“Not now,” I said. “Some other time.”
He ignored me, entering and sliding into the chair across the table. “Travis has left to take Little Ishi home.”
“That’s not her name. Stop calling her that.”
He said nothing, only stared at me with great forbearance.
I steepled my fingers and leaned my forehead against them. “Okay, give it to me. I’m ready for my lecture. Say whatever you need to say, whatever will get you fucking gone.”
“I only wonder what you are doing to her in this room.”
“What I’m doing doesn’t concern you. It doesn’t concern anyone but Ashleigh and me.”
He inclined his head in slow agreement. “I do not wish to pry. But just now, when she left, she was very upset.”
“Was she? I hadn’t noticed.”
Mem smiled patiently at my bitter joke. I hated when he looked at me like that, like I was the world’s biggest, stupidest asshole. “We had a fight, okay?” I said, hiding my agitation in a casual shrug. “People fight. They have arguments. Me and her…” My voice trailed off, because I was about to lie to him. “We aren’t anything alike. We probably won’t be hanging out much anymore.”
He absorbed my lies with a thoughtful, probing expression. “You know,” he said quietly, “the world won’t end when you open your heart to someone. Nothing catastrophic will happen.”
He was treading too close to a line he wasn’t allowed to cross. “That doesn’t apply here,” I said. “This has nothing to do with my heart.”
“What about her heart?”
“What about it?”
“Are you being careful with it?”
Mem and his fucking questions. “I told her the deal from the beginning—I don’t want anything to do with her heart.”
“Ah, the familiar refrain. No hearts, no love. No feelings.” He heaved a sigh, tilting his head at me. “You must let go of your past, Ishi. Too many years now, you’ve been punishing yourself, and now you’re punishing her.”
“Jesus Christ,” I groaned, burying my head in my hands. “How many fucking times do I have to say it? I’m trying to help her.”
“If you truly wish to help her, you must first make peace with what happened to you. Just as the storm must crash before the flowers bloom—”
“Mem, no.” I ground my fists into my eyeballs. “No storms, no flowers. Stop. This isn’t about me, not in the slightest. She has issues, okay? She came to me for her issues, to help her with her issues, but they’re her issues. That’s all this is about.”
“She is not the only one who has issues, my son.”
“I’m not your son. I’m nobody’s son, as you well fucking know.” I was finished with this conversation and his goddamn interfering ways. “Get out. Just get out and fucking leave me alone. And if she comes back, tell her… Tell her…”
“Tell her what?” Mem asked, rising to stand behind his chair.
Yes, tell her what, Liam? That this is starting to feel too risky? That she hurt your pride? That you’re a fucking loser who’s afraid of falling in love with her?
“Tell her I’m finished playing games,” I said roughly. “She’ll know what I mean.”
Chapter Twelve: Drama
I didn’t want to visit Liam Wilder any more. I decided our thing was weird and inappropriate, and unlikely to work anyway. I busied myself doing other things, whatever it took to keep my mind off the idea of going back again. By the second week of January I’d prepped enough pointe shoes to last me until summer, so many pointe shoes that the costume department cut off my supply.
I took up knitting instead. Dancers loved legwarmers. I made about twenty pairs of the fuckers, until people started looking at me funny. Now I’d moved onto working crossword puzzles late into the night, backstage in the dressing room, because otherwise I’d be in my apartment staring up at the branches of his bed.
If I didn’t stay busy I’d run back to Liam and beg his forgiveness, beg for another chance, another wrenching session in his pale blue room, and I didn’t know if I could survive it. Still, some part of me wanted him to come get me, storm over to my place and drag me from my bed of branches. I wanted him to keep helping me—because he had been helping me—but it was so painful to do things his way. Too painful. I couldn’t hack it.
I wanted him to force me but he wouldn’t. I thought if he could just force me through my first experience, I’d realize it wasn’t so bad and I’d be cured. What good was a dominant who didn’t force you to do the stuff you didn’t want to do?
At least there was Rubio and our times in the studio. He saved me from myself, from the shoes and crosswords and leg warmers, even if he was a holy terror to work with. My phone buzzed and I looked down. After three weeks I still hoped for Liam’s name, but it was always Rubio.
Ashlee. Cum practice.
I shoved the crossword puzzle into the top drawer of my carrel and grabbed my bag. When I got to the rehearsal room I flung it in a corner. “If you don’t stop spelling ‘come’ like that I’m going to stop helping you. I’m serious. It’s not funny anymore.”
He stretched out at the barre. “I think it’s funny.”
“It’s not funny, it’s gross. And my name is spelled Ash-leigh. L-E-I-G-H.”
“That is a stupid way to spell Ash-lee. I spell it how I like.”
I groaned and dragged my hands down my face. He stared at me with a frown. “Why you so grumpy, girl?”
I started warming up, trying to remember that this was the dream of a lifetime. I was working with Fernando Rubio. A few short months ago I couldn’t even look him in the face. If he wanted to text me to “cum” just to annoy me, what did it matter? I moved to join him at the barre, muttering an apology.
“I’m sorry, okay? I have a lot on my mind.”
“Oh. I thought maybe you on your period.”
“I’m not on my period.”
“Here, I’ll help,” he said when I started stretching. He stood in front of me and pressed back on my leg to offer resistance. Dancers did this kind of stuff but Ruby always enjoyed it a little too much. Today he gave up any pretense of doing it with platonic intent and pressed his crotch against my front until my leg was curled over his shoulder. If we were naked, we’d be having sex.
“What are you doing?” I asked, although it was pretty obvious.
“Grinding my cock on you.”
“Why?”
He stepped back, pouting, and gestured for my other leg. “I thought you and Liam are not exclusive. Not a couple.”
“We’re not. That doesn’t mean I want you sexually harassing me.”
“Not sexual harassment,” he said petulantly. “Stretching.”
“Oh, I see.”
He pressed back on my leg just enough to loosen it up. He might be a pervert, but he was an excellent stretch partner. He backed away and I brought my leg down to place it beside his on the floor. We stood like that a moment and then he tapped me with his heel.
“Hey, girl. You want to do this ballet? Do with me for the spring showcase, and the summer tour?”
“Sure. I said I’ll help as long as you need me.”
“No, I mean, do it. For shows.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“I mean, perform it. Do the ballet. With me onstage. People clap at the end, etcetera.”
I scrutinized his expression to see if he was teasing me but he wasn’t. He made a face and shrugged. “I mean, you already know it. You dance it good enough, I guess.”
I looked down at his flexing, perfect feet and let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “God, wow. I—I don’t know.”
He ducked down to catch my gaze. “What the hell you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean, I don’t know.” The invisible Ashleigh was freaking out, running for cover. I started grasping for excuses. “It’s hard to dance with you because you’re so…so talented and flawless. When we danced Sleeping Beauty…remember? You were
angry with me.”
“I was angry at your shoes, not you. I didn’t even know you then.”
“You called me a whale. Everyone judged me.”
He scoffed. “No one judged you. No one even noticed you.”
“Exactly. If I’m going to go unnoticed I’d just as soon do it from the back of the corps. The stakes are a lot less high.”
He shook his head at me. “Sad. This is sad. Low stakes. This is what you want? Instead, why don’t you try to beat me? Dance better than me?”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the barre. “Dance better than you. Right. Because that’s so easy.”