Which is why I cannot believe Patrick is calling me on it now, two years later, in my apartment. I tear my gaze from his.
“It’s just not the same anymore.” I pull away, not wanting him to see the hurting places inside of me.
He wraps his arms around me, coaxing me into him. He slides his hand across my back and strokes a thumb over my jaw.
“When we were together at the cast party, we weren’t the same? Really?” He scans my eyes. “What about the night at the bar? We seemed pretty on then.”
That was pretty damn good. I bite my lip.
Something about his words calm me until I remember there is more to the story.
“I turned down Paris because you said you didn’t want me to go. And then you left to go to LA only weeks before the wedding.” I swallow, closing my eyes.
I turn away from him as his rough fingertips graze my neck. The heat in his gaze sears each patch of skin he leaves behind. We had such a bad fight that night, and the truth came out: Patrick did feel I was holding him back, because Elle didn’t like me and kept making Patrick choose between us. I knew Elle wanted him for herself, even if Patrick didn’t yet believe it.
“You said some pretty horrible things to me.”
The thumb of one of his hands makes small circles along the baby hairs at the back of my neck.
“I’m so sorry, babe. I didn’t mean them. I was just angry inside and frustrated. You know my parents didn’t believe in me, and I’d been at war with my father for as long as I can remember. I guess deep down I needed to prove myself, and I thought going to LA with Elle was the only way to do that. But my timing was shit.” His voice is breath as his fingers tangle with mine. I slam my eyes shut and inhale. His large hand squeezes mine.
“Well, it worked out for you. You got your first album produced and then signed with the world’s best record label. Whatever you had to do with Elle, maybe it was worth it.”
“I told you, babe. Nothing happened between Elle and me. The shit she insinuated on her blog was all fabricated. And I know that being the dumbass I was by going on that trip with her—letting you down before our big day when you were hurting inside—might not make me the most credible. I’m not lying, Londyn. And I will get Elle to confess if that’s what it takes for you to be free of this dark lie once and for all.”
The look on his face is genuine. I know him so well. How he looks up when he white lies—barely ever and never to me—and rubs the top of his ear.
“You were the one person I trusted in the whole world, and you weren’t there when I needed you, even if you had your reasons.”
“There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t regret it.” He hushes. “I haven’t listened to that album Elle funded since.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Can’t.”
“The night we had the argument and I stormed off.” I open my eyes and pull away to dig my fingers into the hard couch. “What happened after I left?” My breath stills. I always had this weird idea that Elle was ready and waiting in the wings the second our relationship became weak. Maybe it’s irrational, but I have always wondered where he went after our fight.
“Nothing. I followed you. I wanted to apologize. I knew I was wrong right away. I felt sick about what I said, how untrue it was. I went looking for you, all of your favorite spots, but you were gone, and you weren’t answering your phone.”
It was dead. I moved out the next day.
I let out a sigh. “You did?”
“Yes, baby.” He blinks. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have gone at all. I was so jaded back then. Nothing was going right for me, and I knew a cutting-edge artist like you would have been better off with someone successful. Not a deadbeat like me, even if you needed me.”
“A few days after you left and we called off the wedding, I had such a bad panic attack that I ended up spending the night in the hospital. My heart was pounding so hard, and I had shooting pain in my chest. Dad was gone. You were gone. It was all too much, and I didn’t know what was going on with me because I couldn’t admit how much you both meant to me.” There’s pressure under my ribs as I let out a long, hard breath. I look at Patrick.
“I’m sorry, babe. I would have never left had I known. I was just so caught up in my own shit.” There’s a choke in his voice and a glistening in his eyes, which makes me understand his actions in a way I never considered before. Though he came across as confident, he had the same deep-seeded insecurities so many of us artists seem to have. And before he became successful, there was a long train of rough rejections.
He looks so beautiful, so genuine, and I know deep down there is no one in the world who cares as much about me as he does. His heart is so open to mine.
“Do you think you want to get past this, Londyn? Do you think you’d at least be willing to give it a try, to let go of the past? I am willing to do whatever it takes, if only you give us a second chance. I have grown so much through this rough ordeal. Maybe we needed that.” His hands find mine.
“I want to,” I choke, as our noses slowly drift together and his mouth closes over mine. I slide my trembling fingers around his back, feeling his weight in my palms. What if I were to give in to every impulse and just try? What if a second chance is a real thing? Possible.
“Thank god, baby. That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I love you so much.” He cradles my cheeks in his palms, and I see the gloss in his eyes as he wipes away the moisture on my cheeks with his thumbs. We kiss for a long time. It’s warm and sweet, and above all, hopeful. He presses his lips to my tears and strokes my hair, and I let him hold onto me. Love me. It feels as though I am meant to be here, as though I was born to fit in his arms. I can finally breathe. Stilled, I let my eyes close. I let myself go, and I fall into the deepest sleep of my life.
“I haven’t slept like that in years.” My eyes gently open when I notice Patrick beside me in the morning, refreshed in a new way.
“You were a beautiful sight, babe.” Patrick’s nose nuzzles into my neck.
“You mean you were watching me? Didn’t you sleep?” I sit up.
“Your couch isn’t the most comfortable, hon. Can I cook you breakfast now?” Patrick rubs his eyes before they blink back open above his crooked smile.
“My fridge is bare—you know me.” I let out a sheepish grin.
“Better than anyone. That’s why I snuck out while you were snoring and bought a few things.”
My cheeks burn up. God, I really was gone.
“Joking, babe, about the snoring part. But I am going to make you a mean omelet.”
Another thing I haven’t had in years. I stretch my arms overhead with a yawn and excuse myself to freshen up as Patrick makes himself at home in my tiny kitchen. There isn’t anything more beautiful. My opinion. This feels good. Right. So good… Maybe it is time to let myself be without overthinking every hypothetical.
13
There’s the scent of the studio, which is hard to put into words. The white chemical fumes of the sticky new floors. The body odor that strikes at the back of your nostrils when you least expect it, mixed with notes of aftershave and perfume and the sweeter scents of lipstick and flesh. The materials: some old, some new, and some soaked through with perspiration no matter how many times they’ve been through the wash. The dust fluttering through the air and blending with the smell of bare feet, creating friction against the marly floor. The harsh smell of cigarettes and coffee and the tiger balm vapors.
There are the scents that make you dizzy and the ones you are unable to explain.
Then there are the sounds. The thud of feet on the sprung floors; the squashed gasps of someone silently catching their breath in the wings; the chugging of water and gulping low in the throat; the stirring sounds of things unsaid floating through the air; the layers upon layers of instrumental chords, some acoustic and some electronic, but all created to manipulate you to feel things you were unaware you could feel. The idle chatter behind the scenes that is ever-present even if left
unsaid: words of praise, envy, malice, and lust.
There are the pockets of silence, which aren’t silent at all.
There are the gestures. The floating of a hand through thin air, the precise angle the eyes connect through the space, the movements low to the ground, and the ones tossed to the sky. There are the gestures you don’t understand and the ones that slice like a sword. There are steps big and small, some of which sift through you like sand, and others that knock you over the head.
There are the movements that live in the strange world around you, and there are the movements you only grasp from the inside.
“Londyn?”
“Yes, doll.”
I look over my glasses while threading a pin through two pieces of material on a mannequin stand.
“Maybe you should check on Cory. He’s been acting a bit strange.” Daniela bites down on her pouty bottom lip and claws at her dark roots.
“Sure.” I look at her quizzically, lifting the glasses off my nose.
She crosses her arms over her chest, and her gaze flashes to the floor as she leans into her hip in her tight black suit. I take the opportunity to examine her in this strange territory. She is the one dancer who rarely comes to the wardrobe by choice. The one dancer whose surface I have yet to scratch, even if it always seems that what you see is what you get with her.
She has the appearance of being all legs, but if you look closer, you realize she has a very long spine. Her brows are plucked, nose long, and her lips thin and glossy. Yet she has incredible sex appeal.
“What’s he done now?” I arch a brow, sliding off my stool and reaching for my handbag.
She rubs the back of her neck.
“I don’t want to say anything to upset him more, but… the dancers he hired... the choices he’s making.” She widens her eyes. “And if he doesn’t start producing…” She lifts a hand to her skinny brow and shakes her head. “I don’t want them to pull the plug, but there’s no choice. You know that, right?”
“What are you talking about?” I squint.
“The board.” She lets out a second exaggerated sigh. “They are planning some restructuring. I told Cory that I am the only one who looks out for his best interest.” She looks sideways for a second and back at me. “If you have a suggestion, then let me know, because he is not going to be happy if they do what they say they are going to do. He’s in his office. Maybe you can do a better job of… coddling him.”
“I’ll try, but I need you back here later this afternoon. You still haven’t had your fitting.”
She blinks. “My measurements haven’t changed.”
Daniela walks one way down the hall, and I walk the other to wait for the elevator. On the third floor, I knock on Cory’s door. He’s drinking from a cola can, watching video reruns—probably taking in rehearsal—and wearing a Supreme brand T-shirt.
“Hey.” I slide through the door and take a seat across from him. He’s looking at the flat screen on the wall, deep in thought, when he starts talking without looking at me.
“I keep rewinding this track and seeing the same thing.” He rubs his hands over his face. “I was thinking about it this morning as I jogged Central Park.”
“I didn’t know you jog,” I say.
“Every morning. Eight o’clock.” He presses his lips together and stabs the remote button again. He has a grim look in his eye. “I keep coming up with the same issue.”
“What’s that?” I take a seat.
“The problem is humanity.”
We lock eyes and kind of tilt our heads. I am not sure what is going on.
“Is this about Daniela? Because she seems to want what’s best for you and the company. She’s a little power hungry. I mean, I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side, but…”
Cory looks at me. He watches me like he can see right through me. Like he knows he is making me uncomfortable, and that’s all part of the plan.
“Have you ever deceived someone, Londyn? Have you ever let someone believe something that wasn’t true?”
His eyes confront me. I retreat in my seat.
“I don’t know… What kind of question is that, anyway?”
“Isn’t that what you do? You spend all day figuring out how to package things to make them into an illusion—into something better than what is really there.” He simmers.
I clasp my hands over my knee and roll my shoulders back, ready to defend myself.
“Just thinking out loud, because you, me, and everyone here is probably some kind of a liar. We all lie, Londyn, except for one person—or thing, rather. The only thing that doesn’t lie in this entire building…” He shakes his head side to side, as though he is being struck by a realization. “… is movement.”
I adjust in the seat. He jerks as though he’s being hit by another thought and wants to speak it, but he pulls away. “She wants the lead again.” His back is turned to me as he sits in the chair, and I look out the window. “I wasn’t even planning on having a female lead. She’s jealous over Simone’s duet. Her parents didn’t like it either, because she isn’t in it. If I don’t change my whole vision to appease her, she’s going to have me gutted like a pig. Her family will destroy me. They own this town. They own the floor we are standing on, these”—he waves his hands around the room—“walls.” He lets out an exasperated sigh before looking back up at me. “They own you, and they own… me.”
I look out the third-floor window at the skyscrapers all around us, the people walking below, the ribbons of steam in the air. It’s the perfect, blue-sky winter day, sun-bleached with promise.
“No one owns you, Cory. Besides, you love her. You two have your own way of being in love.”
He sighs. His voice is distant. “I suppose you are right.” He straightens the papers on his desk.
I sigh. “And at least she’s soloist material. It’s not like…” I decide not to finish the sentence, since Cory is nodding like he already knows what I am saying. A text comes in, and I reach for my phone. Patrick.
Our place tonight?
“I should start sitting in on rehearsals soon.” I lean on the door.
“That would probably be a good idea.” Cory’s gaze is still stuck on the window.
After the last rehearsal of the day, Patrick pulls up in front of the Driven steps in his beloved 1965 black Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. He steps out of the driver’s seat and walks around it, his hand sliding over the shiny hood. He’s wearing a beautiful Lanvin long, fur-lined, black leather jacket, with a houndstooth waistcoat over a white tee, khakis, and black tie-up, toe-cut boots.
I step down the flight of stairs and onto the sidewalk, where he scoops me under the butt and twirls me around, his lips curving up and his expression joyous.
Eyes are all over us, from all around us.
He opens my door, and I slide in. It’s been a while since I’ve been in his baby, who smells like old leather and spice. Electronica beats are grooving.
“Where to?” Patrick turns to me after placing his hands on the wheel.
“You’re the foodie.” I press my face into my hands and shake my head to stop myself from seriously smiling. “This is crazy.” I blink up at him. It’s like being on a first date. He shrugs a messy strand of dirty blond hair behind his ear with a wink.
“I’m just glad that we’re good. Are we good?” He cocks a brow, looking back at me from over his shoulder as he wheels into the street.
“I don’t know, probably not.” I’m still smiling.
“Well, it’s progress. I’m okay with progress.”
He takes us to a hipster tapas bar with limited seating, square high-top tables, a novelty wine rack where the bottles poke out of the wall, menus made from slabs of wood, artisan cocktails, and small plates of tuna tartar, squid salad, crispy wontons with papaya salsa, and ceviche. He offers me the booth side and watches me slide into my seat before he sits down. There are tables on either side of us filled with pairs who are deep in conversation.
&nb
sp; “Whisky?” He cocks his brow.
“I might try something different today.” I scan the wood slab menu with a white piece of crisp paper attached, and decide on a real passion fruit cocktail with fresh sprigs of rosemary.
“This is good.” I hold the drink out for him to sip once the waiter with a perfectly groomed hipster beard drops it off. We order just about every item on the fresh sheet.
“How was your day?” Patrick asks, and I smile from ear to ear, thinking about how surreal this is. Just me and my famous musician ex, two city slickers who share impeccable taste, out together with no cares in the world, never mind a less than happy past.
“Interesting.” I squish my lips together.
“Go on.” He eyes me, sipping on a bottle of import beer.
“Cory was acting a little strange.” I twirl the twig of rosemary between my fingers and hold it up to Patrick’s nose. “Nice, huh?”
He inhales with a low growl. He sits back in his chair, watching me, as I inhale one last sniff of the rosemary. It has to be one of my favorite scents.
“That’s not unusual for the man boy, is it?” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Daniela is getting to him. That and the pressure.” I take a sip of my drink and place it back on the high table, crossing my legs. “He’s obviously upset that Daniela and her family are manipulating him, but what did he expect?”
“He pretty much walked into that one, didn’t he?”
“Well, when an opportunity presents itself…” My tongue shoots off, but the words leave a bad taste in my mouth. I look at Patrick, and he looks at me in the same uncomfortable way. I let in a deep breath and look down, adjusting my empty glass on the table. That’s when the trendy-beard waiter presents our small dishes on square white plates. Our gazes drop to the food, which looks like small pieces of art. I press my lips into a tight smile.
CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 15
