Page 128 of The Unraveling

He’s blocked.

What the fuck?

“Oh my god, she blocked my ex-boyfriend. She blocked Jordan. She blocked my—oh my god.”

My hands start to shake and my delicate-feeling heart starts to pound uncertainly as I realize that this means Jordan maybe did try to reach out to me. Maybe he did try to contact me. Maybe he called me when it was late and he was alone and missed me. Maybe he thinks I blocked him, or at least didn’t answer.

Oh my god.

Somehow, this is actually a silver lining. Arabella is obviously a monster, but at least this means all is not, maybe, lost with Jordan.

I unblock him immediately and then open the text screen, wanting to send him something. But what?

I shut off the screen.

“But why would she block my ex-boyfriend? What does she care if Jordan can reach me?”

“My theory is she wanted you and Alistair to blow up so Clementine was forced to end things. The more public it is, the better.”

“So she probably did send those paparazzi. God damn.”

Cynthia nods slowly. “I’m sorry I was ever a dick. I should have seen it sooner with her. It’s obviously over with her now. I’m not going back to that bullshit.”

“Good for you.” I finish the last of the soup. “Thank you for this. I feel almost totally normal again. And I owe you an apology. I’m really sorry I ever crossed a line into your and Arabella’s relationship. That was not okay of me. I just never felt very clear on the rules.”

“Ha. Neither was I. Anyway, I appreciate that, but we were never going to make it anyway.” She pauses. “And you’re welcome for the soup. Salt and protein, can’t go wrong.”

We smile at each other, and then I push myself up off the ground. “Okay, still a little shaky. What do you think I do? I haven’t heard anything from anyone about the show tomorrow night.”

She shrugs. “Just go in like everything’s normal. They’ll talk to you if they’re going to talk to you.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Something occurs to me. “Was it you who sent me that text? A while ago? Don’t trust him?”

She laughs. “Yeah. Sorry for the cryptic way of saying it. I just didn’t want to get in the middle with Arabella and her vendetta.”

“Right. But why shouldn’t I trust him? It sounds like the whole thing was Arabella.”

“I just thought he was a dick. But then, Arabella was talking shit about him all the time. I guess it got in there. Maybe he’s not. I guess I knew something was off, just didn’t know where.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Walking into the theater Monday morning was as tense as trying to get out of a grocery store with a stolen watermelon hidden under a T-shirt. I felt like I was getting away with something, waiting to be caught. Waiting for someone to say, What the fuck are you doing here?

But no one said anything. And then no one else said anything. Just like the week before. And then the day kept moving forward and before I knew it, I was in hair and makeup. The poker face this company holds is unbelievable.

I’m grateful that Arabella isn’t here so far. I wouldn’t put it past her to show up, since she’s made it her life’s work to torture me.

We’re about an hour from showtime when I decide to bite the bullet and send a text I’ve been meaning to send for a while now.

Hey…long time no talk. Sorry about things at the gallery. I think we need to talk. If you’re willing to? I have a show tonight actually in an hour, but I’ll be free around eleven? Any chance you’d meet me for a drink?

The idea of a drink still makes me feel a little woozy, but once I spend three hours under the stage lights, I know I’ll be able to rally for a glass of something. If he’s willing to meet me.

For the next forty-five minutes while I do my warm-up, I check my phone every five minutes—and that’s me having self-control. He doesn’t answer me, and a big part of me fears that he’s just not going to. That him being blocked didn’t matter, because he was never going to reach out anyway.

They’ve just announced the fifteen-minute warning until curtain up and my dresser has knocked on my door asking if I’m ready for costume.

I tell her I need a few more minutes, then I take a deep breath. I’m alone. When you dance a principal role as a soloist or corps member, you get moved to a principal dressing room for the show. I reach into my bag and pull out the photos I grabbed from my spot in the shared dressing room.

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