She wondered how long Rubio would stay away from the theater, how long before he answered his phone. She wondered which of them would crack and leave City Ballet first. It ought to be her, since she was barely settled into London, but if she went back to New York, Paulsen could get to her again. She’d have to go somewhere else, somewhere far, far away. Australia. Maybe Romania. Japan?
Maybe Iceland. Did they have any professional ballet companies? Because her heart felt cold as ice. She struggled to dance through the chills freezing her body. She felt a tightness in her throat that wasn’t illness, but the lack of her familiar partner. Everyone watched as she moved through City Ballet’s halls, judging her, condemning her with their eyes.
“Oh, sorry,” said Edward as they missed a connection. He shied away from her, like she might slap him or something. Was she that much of a bitch? She and Edward did the best they could to get the ballet worked into shape for the premiere, but he was no Rubio, not even close. She needed a good cry but there were no tears in her, no emotion except strangling self-hatred. She put on her game face, a brittle mask of resignation, but inside she felt lost.
Then, premiere night, at seven, Rubio showed up. She heard it secondhand, from a stage manager, that Mr. Rubio was in his dressing room putting on his costume and preparing to perform.
“Perform with me?” she asked.
The woman gave her a nervous smile. “I would assume so.”
Petra refused to seek him out. Such drama, disappearing for days and then showing up for stage call. Yves ought to tell him he couldn’t perform, but of course he wouldn’t. She looked down at her pale blue costume, smoothing the voluminous tulle skirt. As much as she liked Waking Kiss, she wasn’t looking forward to performing tonight. What the hell had happened to them? There was a time when dancing with Rubio had been the highlight of her day.
You happened, Petra. This is all your fault.
Their ballet was last in the program, so she hid in her dressing room until the last possible moment, and then reported to the wings with a sense of dread. She warmed up in the corner, not looking around to see if he was there. It was sad to dance like this, with so much dysfunction between them. Dysfunction that’s your fault.
Her phone vibrated in her dance bag and she reached for it, flicking to the text.
Sorry not there. In labor. Valentine’s baby, which only makes sense.
Petra stared at the message. Oh God, Ashleigh was having her baby, and yes, it made sense she would have it this day of all days, a day devoted to love. She hurriedly texted back. So excited. Best wishes for a wonderful delivery.
Then Ash texted, Merde to you both.
So Ashleigh knew Rubio was here. She looked over her shoulder to find him staring at her from the wings. He wasn’t smiling. She put away her phone, shed her leg warmers, and walked over. “Nice of you to show up.”
He didn’t answer, just looked somewhere over her shoulder.
“Ash texted me,” she added. “The baby’s coming.”
His lips tightened ever so slightly. “I know. I just came from there. From the hospital.”
Petra digested that revelation. Rubio was closer to Ashleigh than he’d ever be to her. This ballet was about the transformative power of love, but really it was about him and Ashleigh and the friendship they’d struck up five years ago. She pushed down pangs of jealousy, because she had no right to be jealous. “How were things going there?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Okay. Ash was screaming lots, but now she had...” He made jabbing motions at the base of his back. “Pain shot. She’s better now. Excited for the bebê.” He tipped up into a perfect handstand. “She said I had to come. She said to come dance, so I’m here.”
Petra let out a sharp breath. “No one knew where you were. You should have told someone you were coming tonight. Edward practiced for hours—”
“I wasn’t coming tonight,” he snapped as he righted himself. “But now I’m here. And when it’s over I’ll leave, okay? Professional only, from now on.” He swept a dispassionate look down the length of her body and up again. She felt like he’d slapped her.
“Yes, fine,” she said, turning away.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Is okay with you?” He laughed again and then they didn’t exchange another word until they walked out behind the curtain to assume their opening poses. In the dim light she could feel him more than see him. She could smell the familiar scent of him like a remembered dream.
Waking Kiss wasn’t a sad ballet, but it was wistful. As the curtain rose and the music began, Petra found herself in tune with the mood of the piece. She was wistful for old times, for Rubio’s smiles and laughter, for his sensual demands. I want...
He didn’t smile at her now, but he didn’t frown. Instead he studied her, gazing at her with a focus he hadn’t used in rehearsal. Perhaps he was entertaining his own thoughts and memories of her, or more likely Ashleigh, who’d given life to this ballet just as she was giving birth to Liam’s baby. As they danced through the steps, Petra came to a disturbing revelation. She had no life in her at all.
She could dance, but she couldn’t love. She was too scared, too selfish. She was a dancing robot, just as Rubio had told her at the start.
She didn’t want to be a robot. She dug deep and reached out to him emotionally, with her body, with her movements and her expressions. Even with the tension between them, Rubio gave it back to her, supporting every choice along the way. He wasn’t selfish. He was generous and attentive and because she was stupid, she’d lost everything she could have had.
When they got to the part where they’d argued over the placement of her arms, she chose to do it his way. His eyes met hers while the violins wailed, and for a moment there was tenderness between them, even adoration. I love you, she thought. “So beautiful,” he murmured beside her ear. “Thank you.”
The ballet was over too soon. They took their bows and a stagehand brought out a massive bouquet of roses. Rubio took them and placed them in her arms. They weren’t from Ruby; it was just the usual opening night pageantry. When she tried to smile at him, her face went all wobbly so she did another deep curtsy instead. She turned to the audience, to acknowledge their gracious standing ovation, and that was when she saw her father in the front row.
He was standing too. It would have looked churlish if he hadn’t. Her eyes skipped away from his and back to Rubio’s chiseled profile. A tautness in his jaw belied the brightness of his theatrical smile. The scent of the roses wafted to Petra’s nose. They were red for love. Red for rubies.
He turned to her as soon as the curtain fell. “Was good,” he said. “Thank you.”
Company members watched them from the wings. If they were hoping for another fight, they weren’t going to get it. “It was good,” she agreed. “It’s a beautiful ballet. You should be proud to have your name on it.”
He looked pleased at her praise. He reached down and ran a finger over the curve of a rose petal. It struck her as highly sexual, because he’d pleasured her so many times with that light touch. He didn’t mean it sexually though. He was maintaining a rigid, detached demeanor with her. Professional only, from now on.
She didn’t like it. She was a miserable, conflicted wreck. “What are you doing tonight?” she blurted out.
“Going home,” he said. By myself was clearly communicated in his tone.
“You’re not going back to the hospital to see Ash and Liam?”
“No. They need privacy. Tomorrow I’ll go, maybe. Take the baby a gift.”
I’ll go with you, she wanted to say. Let’s go together. His expression dared her to say it and she chickened out. “I’m going to check if she sent any more texts,” Petra said, heading offstage.
Rubio followed with a snort. “She’s a little busy to be texting.”
She checked her phone. Nothing. Well, Rubio was right. She was probably preoccupied at the moment. “Maybe Liam texted you.”
He grabbed his stuff and headed out to t
he hallway. “My phone’s in my dressing room.”
He didn’t invite her to accompany him but she went anyway. The halls were bustling, buzzing with the excitement of a premiere performance. She ducked around a group of dancers to keep up with Rubio and barreled face first into the hard planes of someone’s back.
“I’m sorry.” She held up a hand in apology before she realized who she’d bumped into. Petr Grigolyuk stared down at her over the point of his distinguished Russian nose. The entire corridor fell into hushed silence, and Petra herself couldn’t summon a word. She’d never been this close to him, not in her life. His complexion was pale like hers, marred by finely etched wrinkles. His eyes were her eyes, down to the color of his lashes and the gold flecks in his irises. His lips slanted in a small frown.
Then, without a word or the least reaction, he turned his back on her and resumed his conversation with Yves and Gennady, the show’s director.
Blood rushed in Petra’s ears. If anything, the silence in the corridor deepened, broken only by the words of her father’s conversation. She took a breath in and out, processing the hurt, the cruel rejection. Even now, face to face, he couldn’t offer a simple hello. He couldn’t smile or deign to congratulate her on her performance. He’d looked at her as if she was something sticking to the bottom of his shoe. She hated him, but more than that, she feared him, feared his power to make her hurt. She felt pummeled to dust, reduced to ashes.
She moved to flee but Rubio’s fingers closed around her wrist. His voice rang out in the hushed corridor.
“Hey, Grigolyuk. I never realized what an asshole you are.”