“You love him,” Marnie says, probably noticing that my mind is miles away and anchoring me back to my much-needed distractions. “So what’s the problem?”
Where to begin?
“For one thing, he’s upset with me for keeping a serious injury from him.”
“That’s just a professional and personal conflict. If you two are serious, one of you might want to consider moving to another company.” Marnie takes a sip of her wine.
“He’s resigning.” I roll my eyes, since that excuse is obviously not enough of a challenge for matchmaking Marnie. Though she did not see the look in Kent’s eyes when he found out I had been dishonest with him. “But the tweeters basically accused him of playing with my heart to fuel emotions into the dance.”
“Is that even possible?” Marnie eyes me over her wineglass. “Sorry, I’m not an artist, so I don’t know.”
I think so. Maybe. Dance is a passionate thing, and strong feelings help bring it to life. So many great pieces of art have been made from heartbreak. But is that the case here? I roll my eyes. It’s too much to think about. I shake my head.
Marnie swallows. “But if your feelings did make good art, wouldn’t that be an added bonus to being in love?” Her lips curve as she looks up. “I like how that sounds maybe you could help me make a testimonial for my website.”
“And then just tell your clients that if the relationship doesn’t work out, no worries, they might become the next Beethoven.” I laugh for the first time that night and Marnie lets out a soft smirk before she flips open a menu and orders dessert. “You look like you could use some chocolate.”
We dip our spoons into a chocolate mousse. It’s a nice change to hang out with someone outside the dance world.
I should have done this ages ago.
Marnie holds up her glass of wine. “Either way, we’re women. Let’s embrace our power. It’s our time, baby.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. It’s so good to see you,” I say as we toast.
“And I’m sorry for not calling, either. Actually, my mom was sick. Heart problems.”
“Ugh.” I frown. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“She’s going to be okay, but it’s taken everyone in our entire family to keep her off her feet. She refuses to sit still. It’s like she thinks that she was born to serve. Unbelievable.”
“Well, just ask if you need anyone to help out. I am happy to do her laundry, or dishes, anything. I always liked your mom.” And I will have lots of time once the show is over.
Marnie takes another sip of wine and props her elbow on the table. She has that look in her eyes, as though she is assessing the situation. I wonder if she’s planning a new match for me as we speak, or holding back on asking me if I’m going to be okay, because she knows I’m not. But there’s more to it than I have the strength to divulge. My dance career is over. My knees are shot, and part of the reason Kent fell for me was that we shared the artistic process. Besides, I basically lied to him. He won’t just get over that, and it probably wouldn’t have worked out in the first place. Just look at him. Love just isn’t a strong enough bond, anyway. I saw that in my mom and dad. He loved her, and he moved on the day she died. Did Kent and I have love, or were we caught up in the closeness of the creative process?
I scrape at the empty chocolate mousse bowl.
“So after we have another bowl of mousse, are you going to go find Kent, have amazing make-up sex, and report back to me?” She has the cutest look on her face, but jeez, Marnie really is persistent about bringing people together. I suck in a breath, and Marnie tilts her head, her glossy hair spilling over her shoulder. She’s biting back her words, because I’m sure there are more of them.
“I just think it might be best if Kent and I take a step back.” At least until after the show, because the jitters and adrenaline that come with performing are overwhelming enough on their own. And there is no way I can think logically right now.
“I always tell my clients that if you want to throw your happiness out the door, it’s your choice. But you’re not my client, so I’ll shut up now.”
“Thank you.” I pay the bill, and we walk to the subway, heading off in opposite directions. We make plans to catch up after the premiere, which she plans to attend. I need to focus on the show. Once that’s done, I can sort through the rest of the worms. But my knees are killing me as I walk to the metro.
For the next few nights, I toss and turn in my sleep from the discomfort, and the painkillers I pop barely get me through the next rehearsal day.
26
Kent is smiling and wearing that silly ball cap. He looks young. Happy. His fingers reach for mine, but I can’t grasp them. It’s like clawing at thin air. Then, I see my mom. She’s bathed in white light. The light is so bright I have to squint.
Her voice is so clear, the way it used to be. She tells me I’m meant for something special, and that she always knew I would do something great with my life.
I wake up in a sweat, knowing today is the day of the premiere, and I’m sick to my stomach from nerves.
I let a bag of chamomile tea steep in hot water. No coffee for me. My hands are shaking. There’s a message from Dr. Scott’s office on my phone, and my stomach twists. I don’t know why he bothered with the MRI. We already know the horrible diagnosis. But I can’t think about that right now. There’s only the show of the year to focus on. I slip my phone into my bag. Unable to swallow down a piece of toast, I sip on my hot tea.
Lincoln Center. It’s the stuff dreams are made of, and yet thinking about it only makes the task ahead of me more daunting. I always fantasized about the day I would be performing here in any role, never mind the lead in a Kent Morgan production. And this day isn’t at all how I thought it would be; it is much more bittersweet. I plop my bag on the dressing room counter and look at the makeup strewn over the linoleum. There’s also yesterday’s water bottle and a half-eaten power bar left over from a quick break between the last tech run and dress rehearsal. My mouth is dry from nerves, and my fingers tremble as I try to paint a straight black line across my eyelid. I draw it and wash it off and redraw it in my private dressing room, when there’s a knock at the door.
My heart skips. After keeping my distance from Kent all week, he told me he wanted to discuss our relationship. I apologized and told him I really needed to focus on the show, and he understood. I think. At least he doesn’t seem mad at me anymore. Or maybe he is just being professional. Yet I’m on edge, wanting to break the ice and wanting him to command the situation as he always has before. But this time the ball is in my court. My chest lifts into breath, and I press my trembling hands on the counter to stand up. I unlock the door and brace myself for the emotions I expect to tumble through it.
It takes everything in me to resist giving in to him. Instead I take this time to focus on the goal, the last and most important performance of my life. But when I open the door, it’s not at all who I expect. I remember Kent’s probably on stage with the rest of the company, setting the lights for the group section I’m not in.
What the—? I take a step back, reeling.
“You thought I’d forget about what happened?”
I don’t understand, or at least I don’t want to understand. Charles Anderson pushes past me in a Saint Laurent suit, smelling like booze, and the door swings shut behind him. The vastness of this building might not be such a good thing after all. There are gaps of darkness that whole civilizations could be lost in, never mind a blood-curdling scream from behind a closed door. I narrow my eyes and solidify my stance, in no mood to be messed with. He skulks toward the counter where I am standing, lifts part of my costume that hangs over a chair between his fingers, and drops it with a smirk. His nostrils flare as his eyes lash out at me.
“What do you think it is that happened?” I gulp, keeping my gaze pointed under his threatening stance in my private dressing room.
He lets out a harsh laugh in response, looks down with
a tic of the jaw, and forces himself into my space by shoving his hands to either side of me on the counter. His chin juts.
“Don’t be so nervous, Branwen. We both know how far you were willing to go until your boyfriend backed out. But my guess is he hasn’t told you everything.”
His eyes are glossy and mean, and the scent of liquor is a thick mist around him.
There’s nowhere to go. It’s not like the dressing room is that big. I was excited about it before, because it was the only private dressing room I’d had in my life. I was one of the leads and had the most challenging role in this production. If I was sharing with the others, I would be subjected to farting jokes and nonstop giggles. I twist off the cap of the water bottle strangled between my fingers. The edge of the counter digs in to my back.
“Why do you think your boyfriend is resigning? Because of those petty Drivenless posts that amped the hype behind the show?”
It crossed my mind. Now I wonder if Charles is behind it all. His eyes have a wild look as they force their way into mine.
“I was being nice, but Kent really pissed me off in Cayman.” Charles’s lip curls as he reaches for the waistband of my robe. He must be wasted.
“No one owes you anything, even if you had funded the show, which you didn’t.” I duck under his arm, and he pulls me back harder. Gripping my water bottle in my hand, the thought of whacking him over the head with it crosses my mind. I am not even sure it would hurt, but maybe it would shock him. Sometimes shock is the best defense. I have to think, but everything is moving so fast.
“You finally got the role you wanted.”
He presses his palms to either side of my cheeks and squeezes my skin hard between his fingers, and because my screams won’t be heard, and because this time the thing that is grazing my thigh is angry and the eyes and mouth attached to the twitching jaw in front of me threatening. There’s something my mom once told me: ‘If you want to keep someone away, just act like a weirdo.’ That’s exactly what she did when two thugs in a dark alley confronted her. I unscrew the cap of my water bottle and swing it toward him, splashing him in the face and muttering some seriously creative gibberish about holy water.
Take that.
He scrubs his hand across his face and looks at me like I am insane, which is my intention. He bats his eyes in surprise with a look of shock on his face, which gives me the opportunity to escape his grip. Thanks, Mom. I bolt for the door when it swings open first, and my heart swoons.
“What the fuck, Anderson?” Kent lunges for me, and I practically fall into him. “Did he hurt you?” Kent cups his hands over my shoulders, and I shake my head, unable to answer. Kent’s fingers trail off of me, and he grabs Charles by the neck of his shirt, his jaw twitching. “You’re done here, Anderson. I’ve handed in my resignation, and you have no power over me or anyone here. I suggest you get the hell out of this theater before everyone in the world knows what kind of predator you are.”
Kent grips Charles with one hand and swings open the door with the other. Rebecca is on the other side of it. We exchange a look, and she takes off. Charles straightens the neck of his shirt, tilts his jaw with a huff, and pushes past us as Kent glares at him. “The media is waiting for you outside, Anderson. You can leave now, or we follow you out and tell the world the truth about the CEO of Anderson Enterprises.”
Charles slivers his eyes and skulks out, and the door falls shut.
Kent lets out a long exhale as he pulls me into him, enveloping me in his arms.
“Thank god you are here.” I fall into him. “Maybe we should follow him out and give the world a dose of the truth?” I blink up at him, the hardness I’ve been holding in my chest melting as the scent of him cascades and unwinds through me.
He presses his lips to the top of my head. “All in good time. I may have been naïve, getting involved with Charles, but he can’t hurt us now. We need to focus on the show and do this the right way with Cameron’s help. But no matter what, the truth is coming out, don’t you worry.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. It is a lot to take in, especially for someone plagued with show-day nerves. The warmth in Kent’s eyes descends over me, and he asks me again if I’m okay. A hot breath of air pools in my mouth before I let it out. I don’t know. I don’t know if I am okay, or if I’m up for this show, if my knees will give out, or my heart might explode, or if I’ll even shit myself like Daniela did. ’Cause stage freight is one powerful dragon, and love is an even worse trickster.
“You should get back to the lighting notes, and I should get ready.” I look away as his intense gaze smolders over me. I thank him again for coming to my rescue, but my voice is weak and curt, because I can’t do this right now. He eyes me one last time, and I break the fierce eye contact between us, placing my hands on the counter, trying to ground myself and remember where I left off.
Kent nods tightly and leaves, and my innards plunge. What am I doing? I drink in some well-needed air, fighting the urge to follow him. But it’s too strong. I exit the change room.
It crossed my mind that Drivenless is Renee. She is in charge of social media, Kent gives her free rein, and she seems pleased about the hype. Then it seemed like it might be Charles. Well, if it is, hopefully it’s taken care of and he won’t be back. But it’s time to focus, Branwen.
Focus.
But I need to ask Rebecca what she saw back there. I walk down the hallway in the direction I saw her leaving. She’s typing away on her phone with record speed, totally absorbed in whoever she is talking to—probably the guy she went all Karenina about. She jumps when she sees me and stuffs her phone in her bag.
“Who were you talking to?” I stop in front of her.
She shakes her head, stutters, and half gasps. Now I am interested. Who is this person she is having a hush-hush affair with, and why is it such a big secret? Almost everyone in the company is taken at this point in the season. And for a while, I thought she was bonkers over Sterling, before I found out he was gay. But obviously it’s not Sterling, and Rebecca is acting ridiculously weird.
“No one got hurt.” She shakes her head. “It made the show a success.” Her wide eyes blink up at me. I have no idea what she is talking about, at least not at first.
“You did it because you’re a marketing whiz?” I scrunch my brow.
“I was in a bad place. All that shit about not wanting it, I made that up, I’ve been with this company longer than anyone else, and no one gives me a second look. The stuff about the love triangle, it was not completely true, either. I didn’t want to be caught, but now I don’t care, because I will never be taken seriously in this company anyway.” Her eyes bug as she grits her teeth together, talking quickly. “But I’m done with it.” She stands up, throws her arms back, and lifts her shoulders to her ears. “It’s not worth it—”
“Why wouldn’t you be taken seriously in this company?” I lead Rebecca to a quiet seat and look her in the eyes.
“I’ve never been to Cayman,” she sniffles. “But I have been to Charles’s home in the Hamptons.” She breaks down, and I wrap my arms around her, letting her bury her sobs in my chest. Holy shit. I hold her as she weeps and confesses everything, confirming that Charles is more of a predator than I’d imagined.
“I’m so sorry, Rebecca.”
27
This is supposed to be the moment I have been waiting for my whole life, right?
The room is black. Every speck of light has been cut off from the space except for the one in the lighting booth at the very back and two small red exit signs. I am completely alone. And it always is this way on stage, and I know I have to trust. I slam my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. My mind is blank, blank as a white slate, but it’s not white, it’s black. I look up at the only light I can see: Kent and the lighting designer under the tiny light inside a booth. I wait for him to send me a clue, to tell me what to do. The lights are slowly coming up. I move my big toe to see the bit of light underneath it. The steps flash
before my eyes, and when my mind starts losing its grasp on them, I panic. This always happens, yet the only thing I have to rely on is my past. Because every time I’ve thought I would forget my steps, I never do. Once the music starts, the body always knows what it is doing, and it operates on automatic no matter how many nerves fuck with the brain.
Kent is staring down at me from above.
Coughs, sighs, and the crumple of programs can be heard in the black void. His eyes are on me, even if I’m hollowed out by the darkness.
Dancers’ feather-light footsteps can be heard shuffling backstage.
The lights dim back to black as I stand in the darkness, trembling. There is so much energy inside of me that I could combust, and the surges of emotion running through me are more powerful than any muscled limb. My breath is already coming out in hard pants, and I haven’t even started yet.
My exhalations are red-hot streams from my nostrils, like I’m a bull preparing to fight. I’m stronger than ever before, the blueprint of the person I was meant to be, the iron-woman version of myself.
I don’t even have to close my eyes. I am just there, in that place already: transformed. I channel all those directions Kent pushed me for this day.
I can almost hear Londyn hissing, “Damn.” I’m so strong in my own state of being that nothing can take it away from me. This could be the last time I perform.
Boom.
Like an apple.
Rotting from the inside.
I let myself go, follow the sensations, and breathe into them so the transformation is less jarring. I watch myself become larger than my small body, so much larger than the skin covering my bones would ever allow. I’m rising above all the small and big moments of my life, the disappointments and betrayals, the passion and glory. I don’t even have to force it. It happens all on its own. It is really happening. My spirit is soaring and becoming larger than any performance, than any words or actions in its own greatness.
CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone) Page 22
