by J Q Anderson
He looked up at me with a mix of shock and fear.
“That’s right. So be professional, and don’t make this any more…inconvenient than it already is.” I picked up my bag. “See you in a few days.”
Chapter 44
I hugged Nata hard when she left that morning. Marcos and I would stay a couple more days.
The two of us toured the city, and I hoped our time together would persuade him to stay in New York too. We hit some of the typical sights like the Statue of Liberty and the Chrysler Building. We walked around Broadway and took selfies by the knick-knack shops that sold everything I Love NY. It was fun, and for the first time since I had arrived, I breathed the energy of the city and let New York in. I bought a down parka that went all the way to my feet, and as I zipped it up and stepped out into the frosty air, the winter didn’t seem unbearable anymore. The trick, I learned, was to have good quality gear and to keep the walks short.
We wandered along the High Line and had sushi inside the Chelsea Market, where the old Oreo cookie factory had been recycled into a cool shopping area. We strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge and around the Williamsburg street market. Artisans displayed antiques and original works of art on a grassy area by the Hudson shore. From there, the view of Manhattan was spectacular.
On the way back to the hotel, we walked into a funky bar with live music. It was still early, and the place was fairly empty. The bartender greeted us with a “Hi there,” her eyes immediately trained on Marcos. We scooted into a small booth by the window and glanced around. At the bar, a few people our age sipped beers. On a stage a few feet back, a live band played a slow tune, the singer’s voice deep and sexy. Marcos signaled to the waitress.
My English was decent, and Marcos’s entire vocabulary consisted of no more than five sentences, which included Where’s the bar? and Beer, please. But he managed just fine.
The waitress took our order while her eyes devoured Marcos. I leaned back in my seat, witnessing for the umpteenth time the reaction women always had to Marcos, relieved it wasn’t something I would ever have to worry about.
Our drinks came, and we clinked bottles to this amazing city and a successful tour. Marcos gulped his beer with a long swig and signaled to the waitress for another.
“Little Camila, a Manhattan Ballet dancer. I knew you’d kick ass. You’re an exceptional dancer.”
I smiled because Marcos could always take my ego from the basement to the penthouse, just like that. It was one of my favorite things about him.
“Thank you, but the truth is, I’m scared to death. What if I don’t measure up? The dancers here are exceptional. I’m worried I won’t have what it takes.”
“Ah, this again. I remember a young girl at the Colón auditions, a million years ago, it seems, with the same fears.”
“Oh, my God. That’s right.” I smiled. “That does seem like a million years ago, and yet, the fear I feel now is as real as the one I felt then.”
“Hang on,” he said, then disappeared to the back of the bar, where he exchanged a few words with a bartender, who glanced over at me and nodded. Then Marcos was back.
“Let’s dance,” he said, taking my hand. But our timing was bad, because when we reached the little dance floor, the band announced they would take a break.
“Maybe later,” I said.
Marcos shook his head.
“What?” I frowned.
“I remember I did a pretty good job in easing that girl’s nerves back then. I’m convinced I can do the same for this girl right now.”
“Marcos, what—”
That same song from the morning of my first audition at the Colón, the energetic Colombian tune by Juan Luis Guerra, “Me Sube la Bilirrubina,” blasted from the speakers. My hands flew to my mouth as I burst in laughter. Marcos took my hands, just like he did back then, and we set off to the trumpets of the salsa number. Marcos pulled me against him, then pushed me away. It was sexy, fun. The liveliness and tropical melody instantly lifted my spirts and, just like it had done back then, erased my fears. Everyone in the bar clapped when the song ended. We were both panting and bowed our heads in response. I wrapped my arms tight around Marcos’s neck.
“I love you, Marcos.”
“I know,” he said ruefully.
The band came back, and they started playing a slow song. I didn’t unwrap myself from Marcos when he began swaying to the melody of the acoustic guitar. A young couple next to us joined us and started making out, oblivious that they were in public. Marcos’s thumb caressed my cheek, and unease fluttered in my stomach. We danced together every day, but it had been a while since we had been out alone, and it felt like unfamiliar territory. The hollowness that occupied my heart since Sebastián and I broke up, expanded. Marcos tightened his arms around my waist, bringing me close like he had done so many times in the past. Everything about him became familiar at once: his warmth, his scent, his perfectly carved body. It all worked in unison, every inch of him exuding confidence and masculinity. It was hard to think of any woman resisting him. It hadn’t been that long since I was convinced Marcos was the love of my life. But after Sebastián, I wasn’t sure I would ever love anyone else unconditionally again, not even the beautiful package that was Marcos.
I rested my head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. Another memory of Sebastián haunted me, and my shoulders tensed. Marcos’s arms squeezed me tighter.
“Let it go.” His lips brushed my ear, and when he pressed me against him, he hardened. “Oops,” he whispered.
“Marcos…”
“I’m sorry, babe. I can’t help it. I just…We’ve got so much pent-up chemistry.” Cupping my face, he brought it to his until our lips met. It was gentle at first, but then I closed my eyes and kissed him back. What was happening? In the back of my mind, I knew this was somehow wrong. Or was it? I was single, he was single, and we were here, far away from our jobs and our lives and everything that was real. On their own accord, my lips parted wider, giving his tongue access, and the kiss deepened. Tears prickled in my eyes. The wound inside me bled, and the old loneliness throbbed and burned.
I was tired of it.
I clenched his hair in my hands and kissed him harder, kicking the burning away. This was Marcos, my old, unreachable love, and he was kissing me like I was the only woman in the world to him. Marcos, Marcos. Jesus, it felt so good to be in his arms. And who knew? Maybe there was still a chance for us. Maybe we would dance in New York together, turn the fantasy into a love story like those reporters had. Our story. We both let go of everything, kissing each other deeply. Marcos, I was kissing Marcos, my friend, the man I once loved.
“Wait. Stop,” he said, pulling back, but I gripped him tighter.
“Let’s go back to my room,” I said in a husky voice, our breaths mixing. His eyes met mine, then traveled to my mouth, and I felt it everywhere.
“Cams, no. You’re not one of my girls.”
“What if I want to be? Please, Marcos. I need this. I need you. Please, take the pain away.”
Back in my room, I let him peel off my clothes. He grabbed my hair at the nape with one hand and kissed me hard. He was decisive in everything he did, a bit rough, but in a way that was sexy and masculine. I let my hands explore his ripped body, trying to connect with all the things I had once felt for him, willing them to overpower the emptiness left by Sebastián. Marcos threw me back on the bed and interlaced his hands with mine, pulling them over my head while his mouth ravaged me. The rock-hard muscles on his chest rippled against mine, his jeans scraping the satin of my panties. He broke the kiss to look at me, his hot breath blending with mine.
“Cams. You’re so fucking beautiful, babe.” He kissed me again, exploring my neck, then undid my bra and kissed each one of my breasts slowly, adoringly, then harder. An image of Sebastián barged in my mind, and I forced it away. He’s gone. I closed my eyes and focused on Marcos’s mouth as his teeth grazed my nipple and then sucked hard. I moaned out loud and felt him eve
rywhere, and suddenly it was just the two of us, the ghost of Sebastián almost exorcized. Marcos was an incredible lover. He fucked me hard, then slowly, taking me to the brink with his deep, smooth rhythm. I trembled around him, and my muscles clenched, welcoming him while our bodies melded in the sexiest, most intimate dance yet between us. I dug my nails into his back while his pace accelerated, his pelvis slamming against me. I climbed high, higher, until I couldn’t tell anymore what was him and what was me. And then I was lost. It was all him, it was us.
I woke up in his arms with the faint morning sun on my face. I blinked at the rose dawn sky, and the familiar emptiness left after Sebastián tugged at my heart. Turning around to face Marcos, I took in his handsome face. He looked so peaceful. He stirred sleepily and I smiled, surrendering back to a deep, peaceful sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was bright. What time was it? I was tangled in my sheets. Alone. There was no sign of Marcos, and the bedside clock said it was eleven. I plopped back on the pillow and rubbed my eyes. I hadn’t slept till eleven in…months. I felt restored, good about my decision to move to New York. This would be a new, exciting stage for me.
I showered and dressed in jeans and a sweater and knocked on Marcos’s door. A minute later he opened it and invited me in.
“I was thinking we could hit the Guggenheim today,” I said. “What do you th—” I froze at the sight of his suitcase on the bed, his wrinkled clothes carelessly tossed in it. “What’s this?” I turned to him without hiding my disappointment.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I meant to tell you last night, then—”
“Then you thought you would fuck me first?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure it was the other way around.”
My eyes burned and I clenched my teeth. “You don’t have to leave.”
“I spoke with Federico yesterday. He offered me a position as a choreographer. It’s what I want.”
“But your career’s thriving as a dancer…Why?”
“I’ll still perform as a principal. But I’ll also work with Federico on some of his ideas. It’s an amazing opportunity for me.”
“What about Manhattan Ballet?” I snarled with a mix of anger and betrayal. “It’s a great opportunity also.”
“It is.”
“Then what? Why leave?”
“Cams.” He paused. “If I stay here, I’ll fall for you. And you’re still hung up on the gangster.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s over.”
He half smiled. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. And I’m not good at coming second.”
“You’re not going to fall for me. You’re Marcos, for fuck’s sake. You don’t fall.”
“You changed that. And now I want more. I want all of it. But I want it with someone who’s all in.”
“Marcos, stay. New York will give you more than Federico.”
He let out a long sigh. “Federico’s been a good mentor for me, and we work well together. It’s the right thing for me long-term.” He looked calm. He had made his mind up.
I clenched his biceps with my hands. His muscles tensed between my fingers.
“Please.”
“Cams…”
“You’re my partner. I thought…after last night, I thought you would stay. I thought we would do this together.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” He pulled me into his arms, and I tried pushing him off, but he was much stronger. He pressed me against him, and I hit his chest with my fists, pounding as hard as I could. He didn’t fight me, and as soon as I stopped hitting him, he pulled me into his arms again. Anger and frustration soaked my cheeks as I sobbed, beaten, against his chest.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I don’t want to do this alone.”
“You have to do this alone. This battle inside your head between that part of you that wants things and that part of you that says you’re not good enough has to end. You have to end it. And you have to do it on your own. Just like you did when you got up from the hospital bed. That strength is inside you. It’s time to let go of the rest.”
I cried and he hugged me tight. I felt like a castaway, alone, stranded.
There was only me now.
Chapter 45
The season with Manhattan Ballet had ended, and we were off for the summer. It had been an uphill four months, working triple time to earn my place in the company. Andrew had promised me a few good soloist roles for the coming season, so things were starting to brighten up.
The July heat in New York was stifling, and the few friends I had made at Manhattan Ballet had fled out of the city, so I packed my bags and bought a ticket to Buenos Aires. I hadn’t been back since I had first left for the tour. I hadn’t wanted to. I just had Nata send me some of my things and bought what I needed after my first paycheck came.
I felt it the moment the plane touched the tarmac. The longing, as if it had been waiting for me. A fist gripped my heart when a myriad of images of Sebastián flashed in my mind.
Outside the sliding doors of Ezeiza International Airport, Mamá and Papá welcomed me in their arms, and I inhaled their familiar scent. I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the familiarity of our group envelope me.
We sat under the shade of the vines in my parent’s backyard, chatting about my life in New York and Papá’s new wing at the hospice. The mayor had changed his mind, and the city was funding the project for two more years.
“Palacios wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would he?” Papá asked, his tone skeptical.
“I doubt it. I haven’t heard or spoken to him in over five months.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right.” He gave me an empathetic look and quickly changed the subject. But in the back of my mind, I wondered idly if Sebastián did have something to do with the mayor’s sudden change of heart. Dismissing the thought, I listened to their stories about their trip to Europe and the reunion with my siblings, and felt truly grateful for my family. I had taken it all for granted.
After just a few weeks at my parents’, I was ready to go back to New York. It was mid-season at the Colón, so I was only able to see Nata and Marcos in the evenings, and they always looked exhausted. For the first time, I understood what dating a dancer meant to an outsider. It sucked. Ballet always came first.
On my last morning in Buenos Aires, I decided to go for a walk in the city and say good-bye to some of my favorite spots. I stopped for an espresso and croissant at Plaza Vicente López, then meandered among the pedestrians flooding Florida Street. Everything was familiar: the street sounds, the horns in the distance, the buses breaking nearby. I was at home here. I sidestepped a couple dancing the tango, the iconic melody of “Por Una Cabeza” funneling out from the speakers that sat on the sidewalk. A vivid memory of my tango performance with Marcos at Vladimir’s party had me smiling…Then it quickly vanished behind another image of Sebastián and me dancing barefoot on the beach in Colonia, a wedding in the distance, laughter, sailboat lights blinking in the rose sky. I doubled my steps. Everything here was also another scene of the complex production that had been us.
On the train ride to my parents’, I leaned my head against the window, watching the city blaze by. As we approached the station, I hesitated for a moment, then sank back into my seat and let my stop pass. There was one more thing I needed to do before going back to New York, and it could change everything.
I knocked on the door I had come to know so well, my nerves pulsing as I waited for the familiar fragile frame to approach and greet me. My heart kickboxed my sternum. I squeezed my knuckles, waiting.
Dammit. This is it.
I looked around impatiently, and it struck me that everything looked exactly the same, as if no time had passed. The peonies in the flowerbeds by the windows, the treetops swaying to the afternoon breeze.
The door startled me when it swung open. Mercedes’s feline eyes bore on mine.
“What do you want?
” She scowled. She was thinner, pale. Not the stunning woman I had once met at her party. I wondered vaguely if she had a drug problem.
“Mercedes, it’s been a while.”
“Yeah. What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak with Sebastián.”
She eyed me for a moment, then raised her chin as if resuming a script after a short pause. “He’s not here. I’m house-sitting.”
“Oh. When will he be back?”
“Not for a long while. He’s in Spain…with Carolina.”
It was as if she had slapped me. Hard. She noticed, because her mouth stretched into a serpent grin.
“You’re lying,” I snarled. Then Rafa appeared behind her. His eyes widened a fraction.
“Camila. What…are you doing here?”
“Rafa,” I said in a brighter tone. “I came to see Sebastián.”
“Sebastián’s in Spain,” he said a bit more somberly.
“I told her,” Mercedes said, curling her arm in Rafa’s. He darted a look at her hand and tensed. “She thinks I’m lying. You tell her, Rafa. Tell her Sebastián went to see Carolina.”
Rafa frowned deeply.
“Is that true?” I searched his eyes.
“I’m sorry. May I offer you a ride home?” he said.
“No,” I murmured, and he nodded, his expression remorseful.
“I’ll be out back,” he said to Mercedes before glancing back at me. “Take care of yourself, Camila.” And before I could respond, he was gone.
“Apparently, they reconnected,” Mercedes went on, leaning on the door frame. “You didn’t think he would be waiting here like an idiot, did you? After you paraded around New York wrapped around your dancer boyfriend? It was all over the papers. ‘A Dancer’s Love Tango,’ they called it.” Her eyes narrowed. “How dare you show your face here after doing that to him? He almost died while you were in New York living your little romance, did you know that?”
