At the press conference later that day, I got up there and began with a statement like I always did. I wrote them myself, had them checked through legal, through my counterpart, Farrad Laghari, and then asked for questions.
When I began, four years ago, the press had tried to run over me. I found that taking a breath, collecting myself each time, was best. The smart thing was to always think about the answer, no matter how big or small the question. As a result, I lost most of the reporters who were only looking for the shock-and-awe factor, and now had a cache of serious journalists who kept tabs on me. Every now and then I surprised them by suggesting a field trip to a place that had been cleared. Only those I knew were invited along, so it paid to be respectful and loyal. They appreciated me narrating events and answering individual questions. I also set up solo interviews with my boss for the people I liked best and trusted not to try and blindside Sam Kage. Because I was careful in whom I put my faith, this specific press conference went smoothly, and Shawn Pelham did not come up when I covered the trafficked women as well as the young girls on student visas forced into sex slavery around the corner. It was all horrible, and I noted the faces of the reporters as I conveyed the details before handing them off first to the mayor, then my boss, then the first FBI special agent, then Santos, whom Ian and I had interacted with, then the sheriff in Schaumberg… The list went on, endless. We all stood for hours, briefing the reporters and ending with the proviso that as we knew more, so would they. It was all that could be said.
After the conference, I was finally back in my office, when, looking around it, I was struck again by how much it didn’t look like me. Whenever I walked into Miro’s office, I took a relieved breath because of all the things he’d done to make it his. From the built-in bookcases Ian had constructed and painted, to the floor rug, to the books and knickknacks and paintings on the walls, it was like a sanctuary among our cold, sterile, utilitarian offices. The entire back of his door was artwork from the kids he worked with. Kage’s was a bit Spartan in comparison, but even his was warmer than mine. I needed to do some work on it and make it more me. After four years, there was no excuse. I was standing behind my open door, contemplating some plants and perhaps even a fish tank, when there was a knock.
Leaning around the door, I found my boss.
“Sir?”
Kage cleared his throat. “I need to speak to you about a request that’s come from the mayor’s office.”
“Of course. Would you like to take a seat?”
He squinted at me. “I hate your office. It reminds me of the one my principal had when I was in the fourth grade.”
I felt compelled to ask. “Why the fourth grade specifically?”
“Those were the days of corporal punishment, so he was allowed to spank us with a paddle.”
I had to parse that. My office reminded him of one where he’d been hit by an authority figure when he was young. I really needed to decorate, starting with repainting the basic gray walls.
“Let’s take a walk,” he offered, and I saw it then, the slight grimace, like he was about to deliver news that was going to ruin the rest of an already terrible day.
2
CELSO
Ihad another dream about him.
It was ridiculous, and when I dragged my ass out of bed, I was cursing myself on the way to the bathroom. I told myself again that having Eli Kohn for a friend, a best friend, was more than enough. Of course, by the time I flipped on the light and looked in the mirror, I realized what a crock of shit that was.
I needed to stop dreaming about Eli.But going alltough loveon myself didn’t have any effect.
As I stood there, I noted the tights hanging from the shower-curtain rod and was reminded, again, why I never brought anyone over to my five-hundred-square-foot hovel, the number including the fire escape. It always looked as though I’d just been robbed, and I blamed my mother. She’d done everything for me growing up—I was an only child—and I’d never learned to do much for myself in the way of cleaning. Not that the place was dirty; it wasn’t that. It was simply cluttered with the trappings of a dancer. There wasn’t decaying food in the sink or mold growing in the bathroom; I wasn’t around enough for that to be the case. The whole studio apartment was more of a giant closet than anything else. I had one chair, and that was it. I didn’t own a TV. Why would I? Streaming shows was what my laptop was for. Not that I had time to watch anything. I was far too busy. And when I did have the odd night to veg, I was curled up on Eli’s couch in front of his enormous jumbotron of a flat screen. I liked movie night at his home because in the summer it was cool inside with his killer AC, and he made drinks, and he had a beautiful view of downtown with all the lights. In the winter, there were blankets for me, and the heat from his fireplace was heavenly. I came to my apartment to sleep and change and shower. It was close to the ballet company and had been chosen solely for that redeeming quality. Everything of substance, I did at Eli’s place, where there was always food and wine, fruit and cheese, and again, the blankets. He had a whole basket of them for me.
No one ever saw my place.Except him.He saw it because somehow the man I’d fallen head over heels for also happened to be the only real friend I’d ever made in my life.
Hopeless.
The thing was, I’d started young as a dancer, and sometimes when that happened, and you were good, there weren’t people you could trust. Dancers my age were jealous and back-stabbing and would take any opportunity to get ahead, especially if that meant stepping on others in the process. Adults ran the gamut of those wanting to tear me down and those wanting to get in my pants. Without my mother’s vigilance, I was certain I would have the same horror stories to tell as others I knew. Being put into the care of adults without a hint of parental supervision was a recipe for disaster. Every documentary I’d ever seen about kids who were abused or assaulted over a prolonged period of time, it always came down to the fact that the parents were absent, uncaring, or not in the picture. Then there were the horrifying accounts of parents who put their kids in danger for financial gain, but that wasn’t what I’d observed growing up. What I saw most of all were kids without anyone to watch out for them. That was not at all my experience. Rebecca Harrington was not fucking around with my safety. She was there with her eagle eyes, missing nothing.
I didn’t get on an airplane without her, did not dance abroad without her standing in the wings. There was no attending ballet camp without her, and I definitely did not stay in hotels with connecting rooms, like my peers did, without her. I was told by adults and kids that my mother was overprotective and suffocating. That I needed to learn to be independent so I didn’t cave under the pressure of being alone later.
“They want you, they get me as well,”she’d said often, unpacking our bags with the same precision she’d packed them with. By the time I was eleven, she was a champion of making wherever we were a home in ten minutes. She changed light bulbs from the harsh white ones to the soft yellow ones, plugged in air filters and diffusers that filled every room with the soothing scent of lavender, and hung wind chimes on the balconies everywhere from Paris to San Francisco. People always commented when they came to our room to speak to me that everything was lovely.
“You screwed me,” I said into the ether, knowing she was there because I could hear the wind chimes—her wind chimes—outside on the fire escape. Everything else of hers was packed and in storage, but the wind chimes I needed. “I’m utterly incapable of doing things like picking up after myself without you ordering me to do so.”
She taught me how to do everything, and that was the piece people missed. I could get stains out of any fabric on the planet, make macaroni and cheese from scratch, could perform both CPR and the Heimlich maneuver, and could bring any plant back from the brink of death. I knew all about essential oils, which ones helped with stomachaches or scrapes or allergies, and I knew on sight the difference between most—if not all—impressionist painters. She dragged me to museums, churches, and outdoor cafés. She made sure I had an appreciation for good strong coffee as well as tea for every occasion. When I was sad because another person I’d counted as a friend had kicked me from behind, she took me for gelato and told me I had to stop chasing after others and let those who were worthy come to me. I was a prince, after all; they would be lucky to have me in their lives.
I loved her dearly even though she was clearly deluded. When I lost her, and found myself so much more than alone, there was a period of adjustment. The no-man-was-an-island thing was real, and so I dove into the deep end of one-night stands, looking for the love and affection I no longer had.
It didn’t last. I was stupid but not insane. Better to throw myself into my work.
The deep dive of professional gratification took me first from being a freelancer back to New York and then to the Chicago Ballet Company. When I finally came up for air, I had dozens of strong relationships with colleagues, people I respected and who respected me in return. That part was good. My dating life was a minefield of expectations and disappointment. I had no idea why others got attached so quickly and had been talking it over with Maven Ashmore, a long-term acquaintance and CBC colleague, when I realized she wasn’t paying any attention to me at all.
“That’s just rude,” I assured her irritably.
“I’m listening,” Maven whispered, and then took hold of my chin and turned my head so I was seeing the same thing she was. “I’m just a bit distracted by the gorgeous man.”