by J Q Anderson
A rush of rage surged in my blood. “He almost died because you’re a lying bitch. You lied to me so I would get the Zchestakovas to help you. That’s why Sebastián got shot. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
“Listen to you. So ballsy. As far as I know, this worked out fine for your friends.”
“You’re a pathological liar,” I said between my teeth. God, I wanted to strangle her.
“You’re not welcome here, and I’ve got things to do.” She slammed the door in my face leaving me there, like the idiot I was.
I slumped into the worn-leather seat of the train that would take me back to my parents’. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. What did I expect? Nata had nailed it from the beginning: A Palacios doesn’t take the back seat. It hurt to have been discarded so quickly, so efficiently, a used Band-Aid. Nata had also said that there was something very unique about a first love: pure, innocent, without the barriers we build after a broken heart, and I understood. That’s what he and I had.
Now it was gone.
Chapter 46
I walked along the streets of Manhattan, following what had become my favorite route to work. It was only June, but the city air simmered in warning of an early summer. I didn’t hurry; I was never late for work anymore. More than a year had passed since I had moved to New York, and I was no longer the mousey corps girl chasing the clock and shrinking under Madame Vronsky’s scrutiny.
Rearranging my dance bag’s strap over my shoulder, I leapt up the familiar steps of Lincoln Center, admiring the straight, clean lines of the buildings. Paying attention to architectural details was one of the many marks Sebastián had left in me. I suppressed a smile at the massive banner hanging on the side of the building. My image as Juliet in the arms of Jonathan, my partner, made my pulse race.
The role of Juliet was one of the most meaningful ones I had ever undertaken. Not just because of the physical demands of the part, which were many, but because I felt as if my life experiences had somehow been preparing me for this performance. Juliet loved Romeo the way only young lovers did. To the two of them, it didn’t matter that everything worked against them: family, friends, the time. As I learned the steps of my variations, I reached deep inside, unlocking all my memories of loving Sebastián, the good times, the struggles, the heartbreak. The images blended with the earlier love, or infatuation, I had felt for Marcos, then the loneliness when he left New York. Although I didn’t drink poison like Juliet, I understood her heart completely.
Jonathan held my hand up as we bowed in unison under a shower of white flowers and deafening applause. After so many weeks of hard work, we had pulled off a successful opening night. My cheeks hurt from smiling. Jonathan kissed my temple while someone handed me a giant bouquet of flowers and congratulated me. The bows continued as the maestro came on stage. More applause.
My body buzzed with adrenaline and fatigue as we gave a final bow and hurried back to the wings. In my dressing room, a wardrobe assistant helped me out of my costume, and I hung the items diligently, leaving everything ready for the next performance. I wasn’t a clothes-piling slob anymore. New York’s space-constrained environments made neatness crucial. Order also brought peace of mind. New York had taught me that.
A crowd gathered outside the stage door. They spilled everywhere, rounding the dancers for autographs and photos. As I exited the building, a group of young girls ambushed me.
“Camila, Camila. Here, please!” They closed in around me so I would sign their copy of Pointe magazine featuring my photo on the cover. I quickly signed one, two, three, four, five, so many. But I didn’t mind. Now I was a prima. It was me on that cover. Andrew had said my rise to principal had been one of the fastest he had seen, but no matter how many magazines I signed, I still couldn’t fully believe it was me. My hand cramped as I scribbled my name on the last two. Then one last hand held a notepad forward.
“One more, please?”
That voice.
It stunned me. I looked up and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Jesus. Jesus. It was him. Here. How? And dammit, he looked breathtakingly handsome: tall, well groomed, his skin a golden tan that made his ash-colored eyes paler. He was impeccably dressed in a black tux. Heads turned to us, to him. I blinked off the stupor.
“You’re here,” I mumbled.
“I am.” He smiled. That beautiful face. Goddamnit, I knew every inch of it: the square lines of his jaw, his straight nose, those lips. Okay, so maybe I melted a little. How many nights had I spent lying awake, remembering every inch of him, imagining he was there with me? The bastard. I looked over his shoulder, scanning the faces of the women in the crowd. Was she one of them? Carolina? Or was she waiting for him in her expensive negligée in some hotel room? Stop. I straightened my back.
“What are you doing in New York?”
He shrugged and gave me a lopsided smile. Dammit, I wanted to kiss him, tangle my fingers in his hair. It was longer now, and it made him look mature, even sexier if that was possible. I hated the fact that I wanted to jump in his arms and kiss him, bite his bottom lip, smell him. A tug on my gown snapped me out of my daze.
“Can you sign, Camila?”
I signed my name on the little girl’s magazine while Sebastián waited, watching us. She then smiled and ran to a waiting couple a few feet away. They waved, thanking me.
“You were phenomenal,” he said.
“You saw me dance?” I blurted, hating the enthusiasm in my tone.
“I did. I’m so proud of you. You made it. All the way.”
“Thank you.” I let myself smile for the first time. His eyes appraised me with longing. I looked away at the traffic behind him, remembering we were strangers now. “I should go.”
“Wait. Do you…have plans?” he asked.
“Oh, I…” Was he kidding? “I have the celebration with the cast. You know…”
“Ah. Of course.” He nodded in understanding. An ambulance passed, the siren deafening, then fading away. The crowd had dispersed now, and it seemed like it was only the two of us left. Somewhere behind, the splashing sound of the fountain filled the silence. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. The glowing lights of Lincoln Center cast shadows on his face. He was even more beautiful than I remembered.
Christ. What did he want?
“I came to New York to see you,” he said, answering my silent question. His voice was low, guarded. “There are things…to say.” Those dreamy eyes could still see right through me.
My lungs stopped. A war had launched inside me: the young girl I once was still wanted him while the new me wanted to punch him in the chin for all the scars he had left in my heart.
“Maybe a drink after?” he said. “Or tomorrow night?”
I glared at him. “She won’t mind?”
He frowned. “Who?”
He didn’t know I knew already, and that bothered me even more. His face looked puzzled. He was a good liar, apparently. I shook my head, deciding I didn’t want to put myself through this reproach, rehashing our past. It was done. I glanced behind him at the traffic. Looking at him was way too difficult, and risky. A sudden lash of anger flicked me. Why did he have to show up in my new, happy bubble of a life and disturb the peace? I had finally stopped thinking about him every second.
“It’s important,” he said, interrupting the tornado in my head. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
Wait. Yeah. Wait for fucking ever. But I knew after tonight he’d be all I would think about. My anger flared. His presence had that effect on me, of wanting to rip off my own clothes. God, I hated him.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
His brows raised in surprise, or disappointment.
“I’ve got to go. You take care, Sebastián.”
I was about to leave when Jonathan startled me by wrapping his arm around my waist from behind and kissing my cheek.
“Here you are. My bride in the afterlife,” he said in his British accent and that low, slightly hoarse voice he ofte
n used to seduce everyone around him.
Sebastián’s eyes narrowed a fraction, his jaw locking in disapproval.
“And who’s my opponent, may I ask?” Jonathan asked.
“Jonathan, this is Sebastián. An old friend from Buenos Aires.”
“Ah. A pleasure. Jonathan Stanton. Her partner on stage.” Jonathan shook Sebastián’s hand, awarding him a supermodel smile with slightly crooked teeth, his secret weapon.
Sebastián shook his hand firmly.
“You’re coming to the party with us, yes?” Jonathan gave me a fleeting look that told me he was dying to know who Sebastián was. As a dance partner, Jonathan was confident, tall, masculine. In real life…well, we shared very similar tastes on men.
“No, he can’t. He’s busy. Another time.” I glared at Jonathan, and his mouth stretched into a devilish grin.
“Oh, come on. What could be more important than going to one of New York’s most exclusive parties as the prima’s date? And you’re already wearing a tuxedo. Believe me, these parties are divine. You won’t regret it.”
Sebastián responded with a broad smile, having figured out Jonathan wasn’t at all an opponent.
“He can’t, all right? Go! Shoo. Get us a cab. I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, waving him off.
“Camila, you’re being bossy and it doesn’t suit you.”
“Jonathan,” Sebastián said in a confident tone. “You’ve convinced me. There’s nothing else I would rather do than spend the evening with Camila.”
Chapter 47
Two doormen dressed in black tuxes greeted us at The Top of the Standard, a rooftop restaurant in the Standard Hotel with an unobstructed 360 view of Manhattan. Andrew always picked striking venues to reward the cast after an opening night, and tonight was no exception.
I walked in with one hand in the crook of Jonathan’s arm. Sebastián took my other hand, but I let go. He frowned.
We hadn’t been there for a minute, and the two of them had already captured glances from several guests. A waiter paused by us with champagne flutes. Sebastián handed me one, gave one to Jonathan, and took one more for him.
“To dreams that came true,” he said, raising his glass with a pointed look.
“To dreams that did,” I said coolly.
Two of the principals approached us, and I introduced them to Sebastián. It was so strange to have him here, in the world I had built so far away from him. I was going to kill Jonathan later. Sebastián wasn’t my date. He wasn’t mine and that was fine, but I didn’t want him here, barging into my lovely new life with memories from the past. Happy memories that made me feel more alone.
Interrupting my thoughts, Andrew greeted me, then Sebastián. I did the mandatory introductions, and he told Jonathan he wanted him to meet someone. As he turned to go, Jonathan leaned down to kiss my cheek.
“Where the hell have you been keeping him?” he said. “Call me after. I want every detail.”
I glowered at him and he grinned.
The next half hour was all about exchanging congratulations with other cast members and greeting contributors to Manhattan Ballet, who were always at these parties. There were also the usual celebrities, reporters, the drill.
Two photographers fired a stream of snapshots while asking me about the challenges of my role in Juliet, what advice I would give to aspiring dancers, and all that. Sebastián stepped back, but I snatched his arm, pulling him to me as we smiled at the cameras. The scene had a strange sense of déjà vu: Sebastián and I surrounded by photographers and reporters. Except this time, I was the target of their attention and he was my anonymous date.
After what seemed like an eternity on my four-inch heels, my feet weren’t having it, and I whispered to Sebastián that I needed a break. We sat on a plush sofa facing the window wall, Manhattan glimmering at our feet. In the distance, the Empire State Building glowed in purple and white neon. I sipped my cocktail, unsure where we would go from here. So many questions circled in my head: Why was he in New York? Was he just passing through? Alone? Was this simply a drink between old friends? And where the hell was she?
I decided I didn’t want to know. What difference would it make? After tonight we would go back to our separate lives.
“Where are you staying?” I said distractedly.
“A little place nearby, a few blocks from the Park,” he said, scooting closer to let a couple go by. I hated that my body was aware of every one of his movements and the close proximity of his. I felt the heat radiating from him. The lethal mix of warmth, suede, Ralph Lauren, and that unique scent that was just him was messing with my senses. Memories of another life ambushed me: his huge bed, sheets of the softest Egyptian cotton wrapped around our tangled bodies, his hands in my hair, his mouth everywhere, and sex, so much sex. Jesus. I gulped my drink. This was a runaway train.
“You look stunning, Camila. So grown up.”
“I do?”
“Yes. New York agrees with you.”
“Well, how long has it been?” I said casually. “Over a year now?”
“Fifteen months, one week, and two days,” he said assertively.
“Oh.” I downed the last drops of my drink.
“Do you have a performance tomorrow?”
“No, just afternoon classes.”
He nodded, letting a silent moment pass. “It’s really good to see you,” he said. “So much has happened since you left Buenos Aires.” He rested his hand on mine, wrapping his fingers around it. The heat was electric and it expanded up my arm. I closed my eyes. Shit. No.
“I don’t know what this is…” I said, pulling my hand out from under his. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you.”
“Why?” I glared up at him. “Why now?”
“Why not now?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He frowned. “Is that so hard to believe?”
I pressed my lips and looked around the room, at the people smiling and having fun. This was my world now. I didn’t have the friendships I had in Buenos Aires, but I had built something for myself here. Things were good for me, finally. All that time trying to forget him. He had no right to come here and wreck it all for me again. He had left me. That was his choice.
“Camila…” he said softly. I shook my head, forcing back the tears, but when I met his eyes, the hurt and emptiness that filled me suddenly strengthened my spine.
“It’s been over a year. We had our chance. You chose,” I said bitterly. “Speaking of which, where’s Carolina? Waiting in a hotel nearby?”
“Carolina and I are not together.”
“Didn’t work out?” I said sardonically.
His expression softened. “We only met for a coffee, and it was good to see her after so long. She’s happy.”
I gave him a look that told him to cut through the bullshit.
“I’m telling you the truth.” He frowned.
“Either way. It doesn’t matter.”
“Camila.” He reached back for my hand, but I pulled it away. “Look at me.”
I reluctantly did, reining in the last of my patience.
“It wasn’t until recently that Rafa told me you had come to see me.” He shook his head in irritation. “I was very angry with him, and with Mercedes for telling you I had gone after Carolina.”
“Why would Rafa do that?”
He sighed. “He wanted to protect you. Things at the docks were still a mess then, and he knew how hard it had been for me to let you go the first time. But tell me, why did you come to see me?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters a lot, to me. Tell me.”
I shrugged. “It was an impulse…I don’t know, I guess I wanted to see if there was still a chance for us to work things out somehow.”
He looked around the room, his nostrils flaring, his lips pursed in disapproval. Then his eyes met mine, the pale background blazing. “I’m sorry. Mercedes has a twisted mind. There’
s nothing between Carolina and me. She’s happily married. She has a family.”
That lying bitch…My pulse quickened.
“She’s in rehab now,” he went on. “Coke.”
I knew it!
“Well…it doesn’t matter anymore. And it doesn’t change the fact that you erased me from your life.” I said bitterly.
“I wanted to protect you.” He reached for my hand again. “I have a lot to tell you. Being away from you has been, by far, the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. But it was the only way to keep you safe.”
“Safe?”
“Things were very unstable back then. After the shooting, I didn’t know whom I could trust. Turns out Tano was the rat. He was an informant to Medina and García. Anyway, it’s a long, fucked-up story.”
“What about Ivanov?”
“We got lucky. In all the chaos, he went after the wrong people and it ended badly for him. I must say, he won’t be missed.”
“Jesus…”
“He was a very bad man. He hurt a lot of people.”
“So what held you up this long?” I pulled my hand away and brushed invisible dust off my silky gown, avoiding his eyes. So much was different now. Even my dress. It wasn’t borrowed, it was mine. The old me would’ve had a stroke at the price tag. He watched me patiently.
“What?” I said sarcastically. “No reason?”
He hurried his drink. “You seemed busy.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“‘A Dancer’s Love Tango. Buenos Aires’s Beloved Couple,’” he said in a clipped tone. “The headlines were everywhere, online, on the papers, but it was the photos that sealed it. Even I am not that hardheaded. Your message was very clear.”
“It was all a show,” I snapped. “For the papers. You of all people should know better than to trust the media.”
He shrugged. “You seemed happy. And I had no right to mess that up for you. I knew the pain I’d caused you. I felt it too.”
