Page 5 of Pas de Don't
Heather’s mouth fell open in disbelief. She’d endured his rants before, but this time Carly’s voice was fresh in her mind. “I never asked you to be perfect,” she interrupted him, faintly. “I just asked you to love me.”
“I do love you,” he shot back, “which is why you can’t blame me for feeling neglected when you’ve been so self-absorbed lately.Yougot promoted andyousuddenly became too busy and important forus.”For me, he meant. For Jack, the shining, sparkling center of the universe, whose needs and moods took up so much space in her brain, and in their lives, that she sometimes felt like there was no room left for her. That’s what love meant to him, and somehow, in the last few years, she’d come to believe that was what it meant, too.
“Which is a bit rich,” he continued, “since we both know Mr.K never would have promoted you if you hadn’t been with me. You shouldn’t be accusing me, babe, you should be thanking me. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be in the corps with Carly.” As usual, there was extra disdain in his voice as he said her best friend’s name. Then, “If it weren’t for me, no one would even know who the fuck you are.”
She gasped, rage flaring in her chest. Her eyes, which had remained miraculously dry during his rant, suddenly swam with hot, humiliated tears. It was like hearing her worst fears, her cruelest inner thoughts about herself, repeated back to her from a giant loudspeaker. But worse, because they came from the man she loved, who she believed loved her the same way. From a mouth she’d kissed and let kiss her thousands of times. She wanted to throw the phone and retch, but before she could do either, her mind snagged on something he’d said:“I’m sorry if I haven’t been the perfect boyfriend....”The perfectboyfriend.
Oh, God.
“Were you doing this before we got engaged? Were there others, before the night I was promoted?” Even as she asked, Heather knew the answer, and she knew he wouldn’t give it to her.
“Listen to me,” Jack started, his condescension and anger crackling through the phone.
“No.” She’d listened long enough. Let him make and explain and enforce the rules long enough. She didn’t know what she would do now, but she knew she couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t be this person anymore. Heather squeezed the phone tight and willed her voice, and her stomach, into stillness for one more moment.
“This is over,” she choked out. “We’re done. I’m done.”
Heather hung up the phone and dropped it onto the coffee table, hand shaking. Unable to stay motionless, she paced again, chewing on her bottom lip. She had spent years imagining her future with Jack, even when he was just a crush. Ever since he’d asked her to move in, she’d had it all planned out: They’d spend the rest of their careers dancing together, traveling the world and performing for audiences in far-off places she’d never get to visit otherwise. When they retired, he’d be asked to run a company somewhere, like all the big NYB stars did. She’d go with him and teach, or they’d stay here in the city and spend their long weekends at his family’s house in the Hamptons. She’d even started a short mental list of names that might suit a tiny, golden-skinned child one day.
When she’d woken up this morning, the plan had been so clear. Now, she stopped and stood in the middle of their living room. She closed her eyes against the bright June sunlight, trying to picture a life with Jack. Or a life without him. Any kind of future at all. All she could conjure was a fuzzy cell phone photo of him with his arm snaking around Melissa.
The room spun as she sank onto the couch. She looked around the living room, searching for something to fix her eyes on, the way she did when she got dizzy from doing too many fouettés, and her gaze landed on her phone.
The home screen photo was one she’d taken of him a few days after they’d gotten engaged. His handsome face was cracked into a huge, open-mouthed grin, his straight white teeth gleaming and a few stray hairs burning gold in the sunlight. She looked at it closely,noticing for the first time that his gaze wasn’t quite directed at the lens. He was looking past the camera. Past her.
Heather moved almost without thinking, marching into the bedroom and pulling her suitcase from under the unmade bed, then wrenched open the closet and threw everything she’d need into the small carry-on.
Over years of touring with the company, she’d developed a routine for packing that began with a thorough list and ended with all her clothes neatly folded into a series of color-coded packing cubes. No time for that now. She stripped off her pajamas, threw them in, and pulled on a roomy black T-shirt dress. She shoved her feet hastily into a pair of sneakers, then tossed her worn denim jacket into her big leather shoulder bag.
Her suitcase packed and zipped, Heather opened the drawer of her bedside table and reached in to unplug her phone charger. She was about to shove the drawer shut when something caught her eye: a royal-blue velvet jewelry box.
The one Jack had used to propose to her the night she’d been made a principal.
Heather pulled it out and ran her thumb over the soft fabric, straining to remember the mingled joy and relief she had felt that night. They had dancedGiselleto close the spring season, and though they were utterly exhausted, running on nothing but fumes and adrenaline, it was the best they had danced together all year. Heather had felt a kind of magic buzzing through Jack’s hands in their final pas de deux, and in the last moments of the ballet, the way he looked at her as she slipped back into the darkness of Giselle’s grave made her feel like the most precious and beautiful prize he’d ever laid eyes on.
Heather closed her eyes, conjuring up the intoxicating applause that thundered in her ears after Jack rose from his knee and slipped the ring onto her hand. The audience was clapping for her promotion and her engagement, but they couldn’t know what each of those accomplishments represented to her. Security, stability, a placeto feel settled and safe after so many years of work and doubt. She had finally proven herself to the company, and to Jack. After years of holding her breath, she could exhale at last.
She opened the box and stared into its plush, empty interior. With numb, clumsy fingers, Heather pulled the sparkling ring off her left hand and placed it inside, then snapped the box shut and dropped it onto her pillow. She pulled up the handle of her suitcase and seized her keys from the entryway table.
A moment later, she was gone.
At the top of the stairs at Seventy-Ninth Street, Heather hoisted her suitcase up against her side. The heat of the subway swam around her as she picked her way down, and by the time she’d swiped her MetroCard and struggled through the turnstiles, sweat had gathered at her temples. She straightened up, looked around, and let out a stuttering sigh of relief, grateful for the first time ever for weekend track work. Carly was still waiting at the far end of the platform.
Even from here, Heather could see Carly was dejected: Her chin was tucked into her chest, her upper back curved in a slump. Even her ponytail looked droopy. Another wave of shame swept over Heather, and she made her way along the grimy platform as quickly as she could with her suitcase in tow.
“Carly,” she called when she was ten feet away, and she could hear the watery wobble in her own voice. “I’m sorry.”
Carly looked up, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks flushed. Heather opened her mouth to speak, but Carly had spotted her suitcase, and her tear-streaked face lit up with a smile.
“Sorry,” Carly said, fixing her face before stepping closer and pulling Heather into a tight hug. “I know this sucks, and fuck him. But I’m so relieved. We’re going to go home and drink wine and eat dumplings and watchFirst Wives Club, okay? You can stay as long as you need to, but you’re going to be okay. And fuck him,” she squeezed even harder, “forever.”
For a moment, Heather was surprised by how quickly Carly had accepted her apology, but she shouldn’t have been. If anyone knew about losing your temper and saying things you shouldn’t, it was Carly. Sometimes Heather had marveled that Carly had lasted as long as she had in a ballet company, where dancers, especially women, were expected to stay quiet and do as they were told without asking questions. Carly wasn’t especially good at either of those things, but she was a very good dancer, so the company had always granted her a long leash. Still, she and Heather both knew if it weren’t for Carly’s hot head and big mouth, she’d probably have been promoted out of the corps by now.
Heather couldn’t muster a reply or even a smile. She just nodded into Carly’s shoulder and let the tears roll down her face.
Heather awoke on the couch to the sound of Carly’s apartment buzzer screaming erratically from the kitchen. Her head was pounding, and her tongue felt like a piece of tree bark stuck to the roof of her mouth. She groped in the direction of the coffee table until her hand found her phone. She squinted against the bright light as she flipped it over.
It was 11:14PM.
