paid to do, but I’m not an ass kisser.
I stop in front of the building that says, Crystal Engraving, Awards and Trophies. My apartment sits above the small shop, and the entrance is off to the side. It’s not exactly a great location, and the noise and commotion from downstairs makes it even less than ideal, but it’s been my home for several years, and I like it well enough.
I can still hear Liam’s car behind me as I paw through my bag, looking for my keys. He waits until I’ve unlocked the door and pushed it open to say, “See you tomorrow, Ms Abbott.”
His car speeds off as I pull the door closed behind me. And just like that, I’m crying again. Some of the tears are for John. Others are for my past and most recent humiliation in front of Liam. Why do I have to be so strange? I should’ve just gotten in the car, suffered a bit of smalltalk, and saved us both the awkwardness.
I trudge upstairs. All I want to do is take a hot shower, dress in comfy pajamas, crawl in bed, and put this nightmare of a day behind me. When I unlock and open the door to my apartment, I see immediately that’s not going to happen.
John is seated stiffly on my couch. He pops up to his feet as soon as I come through the door.
I quickly swipe at my wet face. “What are you doing here?”
“I tried to call.”
I drop my bag by the door. He makes a motion towards me, and I hold my hand out. “I ignored your call for a reason.”
“Penny, I’m sorry. I… I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how.”
“How long has this been going on for?”
John stares between his feet, and my face. Back and forth. “Not long, but you know how it is. Sometimes these things happen fast. Like with us. We fell in… It was fast. Right?”
Oh. So it wasn’t just sex. He loves her. The knife through the center of my chest twists a quarter turn. Somehow I’d almost hoped he would beg for my forgiveness. Not that I would ever grant it, but it may have softened the blow of his betrayal to see him grovel a bit. “You should’ve told me.”
“I tried, but-”
“You didn’t try very hard! When were you going to break the news? After the wedding? John, we just talked yesterday. We-”
“This is why.” he flings a hand out in my direction. “I knew you would be like this.”
I’m crying, a bit. I’m raising my voice, a bit, but I think under the circumstances, I’m perfectly entitled. I suck in a deep breath, and let loose a long sigh. “Three years, and this is the way… Did you come here to rub it in my face?”
“I wanted to explain.”
“After what I saw earlier, there’s no explanation needed.”
“I wasn’t sure exactly what you saw,” he says to a spot over my shoulder. “But when I spotted your ring, I figured…”
I shrug off my hoodie, and toss it in the direction of the couch, then shoulder past him to turn up the AC. I don’t want to cry in front of him anymore than I already have. I just want to be alone. “Can you leave please?”
“We need to talk about this.”
“We really don’t.”
“Penny,” he says softly. “We’re going to be working together.”
I’m overcome by fury. “I got you that job! The only reason Andrea even knows who you are is because of me.”
“Look, we’re both adults, right?”
At the moment I don’t feel like an adult. I feel like an enraged toddler on the verge of a epic meltdown.
John waves his hand out. “I’m already under contract for the rest of this year, so… I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
“Walk away! There are plenty of other second rate photographers in the city she can use instead.”
He scoffs. “There’s no need to be petty.”
“And there’s no reason for you to let yourself into my home uninvited.”
“You’re one to talk.”
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles ache. “You need to leave.”
“There are a few things here I need to grab. My lomography lens, and… you know.”
My eyes fall on the box nestled in the corner of the couch. He was gracious enough to gather all my things from his place and bring them over. Wow. He really is ready to move on. Just get it all over and done with in one go.
I quickly fly around my small apartment, gathering his belongings, including his stupid lens filter. I wouldn’t mind throwing it at him, but that thing probably costs more than I make at the theater in a month. I shove it all in his arms and go to hold the door open.
He marches past me with his eyes downcast, but pauses on the threshold. “Uh… my key?”
I bark out a bitter laugh. Does he really think I would ever willingingly step foot inside his place again? I pry off his key from my keyring. This I do throw at him. It goes bouncing off somewhere in the dark hallway. I give him a firm shove in that direction and slam the door in his face.
I stalk through my tiny living room and fling open my bedroom door. The dress draped over the sewing mannequin in the corner taunts me. It’s ivory white silk, every cut and stitch and carefully applied pearlized bead done by hand. I bet I wasted eighty hours of my life on it. I turned down paying commissions, and extra hours I could’ve spent in practice.
My fingers ache just thinking about all that hand stitching. My eyes feel bleary, from crying, but also at the memory of squinting against my slight farsightedness as I knelt in front of that mannequin to work, my shoulders and back stiff.
It’s my perfect wedding dress for a wedding I’ll never have. It was a labour of love. Pathetic, unrequited love.
My first inclination is to rip it at the seams, tear it to shreds, but I can’t. I’ll never wear that dress, but I can donate it maybe. As I carefully take it down from the bust, and fold it with great care, I am imagining some other unfortunate soul with my same diminutive proportions coming across it at the Salvation Army. Maybe it will bring them joy, or maybe someone will purchase it and deconstruct it, use it’s parts in some creative way I can’t quite envision. Whatever happens to it now, I only know I can’t look at it another second.
Once it is folded and stuffed into an oversized bag, I go to grab my stupid little scrapbook. My mother called them dream books. Whatever name one gives it, the whole thing is childish and silly. Pictures carefully cut out of bridal magazines, and glued down on stiff parchment, all of it bound down with shimmery ribbons? My god. I’m a grown woman, far too old to engage in such ridiculous fantasy.
I do the same thing I did all those years ago with my Liam Thibault themed scrapbook. I tear the pages out, and rip them each into small pieces, not angrily or mournfully. I’m calm and determined as I say goodbye to that dream.
Chapter 4
Liam
People that choose to dance for a living are a strange lot. It takes a certain level of obsession to continue past childhood, to face the merry go round of rejection, low pay, long and unconventional hours, constant stress and strain, the wear and tear on your body and your spirit. It’s not for the faint of heart or the weak willed. There is joy in it too, undoubtedly, but the downsides are numerous.
Then why do people do it? Different reasons I suppose. Four weeks at the GCB, and I believe I’ve sorted most of the full time dancers into their appropriate slots.
There are the dyed-in-the-wool bunch. They go on a lot about the artistry, history, and craft. I think almost all start out like this, but it gets slowly and methodically worn away with time. Carrie is this. She is early twenties. Serious, studious, but there is something about her eagerness to please and flowery language that is like driving bamboo shoots under my nails. Heather as well. T
he two of them together are unbearable.
Others are attention whores. They enjoy parading in front of an audience, making a spectacle. It could be ballet, some other type of dance, or perhaps something altogether different. Seth is an attention whore, but I think he still has a bit of the dyed-in-the-wool left in him yet. There are a few others like this as well, Chloe, Jace, and Megan. I can understand this mentality more than I care to admit, but their loud brashness can be annoying.
The super competitive group, I understand them as well. They seek approval and want to be the best. There’s nothing wrong with it on the surface, but it leads to cattiness and drama between a few. It is also why Roselyn finds so many ridiculous excuses to speak with me before and after rehearsal. Just yesterday she complained about tightness in her hips, and hinted that I could help her stretch sometime. I think I was able to convey my amused indifference well enough. She’s nineteen years old, young enough to be my daughter, but I suppose she thinks the quickest way to the center of the stage is within my pants.
Which type of dancer was I? Maybe all of them at one time or another.
Which type is Penny Abbott? I still haven’t sorted her out yet.
She moves like she’s dancing from the devil. Fiercely. Intensely. At times she dances like it is a punishment or a penance. During rehearsal she works hard and she takes criticism well, when I have it to offer, which isn’t often.
The truth is, I’m not sure what she is doing at the GCB. Andrea tells me she’s been here for four years. Maybe when she first arrived this small dance troupe was a good fit, but she’s clearly outgrown it. She’s dances down to partner with Seth, I realized within no time.
If I was less selfish, I might suggest she head elsewhere. Chicago isn’t exactly well known for ballet. She should be in New York, or Europe, but if she plans on making that leap, she better do it soon.
Perhaps I’ll make the suggestion after this next production, and then the subsequent New Years Eve gala. But right now Andrea needs her and so do I. Although I doubt she’ll appreciate the comment, not coming from me at least.
