Ripped

by Lisa Edward

  We had stopped off on the way home and bought candles and a bottle of red to celebrate. Home—what a wonderful word that was. This was now our home, and just being here made me feel closer to Jaz than I’d ever thought possible. Mama had insisted that we bring pasta and calamari with us for dinner, and luckily there were a few plates and glasses in the kitchenette for us to make use of. As I poured two glasses of the cheap wine, I watched Jaz with glee as she spun on her toes on the beautifully rich polished floor.

  But the best thing about this apartment was the old stone open fireplace that now had a blazing fire crackling away, heating the entire space.

  “We need music,” Jaz declared, plonking down on the mattress beside me. “I feel like dancing.” She flung herself back and gazed up at the ceiling. “That’s our ceiling right there. It’s above our bed that’s in our apartment.”

  I loved seeing Jaz so happy for what the future would bring. Her excitement was infectious as I too flung myself back on the mattress beside her. “There’s music downstairs. Maybe we could borrow the old record player for the evening.”

  “Awesome idea. Let’s call Carter and ask.”

  Of course it was fine; Carter was the most laidback dude I’d ever met. Nothing was a bother, and he was happy to oblige if it made Jaz smile. We searched the thousands of albums downstairs for something suitable and found an old Rat Pack album in the collection, which seemed to fit the mood we were in, and took it upstairs along with the player and some speakers.

  “Wow, these guys were good in their day. I can remember my nana listening to them and watching the old movies; she never missed one. Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr … I feel like I should be dressed in a flowing gown and heels as we slow-dance instead of sweats and socks.” Jaz giggled.

  I wiggled my brows at her. “You don’t have to be dressed in anything at all.” I scooped her into my arms and pulled her close so our bodies melded together. Jaz hooked her arms around my shoulders and rested her head on my chest as we swayed by candlelight to the dulcet tones of Dean Martin singing “On the Street Where You Live.”

  “This is the street where we live,” Jaz said dreamily.

  Jaz’s words rang in my ears and reality suddenly hit home. As I cuddled Jaz tighter, I blinked back a tear. After eight years of longing and waiting for something I thought would never happen, this was exactly where we were meant to be. I never wanted this moment to end.

  THE LAYOUT of the music store was easy enough to pick up. All the albums were by genre and as it was so quiet with hardly anyone coming in, I took the time to learn what albums each genre contained. Of course it was all on the computer—the computer that was surprisingly state-of-the-art for a store that primarily sold music that was around before computers were invented. But I wanted to make a good impression and if I ever did have a customer to serve, I wanted to be able to take them directly to the correct section to find the album of their choice from memory, not by looking it up first.

  I had heard a lot of the music that was for sale, but if there was an artist I wasn’t familiar with, I took the record from the sleeve and played it so I would have some idea of what it sounded like. I soon discovered I enjoyed most styles of music except for jazz. I’d heard jazz before, but thinking back it was more stylized and mixed with blues. Proper jazz was something different; it was erratic in parts, and as a dancer, you needed to find a beat and a feeling and I just couldn’t grasp that with jazz.

  I laughed to myself. I still considered myself a dancer, even though I had given up that dream a long time ago. Nowadays, the only music I seemed to dance to was R&B or hip-hop where there was a lot of bump-and-grind and nothing too technical. That was until Jaz had come back into my life and reminded me of the beauty of classical ballet and the expression and interpretation of contemporary ballet. Some of the routines for When the Ship Comes In were tap, with a huge all-cast number at the end of Act I, and although I never majored in that style, I was enjoying practicing with her.

  When the Ship Comes In had the potential to be an amazing show, and as much as I hated to admit it, Pierre actually was a talented choreographer. It was a shame that Mikhail, who had been chosen in the male lead, wasn’t right for the part. When he danced solo he barely scraped through, but when he had to partner Jaz he fell short by a mile. Jaz was such a strong dancer. Not only was she technically perfect but her musical interpretation was breathtaking to the point where her technique, although outstanding, was overshadowed by the heart and soul she poured into her performance.

  There was one piece in particular that centered around her fiancé coming home and discovering that Jaz’s character, Lily Brown, had fallen in love with his brother. Lily dances with her fiancé but the pull to her new lover is too strong, and she has to break one heart to preserve her own. That was the routine that sucker-punched me in the chest every time I watched it, and I’d watched it at least fifty times already. The emotion bleeding out of every pore as Jaz danced had the cast dabbing their eyes as they watched her.

  Jaz was miraculous, and perfect, and if only I was good enough to dance with her then my life would be perfect, too. But I wasn’t good enough. Not even close.

  Carter came back from lunch and stretched out in his chair behind the register, his feet up on counter. “You can head off if you like, man. Not much goin’ on here today.”

  “Hey, thanks.” I hesitated for a moment. “Do you mind if I slap some paint on the walls upstairs, freshen it up a little?”

  He threw his hands to the side. “Do whatever you like, just as long as it’s still standing with four walls and a ceiling’ at the end of the day.”

  I grabbed my coat and beanie and made my way to the paint store. The walls had been painted a dirty gray, and it made the room feel cold. Jaz and I had discussed colors as we’d lain in bed, snuggled together as the embers of the dying fire had cast shadows around the room. We decided to leave it gray but a warm gray that would make the apartment feel more homely and inviting, and less like a vast open wasteland.

  After buying everything I needed to paint, I lugged it all back home and up the stairs. I needed music—I always needed music to do anything so dug my iPod from my bag and found my earbuds. I’d recorded the musicians playing during Jaz’s rehearsals so we could do our own practicing at home and as I scrolled to those saved tunes, I was hit with a nagging pang of regret.

  Maybe I’d given up too easily. I’d never been a quitter, but I had been sure at the time that dancing wasn’t for me after all. Now, as the music played and I pictured Jaz dancing with her inadequate partner, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach and I wanted to scream.

  That should have been me. I auditioned for musical after dead-end C-grade musical, one after another. I toed the line; I hid my tattoos and cut my hair. I agreed with the morons that I was too muscular and needed to lose weight, and I even bought tights, for God’s sake, to fit in with all the other dreamers.

  “Argh.” Lashing out, I snatched up the paint tray and flung it across the room, closely followed by the roller, before sliding my back down the wall and coming to rest with a thud on my ass.

  Who was I angry at?

  Was I angry at myself for not continuing to try, for letting the process defeat me and turn me into someone who used to be a dancer? Or was I angry at the guy who was now partnering Jaz? I could have danced rings around that asshole, and yet Pierre and James had seen something in him that no one, not a single person, had seen in me.

  Or was I angry at Jaz?

  Running my hands through my hair, I let them stay locked together behind my head.

  Was I jealous? Jaz had been here for three weeks when she’d landed the role, and it had seemed so easy for her. She had arrived and found a place to stay. She had gone to her first audition and danced for a couple of days and been given the lead. Not even chorus, but the lead.

  “No,” I muttered under my breath. “I’m happy for her.”

  But a little piece of me knew t
hat I wanted her to feel what I had felt. To endure the rejection just once so she would understand what I had gone through. She would never know how heartbreaking it was to see your dream being crushed before your eyes because you weren’t good enough, and until she did, she would never understand why I quit dancing.

  The painting was finished, and I just had time to rush to the theater to surprise Jaz. There seemed to be a cast of thousands present when I entered the ornately decorated interior. My usual row of seats was occupied by a group of middle-aged men and women who were deep in discussion. In between sketching furiously on notepads they would point to the stage and simulate a sweeping staircase or the ocean waves with their hands. So these were the prop and set designers.

  In another group along the far wall were twelve younger people, stretching and talking. These weren’t the dancers who had auditioned with Jaz; this was a different group who didn’t really have the build of dancers, and I wondered where they’d come from.

  “All right, let’s take scene one, Act II from the top again,” Pierre called from the stage. A plywood staircase was wheeled in and positioned stage left. “Mon cher, up the stairs, s’il vous plaît.”

  The orchestra plucked and played various notes to tune their instruments as Jaz ascended the staircase and took her position. The conductor silently indicated the tempo with his baton and the musicians burst into a soaring melody. I’d watched rehearsals so many times with only a few musicians present, but to hear a full orchestra play took the score to a whole new level. Music coursed through my entire body, filling every nerve, every pore with the heavenly sound of the string section.

  As I sunk into a seat halfway down the center aisle, Jaz began to move. It was a simple movement, just the rise of an arm as she slid one foot out, but she was breathtaking. She was still dressed in her own clothes, so this wasn’t a full dress rehearsal, but she was wearing heels and a dress which I assumed resembled the costume she’d be in for this act. The chorus danced around the foot of the staircase, subtly holding it still as Jaz danced her way down, intermittently holding a position before turning and ascending a few more steps. If this small example of the show was anything to go by, this was going to have as long a run as Cats.

  When Jaz finally set foot on the stage, her partner Mikhail sashayed over to take her hand, and I slumped back in my seat. The mood for me was broken. Jaz was captivating and her performance reminded me of the old-time majesty of a classic Ginger Rogers movie, but this guy was no Fred Astaire—not even close. I’d always watched Jaz and only Jaz while she was dancing, but this time I let my focus wander as I studied everyone else. There were eight guys and eight girls, including Tiffany and Becca, partnered and dancing a similar routine to Jaz and Mikhail. These were the dancers who had auditioned with Jaz. There was also another dozen who I had seen earlier in the background, not dancing but filling in the gaps the way extras do on a film set. As I watched the dancers, I began to pick their technique apart. Sloppy arms, rounded shoulders, feet that didn’t turn out from the hip—the list was endless. All these things could be rectified given time, and yet they had all been given a place in the chorus.

  If I had auditioned, would I have stood a chance? If Mikhail was the best option for the male lead, surely I could have been cast and then I’d be dancing with Jaz, holding her as she held her leg bent back in attitude, before lifting her over my head. But I’d tried for so many years and failed every time. And now I was twenty-eight, and in this industry, twenty-eight was prehistoric.

  My phone buzzed with a text message from the Brooklyn IKEA store, confirming delivery of our order the following morning. Sighing, I replied then tucked my phone in my pocket. This was my life now—selling ancient music, watching my girlfriend shine in the spotlight, and assembling flat-pack furniture.

  LIFE WAS chaotic, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. When the Ship Comes In filled every minute of my time, from the early hours of the morning, when I would either make my way to the studio for small group run-throughs, or the theater for full cast rehearsals, to the evening, when Bax and I would go over any steps I was still having trouble with. Dance consumed my life as it always had. But things were different now than they had been for the past eight years because I had reunited with Bax.

  Bax, my loving, supportive, patient boyfriend was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and if I had to choose between Bax and dance, I would have hung up my pointe shoes without a second thought. He was such a godsend and I thanked the universe every day for putting him in my way, literally, on that fateful day six weeks ago. But as much as I knew he loved me, I couldn’t help feeling there was a wedge between us, a distance that I couldn’t quite bridge, and the ironic thing was that it was caused by the one thing that had initially brought us together. Dance.

  “The fundraiser is this weekend. Will you be able to make it?” I asked as we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on a rare day off from rehearsals.

  With a slight flick of Bax’s wrist, the pancake flipped in the air before landing back in the pan. “Don’t know. Maybe.” He stayed focused on the stovetop, giving the preparation of breakfast far more attention than it actually required.

  “Are you working this weekend?” I pressed. “You said you’d ask for the time off so you could come.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll ask, okay? But I can’t promise anything. Not everything revolves around your show. I have commitments, too, and working in the bar is the only thing that makes me feel appreciated for me.”

  That stung like a slap across the cheek. “What do you mean? I appreciate you. I appreciate everything you do for me.”

  He braced his hands against the cooktop but still didn’t turn to face me. “Yeah, everything I do for you. I’m not talking about things I do for you; I’m talking about being appreciated as my own person, not as your boyfriend.”

  The tension had been building between us for the past week but I had sidestepped the argument that I’d known was brewing, not wanting to waste the little time we seemed to have together exchanging spiteful words.

  I sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Were we really going to do this now? “I never said your job wasn’t important, Bax, but you’ve known about this for weeks and you promised.” Tears stung my eyes, threatening to fall. “I need you there for support; you keep me calm.”

  “Well that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” He spun to face me. I had expected to see anger in his eyes, but all I saw was defeat. “I’m here to support you. To carry your bag and encourage you to go after your dreams, but what about my dreams, Jaz? When do I get to live the life I’ve always wanted?”

  “Isn’t this what you wanted?” I asked, waving my arm to encompass our apartment.

  “Oh sure, this is a dream come true.” The spatula was thrown in the sink before he stormed over to the bed and sat heavily on the edge. “This with you is what I wanted. Of course it is. But working downstairs and at the restaurant washing dishes was never how I imagined my life turning out. I want to dance, Jaz; I need to dance.” His head hung low so I couldn’t see his face. “I had dreams, just like you did. The spotlight, the applause, the hours of relentless dance until my body ached with fatigue. To me that was the best feeling in the world—to be so exhausted that you were asleep a second after your head hit the pillow.” He raised his gaze to look at me. “That’s what you have. You sleep so soundly, Jaz, but I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.”

  I sat perched on the edge of my chair, running my hands through my hair. “It’s not too late,” I said quietly. “You’re a brilliant dancer, Bax. Better than any of the guys in the cast.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve told you before, I don’t dance that way anymore. Broadway’s not for me.”

  Hesitantly, I went to sit beside him. To try to comfort the man I loved more than anything in the world. He was hurting so badly, and I had no idea how to help him. I didn’t understand why he had given up but I knew I couldn’t push him any more than I
had. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and squeezed. “What can I do to help?”

  “You can try to understand.” His shoulders shuddered beneath my arms. “Understand that while I am so happy for you.” He lifted his head so his red-rimmed eyes met mine. “And I am happy for you. Every day that I live this life takes me further away from my dreams and spiraling closer to the humdrum existence I swore I would never lead.”

  I wanted to encourage him to audition for a show, any show that was coming up, but I’d broached the subject so many times already, and always with the same finality in his response. “There are other types of dancing, Bax. Maybe the theater isn’t for you, but there must be other options.” My mind raced, searching for an answer. “New York is a melting pot of opportunities; we’ll find you a job where you can feel the heat from the spotlights on your face and hear the gratitude of an audience as you take your bow.”

  “I’m a lost cause, Jaz—there’s no going back. The only thing you can do for me is be brilliant. Be brilliant enough for the both of us and let me have the occasional meltdown. I’ll always be there to support you, in the front row, cheering the loudest and leading the standing ovation.”

  I touched up my ruby red lipstick for the third time and put extra spray in my hair.

  “I’m so excited,” Tiffany squealed, hugging me and jumping up and down, making me jump with her.

  “I’m glad you’re excited, because I want to vomit.”

  Tiff immediately stopped jumping and backed away. “Should I get Pierre? I’m sure he’d love you to throw up on his Armani tux.”

  I giggled at the thought and she laughed along with me.

  “I’ve learnt that when you say you want to vomit, you mean it.”

  Raising my leg to the portable barre that had been assembled in the dressing room for our use, I tried to take my mind off the performance that was due to take place in half an hour by warming up. “It’s just a fundraiser, right? No big deal. We used to do these at Boston Ballet all the time.” I could hear the words coming from my mouth and even I wasn’t convinced. This was a big deal, because it was to fund a New York production that if successful, could have a long run around the world.