Page 54 of The Unraveling

Later that evening, Arabella, Cynthia, and I are leaving a Spanish restaurant where we ordered almost everything on the menu. We justified it to our diets by ordering only the proteins and skipping all the carbs. Well, almost all the carbs. We do have a chance to work it off once Swan Lake performances start again Tuesday evening.

Arabella and Cynthia both cheerfully deemed every item as subpar, even though I thought everything was exceptional. And I wouldn’t have cared if it was bad anyway. I’m just glad to be out and about, a ballerina again, back onstage, the first week of shows complete. The Band-Aid ripped off. Cynthia and I are getting along. She seems to have released her anger at me. Arabella might be right.

I do feel a bit guilty about it happening again with Arabella, but I’m keeping that moment to myself. Cynthia doesn’t need to know. It’s not my place to tell her. And it’s definitely not like I have feelings for Arabella.

We went through two pitchers of sangria, deciding that we deserved it after five straight days of Swan Lake performances. It’s been a few weeks now since I joined the company, and my body is feeling the pain. Every muscle is tender. Even my fingers are sore from sewing my pointe shoes. When I get up in the mornings and first put weight on my feet, I feel like my metatarsals are going to snap. But honestly, I fucking love it. It’s like I forgot how much my body used to work and I missed it.

My mind missed the push.

And I’m pushing myself hard. Since I don’t have a confirmed donor, I’m desperate to ensure that I am indispensable to the company. Too good to fire.

As a soloist, I’m dancing roles I haven’t danced in years, but I don’t care. I’m just happy to be out there breathing again. And, incredibly, my body remembers every little movement like it was yesterday. I’ve pretty much lost all the weight I gained on my hiatus.

We’ve left the restaurant now and are walking down the sidewalk to the next place, cracking up about the absurdity of most ballet plots.

“I mean, come on,” I’m saying, “an evil sorcerer turning princesses into animals. This is high art.”

The girls laugh. My phone rings and I take it out of my purse, looking at the unknown number.

Usually when I get a call from a number I don’t recognize, I just ignore it. Like everyone, I’ve had enough spam calls to last a lifetime. But with Mimi’s health, I can’t help but pick up.

I peel off from the girls and plug one ear as I answer.

“Hello?”

“Jocelyn Banks,” says the voice.

I recognize his voice right away. Alistair Cavendish.

I look up to see Arabella is watching me, her gaze over the shoulder of her fur coat.

I hide the expression on my face and turn away from her.

I know I shouldn’t have been, but I’ve been thinking of him constantly. I can’t figure out why. I haven’t had contact with him and I’ve been on pins and needles for a couple of weeks wondering if he’s going to sponsor me. Yet my mind often wanders to other parts of him.

My unconscious mind has memorized his every mannerism and feature and quirk. Like how his smile’s a little crooked in this wry, constantly clever way. And how his blue eyes are more like turquoise and how they have little rings of hazel around the pupil. And how serious his voice sounds. How noticeably well his clothes hang on him, and how clear it is that every stitch has been measured to fit him perfectly. But most of all, I’m fascinated by the way his looks don’t match his spirit. One moment, he looks like a villain, the next, he seems gentle and sweet.

And I cannot help but remember how that spectrum of intensity translates in the bedroom.

Look, I get it, I sound straight-up obsessed. And I’m not.

I mean. Not only are there extreme rules about donor-dancer relationships, with consequences such as losing your job, that I can’t afford to break, but also he’s married, and also I’m not over Jordan, and a million other things. And yet, did I have not one but two super-hot sex dreams about him? Yes, I did.

“This is Alistair Cavendish.”

“Oh, hi, how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you for asking. I just had dinner with Charlie. We signed the papers. Clementine and I will officially be sponsoring you.”

“Officially…”

“We’re sponsoring you. You can breathe easy.”

“Oh my god,” I say, actually doing as he says, and breathing deeply. “That’s a huge relief. Thank you!”

I say that last part unsure if that’s the appropriate response.

Someone zooms past, laying their hand on the horn, and I hear it on the other end of the phone line.

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