Page 67 of Forbidden Dance
A tear plops on the surface of the phone, and I wipe my eyes, a little shocked at how quickly my body has reacted.
He hasn’t given up.
Now that I know this, my finger swipes through all the new messages to go back to the first one, after I told him I hoped he found the perfect partner.
I don’t have the show back yet. And I still have to accept the conditions even if they offer. My lawyer says I have a case for not returning even if they ask. Please let me know if you’ll take me instead.
I almost drop the phone.
God. I never answered that. What had he thought?
I want to respond now, to say YES, but my eye falls on the first message from Mindy, a day later.
Saw Blitz on clips from the late-night show. You were right to ditch him. I’m sorry, Livia. He’s an asshole.
There’s a link to the clip.
I hesitate. Those are strong words from her. What did she see?
The divide between the Blitz I know and the one he is in LA is greater than ever. Maybe I shouldn’t look. Just accept the Blitz who wants to wait for me in the park and forget the other.
Except I can’t. They are both him.
I click on the link. The title says “Blitz gets his gorilla back.”
My face flames. I remember the bad Tweet he sent out was something about the girl eating him like a gorilla. I don’t know the expression, but I can guess.
I press play on the clip. Blitz sits next to a desk with another man. They are laughing as it begins. The other man asks, “So you’ve kissed a pig, raised a quarter of a million dollars for women’s charities, and danced with girls in wheelchairs. You think that’s it? Will the girl you shamed take you back?”
Blitz looks devastatingly handsome. His hair is glossier, bright black in the stage light. He wears black pants, a charcoal shirt, and a black leather vest. His sleeves are rolled up and when I see his fingers, my body quivers.
I know him. I know him so well.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “But I’m doing the best I can.”
“Why don’t we ask her?” the man says. “Can we bring out Giselle?”
Blitz and the man both stand, Blitz looking anxious, as a woman in a glittery dance outfit struts onstage. She whips and whirls, does a leap, and the audience cheers.
“This is Giselle Andreas, one of the final three contestants ofDance Blitz,” the man says. “Give it up for Giselle as she lets Blitz know if she’s forgiven him for his viral Tweet about her!”
The music swells, and she dances around Blitz, climbing up on the chair, then back around. She pulls on the side of her dress, and in a flash, it’s off and a tiny outfit, red glittering stripes that fall in just the right places, is revealed.
And she holds a banana.
She dances around him as the music matches her tone, peeling one section at a time.
It’s bawdy, and the audience is screaming, and finally she tosses the banana peel away. When she kneels in front of Blitz and places the banana near his crotch, I stop the video.
I put the phone back in the drawer and close it, breathing hard.
I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to pull my thoughts together. This was last week, the day after he left.
And he’s still writing me.
He has to know I’ve seen these things.
Did he try to explain them? Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Or care?
