Chapter Twenty-One
Eva
God, I love dancing.
I soar into the final steps of the routine I’ve been working on as the closing chords to Ed Sheeran’s Put it All on Me featuring Ella Mai echo around the empty campus studio. The lights from the city glow through the windows providing the only illumination to the great room aside from the hallway. I critique my silhouette as it moves across the mirror; keeping a running log of what needs to be changed or improved.
I need every step to be absolutely perfected by Christmas for Jamie. I know he’ll be satisfied regardless of how polished the dance is but I want him to have the best version of my capabilities.
When I’d asked him what he wanted over Thanksgiving he’d tried to brush the question off like the holidays were stupid but after a little pushing, a few bats of my eyelashes, and a particularly spirited round of shower sex he eventually relented.
“Jesus. Okay fine if you fucking insist on making this a thing. Just give me… a dance.”
I restart the song and begin the routine again. Dropping into a grand plié from fifth position, then roll up on my toes into a passé. I smile as warmth floods my system from the memory. He’d looked almost sheepish when he asked. I can still feel the fierce blush that spread across my cheeks when I heard his request.
“That’s really what you want?” I’d pressed, resting my chin against his damp abs and trailing my fingertips along his colorful ink to give my hands something to do. I wasn’t prepared to feel so shy when I eventually wrung his Christmas wish out of him.
“Watching you dance is my favorite thing,” He answered gruffly as he gazed down at me with so much sincerity glowing in his eyes that it made me hold my breath. Then he sighed, tucking a wet lock of hair behind my ear before releasing a predatory smile on me. “And I want you in those shoes.”
So, for the past week I’ve spent every free second I have building a routine worthy of that sincerity. It took days to find the right song. I’ve effectively banished my furniture to the far corner of my living room since there’s no point in moving it back and forth so often, and I stay late at school to freeload off of their ideal space. The Nutcracker premieres next week and I should probably be working on Arabian but, I’m still too salty about the circumstances to put more than minimal effort into my performance.
The unexpected sound of a slow clap from the door jolts me out of my thoughts causing me to trip on my next step as I look up. Stephen McMillan is leaning against the frame with a charming smile that drains the color from my face.
“Impressive.”
“Thanks.” My tone is as flat as the floor as I subtly search around the room for some kind of exit strategy. I’ve managed to avoid him for the past few weeks, dodging emails, cancelling meetings, only to land myself in a situation where I’m trapped here unless I risk being rude.
“Who is the choreographer?” He asks still blocking the door.
“Me.”
“Really?” Those slanted eyebrows raise in surprise. “This is an original routine?”
I already answered the question so I keep quiet, trying to channel Jamie’s fuck off attitude as I give every nonverbal signal I can that I’m not interested in continuing the conversation. I’m still holding out hope that the quiet gossip about his interest in me is baseless. But I’m not willing to gamble on it by being overly friendly.
He studies me for a beat before pushing off the doorframe. “You’ve been distracted from our meetings. But I hear you’ve been doing very well in rehearsal,” He walks slowly into the room, relaxed as ever while my anxiety strangles me. “I’m eager to see you perform.”
“I can imagine,” I retort, unable to mask the resentment in my voice. “Since you pulled rank to give me the part.”
He looks a little taken aback by my lack of gratitude. “It was a sound call.”
Agree to disagree, asshole! I stay silent as I stare ahead.
He chuckles. “I’ve offended you.” He sounds anything but contrite.
“I don’t like special treatment.”
“Not even if you deserve it?” I keep my eyes fixed on the clock above the mirror, refusing to be baited into thanking him. “Would asking you to dinner count as special treatment?” He asks and my heart sinks like a bolder.
So much for the hope it was baseless gossip.
I walk forward, jerking into my stride as I eagerly move to gather my things and put some much desired distance between us. “Thank you, but I’m seeing someone.”
“Lucky man.” McMillan replies with a hungry smirk. “But I didn’t ask if you were seeing someone. I asked you to dinner.”
I freeze.
“And if you care about your future in ballet, Evangeline,” he continues slowly closing in on my back. “You’ll accept the invitation.”
The words act like a vacuum, sucking every bit of air from the room. My chest moves up and down, but nothing gets to my lungs. It takes all of ten seconds under his gaze before my hand flies to my forehead and I spin on my heel to flee the dark room. Without a backwards glance, I hurl myself through the illuminated doorway to freedom.
Rude or not, it’s time to go.
With my heart in my throat, I fly from of the studio, down the hall and out of the damn building. I burst through the front heavy glass doors of the Santiago Building, sucking in a big blistering lungful of frigid night air and welcome a biting breeze that shocks my skin on contact.
I just killed my career.
I tied a cinderblock to my pointe shoes and dumped it into the deepest corner of the ocean. I’ll never see another soloist role. Everything I’ve worked for is gone, it’s over and I feel...
I feel...
Nothing?
No! Shit, that can’t be right. I feel...
I feel...
I’m vaguely aware of my ass hitting the frigid cement of the front steps. My bags, thump and huff against the pavement as I stare blindly into the holiday lights of the city.
Why don’t I feel right?
Laugher slugs through the cold whipping air from a group of girls exiting the building. I don’t move. I just sit, in a trance of emotional anarchy, letting my poor ass go numb.
“Eva?”
The throaty rasp can only belong to one person. The one who called tonight from the start. I tip my chin in the voice’s general direction but don’t respond beyond that. I’m far too busy trying to make sense of what I’m feeling—or lack there of. I don’t think I’m shutting down, but I definitely should be more upset.
Right?
Why in the living hell, am I not devastated? I moved my whole life here to dance. I just set my golden opportunity to do just that on fucking fire and I’m not… anything?
“Lisa, come on!”
“I’ll catch up to you guys later.” Her voice is closer now. Like she’s right beside me.
“But—“
“Did I stutter, dipshit?” I feel her crouching to my level as she continues dressing down whoever just dared to question her authority. “Now go fuck off like good little peons.” The group of girls grumble as they slink away, properly put into place by their queen.
“Eves,” she says again shaking me gently. “What’s wrong?”
“You were right,” I answer flatly.
If I look for it, theres some anger bubbling away inside me, but it’s not in mourning for what I just lost. It’s directed solely on the principle that the motherfucker inside plays puppet master with his students.
“McMillan?”
I jerk my head in a single nod.
She’s quiet for a beat then puffs a ragged cloud of air into the the night, picking up my bags and giving my hand an assertive tug. “Come on, Eves. It’s freezing. Let’s go get coffee and talk this shit out. You got work tonight?”
I nod.
“Okay, I’m texting Nina to cover it for you.”
I nod.
She steers us towards the campus cafe that is slow for once. She weaves us through the wobbly tables to the back of the cafe then stuffs me into a quiet corner with the promise of a large black coffee and chocolate as she leaves to get in line.
I should be crying.
I should be a mess right now. Instead, I just sit there feeling everything but what I’m supposed to. My phone pings with a text from Jamie and for the first time ever, I don’t care to read it.
It’s all backwards...
“Alright, coffee—I left it black for you” Lisa settles in with two large mugs in one hand and a dish of sweets in the other. “And here’s a bunch of chocolate shit. I can’t remember what you like.”
My phone pings with another text.
Ignoring it like I did the last, I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic. I hold it as tight as I dare, before taking a long sip; letting the bitter scalding coffee center me.
My phone rings. It’s Jamie.
Before I can ignore it, Lisa picks my phone up and hits answer, then silently hands it to me.
“Hello? Eva?” He sounds almost frantic with worry and the fact that I did this to him pierces my little shit bubble and it stings like hell.
“Hey.” I throw as much normalcy into my voice as I can.
“What the fuck, is going on,” He barks into my ear. “Are you okay? Nina showed up for your shift saying your friend texted her to cover for you.”
“Yeah,” I hedge. “Just… some school stuff.”
“School stuff?” He sounds unconvinced and maybe even more worried than before.
“Yes. It’s the end of the semester. Lots going on. I’m okay.”
Lisa takes a slow sip of her drink and looks off. Like she can smell my bullshit but is trying to mind her business about it.
“Promise?” He asks. There’s a thin thread of vulnerability in his tone that kills me.
“I’m okay. I’m sorry I worried you.” I can’t bring myself to promise my claim. But I can’t seem to tell him the full truth either. “I’ll see you tonight?”
The line is quiet for a moment before he sighs.
“Okay, Doe Eyes. See you tonight.”
I hang up, staring at the blank screen for a moment before I lift my eyes to Lisa’s, finding them steady on mine.
“I just lied to my boyfriend.” I always considered myself to be pretty honest. I guess I was giving myself too much credit.
“Well,” she sighs. “You definitely omitted some big shit, but somehow I feel like that’s at the bottom of your list of issues right now.”
I drop my gaze to my cup, chewing on my lip as I wait for her to give me all of life’s answers so I can walk out of here understanding why the fuck I’m not heartbroken.
“You gotta talk to me, scaredy-cat.” She presses in a voice so quiet and gentle that if she weren’t sitting a foot from me, I’d think it was someone else who spoke.
“I’m not sad.” I blurt, raising my eyes back to her. Her head tilts slightly to the left at my random deceleration but other than that she doesn’t react.
Her steady silence creates a fissure in my cloud of shock and the next thing I know, a bubble of feelings push up my chest, bringing on a bout of babbling.
“I should be sad and I’m not. I mean, I’m pissed sure, but not like enraged. He asked me out. I politely declined, then he strongly implied that my professional future depended on it. And I didn’t tell him to fuck himself. I just ran. And that’s answer enough I’m sure. And now, I’m done. I’ll never have a career on the stage and for some fucked up reason I’m not sad and that has me freaked out more than anything. And I don’t know what to do now. I mean how would you feel? Never mind, you would have handled it. He’d be crying in a corner somewhere kicking himself for stepping to you or something.”
“Take a sip of your coffee.” Lisa instructs seizing the brief break in my deluge of words. I do as she instructs and count to twenty while I’m at it. “There’s some shit to unpack there.”
I nod silently, sparing the poor girl another heaping dose of Eva. Lisa taps her cup a few times before she leans forwards with her eyes narrowed in curiosity.
“Let me ask you something,” she tilts her head again like a boarder collie trying to decipher a sound. “Take McDouchlan out of the equation for a second. If it came down to you, and someone else for Arabian… let’s say Julia, since she’s the fucking worst, and you lost it… how would you feel?”
“Um… bummed, I guess?”
“Is that a real question or are you just nervous?” She presses with zero judgement in her voice. “Cause how you answer this is important and I don’t want to base my advice on the wrong assumption.”
“I suppose I’d be upset.”
“Like, they’re out of coffee upset or Jamie dumped you for a pair of DD’s upset?”
“The first… one?”
“Thought so.” She leans back, taking a sip of her latte and eyes me behind her mug. “You know, I always thought it was crazy that you were merely minoring in ballet. That business was your main focus here. But now I think I get it… you don’t love the stage.”
“That’s insane!” I shoot forward. “Of course I do—“
“You love to dance,” she clarifies. “But you only like the stage; it’s just a place where you dance.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish, before I fall back in my seat and look off. I never gave this any thought.
“See, for me,” she explains, pushing the dish of sweets my way. “It’s the latter. For me dancing and the stage are one and the same. Losing the stage is like getting dumped for someone else. The way you turned your pretty ass inside out for that Crayola sketch pad—who is lucky to call himself your man, by the way—“
“I thought he was a tattooed sex god.”
“That was before he made my friend sad last month. Now he’ll forever be a Crayola pad. Focus.” She knocks the table twice for emphasis. “I would bleed for Black Swan, or Sugar Plum Fairy, or any part that gives me the best time possible with the stage… because I’m in love with it that much.
“And you… you’re in love with dancing and you don’t give a shit where you're doing it or who you’re sharing the time with. That’s why you’re not sad. You lost the stage. Not dance. He doesn’t have power over you because he doesn’t hold the card you actually care about in his baby soft hands.”
