Slave to the Rhythm (29 page)

He backtracked immediately.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re twisting everything. You always do that.”

I tried to swallow my anger, knowing that everything I said was hurting him.

“Then I’ll be really clear, so there’s no misunderstanding. I don’t want to get pregnant. Ever. I don’t want to have my own children. Ever. I can’t risk it.”

Collin leaned back in his seat.

“And I don’t get any say in this?”

I shook my head, knowing this was final. Even if I’d chosen Collin, he wouldn’t have chosen me—not in the long run. The threat of tears made my throat close up.

“No, you don’t.”

“Wow.” Collin massaged his temples. “Wow,” he said again. “That’s it? No discussion? No compromise? Laney has spoken, so that’s it?”

“I can’t compromise on this,” I whispered. “And I can’t marry you.”

He stood slowly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I could have had anyone,” he said, his voice tight. “But I wanted you. And even when you told me that you were . . . what you are . . . I didn’t care. I would have gotten you the best doctors, the best therapists . . .”

“I don’t need a nurse,” I said softly.

“You might! One day you might!” he shouted, his voice rising again.

“Collin,” I sighed, my voice cracking. “All you see when you look at me is someone you want to make well. I’ll never be well: this is as good as it gets.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do. I do know that. I can’t be with someone who wants to change me.”

“I don’t want to change you! I just want you to be . . .”

“Better.”

I finished the sentence for him.

He closed his eyes, his head hanging, and my heart jolted at the pain and defeat I saw when he opened his eyes again.

He walked around the table and hovered, as if he was going to lean down and kiss me on the cheek. He caught himself at the last moment and stood upright.

“Bye, Laney. Look after yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, my voice hoarse.

He nodded and a moment later, he was gone.

I leaned back in my seat and let hot tears spill from my eyes.

Collin was a good man and I hated hurting him.

“Laney, are you okay?”

Ash’s soft voice broke into my unhappy thoughts.

“No.”

He sat down opposite me in the seat Collin had just left, then reached across and held my hand, not speaking.

I felt the warmth from his fingers press against the palm of my hand until our fingers were twined together and his thumb stroked across my skin.

“Did you hear?” I asked, a sickening numb feeling creeping through me.

“Yes,” he said simply, his dark eyes giving nothing away.

“Did I do the right thing?”

The pressure on my fingers increased.

“A bird in a cage is safe from the eagle, but she cannot fly very far.”

I gave an unattractive snort. “Is that a Slovenian saying?”

Ash smiled at me. “No, it’s an Aljaž saying.”

“I don’t think it will catch on.”

“No? I liked it.”

“Me, too,” I sighed, my sadness taking over again.

Then I started to cry in earnest: for me, for Collin, for ten years of friendship lost. Ash moved closer, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against his firm chest, rocking us gently.

We stayed like that for a long time.

When I thought about it later, Collin never once said that he loved me. And really, that said it all.

Ash

LIES ON LIES
on top of more lies, and it was hard keeping track of them all. Laney and I pretended that we were friends and then had to act married the one time that she met the other dancers.

At the theater, I had to answer questions about her, about us, when there was no ‘us’. We were friends and I respected her: the way she dealt with her illness was humbling to see. But it wasn’t just that: she worked hard at her job and was unfailingly loyal to the people she loved.

I pretended that my green card would arrive any day, when the truth was I didn’t know for sure if it would happen.

The prick was out of the picture, but Laney didn’t seem any happier, and I wondered if she regretted breaking up with him and the fake marriage to me.

The police had no news about the Bratva, and all their promises about justice seemed hollow. Nobody would tell me if they’d identified the girl they’d found. I saw her dead eyes in my nightmares each night, and the numbness spread through me.

There was still no news about Yveta or Gary, and I’d been told that the Las Vegas police hadn’t been able to find the place that Marta described. Another dead end, a fog of defeat.

Rosa, the choreographer was frustrated, pulling me aside and saying that my work lacked passion. I was losing the one thing that I’d thought would always anchor me. Rehearsals were going to shit, and not just because of me, but I couldn’t talk to Laney about it, not after everything she’d given up already. So when she asked me, I was always okay.

Dancing and the time I spent in the theater shouldn’t feel fucked up. But then Rosa quit after several loud arguments with the producer. Dalano’s ideas were stale and old-fashioned, and I don’t think he’d had a new idea since
42
nd
Street
. Mark, the director, was Dalano’s boyfriend, so he did whatever he was told. After Rosa left, every bit of originality and creativity was stripped out of the show. I didn’t need passion now: all Mark wanted was cardboard cutouts of the dancer he’d been thirty years ago.

The show was due to open the first week of December and we were getting called into costume fittings. I stared at the gold lamé pants, tail-coat and matching top hat and groaned.

It was going to be a fucking disaster.

Laney knew that something was wrong, but she’d married me so I could have this chance. How the hell could I tell her the truth?

Like storm clouds on the horizon, pressure dropping like a stone, something was going to break.

We were opening the first weekend of December, and I guessed that the show would close by New Year. After that, I didn’t know what I was going to do.

“What’s wrong?” Laney asked for the hundredth time.

“Noth—”

“Nothing, right? You’re fine. You’re okay. There’s no problem. That’s what you always say these days. I don’t know why I bother asking.”

She scoffed loudly and walked into the kitchen. Almost immediately, I heard the sound of the coffee machine.

I slumped back on the couch and closed my eyes. The constant small arguments were wearing. Sometimes I really felt married. Except my wife didn’t sleep with me. Well, from what other guys said, that wasn’t unusual either.

I was 23 and hadn’t been laid since . . . not since Yveta.

My mood darkened even more. The police hadn’t been able to find her. I don’t know how hard they’d tried, or even whether they’d tried at all. Not knowing was like a constant dull ache. I could ignore it most of the time, but every now and then . . .

I felt the couch dip next to me and I cracked an eye to find Laney holding a cup of coffee for me.

“Peace offering,” she said simply.

I nodded and took the cup.

“You can talk to me, you know. You can tell me anything, Ash. Something is bothering you. I wish you’d just tell me. I hate guessing. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Laney, please . . .”

“No, Ash. Not this time. You’re going to tell me what’s got you all wound up.” Her lips pressed together in a thin line. “Is it me?”

I sighed and looked down. “No, it’s not you.”

“Then what? Please don’t make me ask twenty questions.”

I put the coffee down on the table.

“It’s the show,” I said at last. “It’s bad.”

Laney frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Bad as in shit. Bad as in boring. Bad as in no one in their right minds would want to see it. If it lasts a month, I’ll be amazed. All the dancers know it. But since Rosa quit, there’s been no one to stand up to Dalano. We’ve all tried to say something but he just says if we don’t like it, we can leave.” I grimaced. “None of us can afford to do that.”

“This is what you’ve been worrying about?”

Laney’s voice sounded almost relieved, which really made me pissed.

“Yes!” I yelled. “This is what I’ve been worrying about! You’ve sacrificed everything for me, for a shitty show that won’t last a month. So forgive me if I’m a bit fucking upset about it!”

“Don’t yell at me!” she shouted, her face turning red and her eyes flashing.

Silenced rushed between us and I swear I could hear her heart beating.

She glared, her gray eyes darkening dangerously, and I was sure she was going to slap me. My muscles tensed, but then she laughed.

“At least you’re not saying ‘fine’ anymore,” she smiled, prodding my chest with her finger.

“I totally get why you didn’t want to say anything to me, and I’m sorry this show hasn’t worked out for you, but I’m not a shrinking violet—I can take the truth.”

“I don’t know about any shrinking flowers, but you are quite short.”

“Watch it, mister!”

I grabbed her hand as she tried to prod me again.

“I’m sorry,” I said seriously. “You are strong. I know this.”

She smiled at me, her eyes sparkling. I had a sudden urge to kiss her and my gaze dropped to her lips.

She cleared her throat and moved away, her cheeks pink.

“So, you know it’s Thanksgiving this weekend, right?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, I think I’ve noticed.”

Even a blind, deaf dog would have noticed that Americans were entering the holiday season. I didn’t quite understand it—it all seemed like a rehearsal for Christmas. But if it meant I got an extra couple of days off from rehearsals, that was fine by me.

“Well, I always have a family thing—it’s at my aunt’s house this year . . .”

“Laney, I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just sleep, do laundry, watch some TV.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes.

“You’re invited, you dope. Besides, my family is dying to meet you, especially my mom.”

I frowned at her, confused. “She is?”

“Of course! The mysterious Slovenian roommate.”

“What about your father?”

“He’ll be there, but he doesn’t have any say in who gets invited for Thanksgiving—the wives are in charge of that.”

I looked at her skeptically.

“Honestly, it’ll be fine. There’ll be a ton of people there and . . .” she gave me a sly look. “There’ll be loads of food. Aunt Lydia is a really great cook: turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie. I always eat so much that I have to undo the button on my pants at the dinner table. What’s not to like?”

My stomach growled appreciatively, and Laney laughed.

“At least part of you agrees. Good, that’s decided.”

I guess I was going to meet the in-laws.

Laney

I’d arranged to meet Ash right from the theater, and then we were driving out to my Uncle Paul and Aunt Lydia’s, an hour outside the city.

Even though most places let people leave early on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, the rehearsal schedule hadn’t stopped, and from what Ash said, the director begrudged everyone their long weekend.

The area near the theater was busy and I’d had to park a few blocks away. People were already getting into a holiday mood, and the shops were as full as the bars with people rushing around for last minute shopping.

Ash had told me the entry code for the artists’ entrance at the side of the theater, but I hesitated, feeling awkward encroaching on his work space.

My breath misted in the frigid air as I tried to decide what to do. The alley was a little creepy and that made up my mind.

Just as I started to tap in the number, the door flew open and Sarah breezed out, followed by several of the other dancers.

“Laney! Where the bloody hell have you been hiding?” she yelled at full volume. “I must have asked Ash a gazillion times for you to meet us . . . oh my God!”

“What?”

Her stunned expression made me check over my shoulder, but no—her wide-eyed stare was pinned to me.

“You’re . . . walking!”

“Oh, yeah,” I laughed self-consciously. “I only use the chair on bad days. I’m mostly pretty mobile.”