8. Genevieve
8
GENEVIEVE
I feel like I’m trapped in some kind of nightmare.
Shortly after a nurse comes to talk to me about my vitals and the bloodwork they ran, Chris shows up. He gives me a cursory kiss on the cheek before retreating to the corner, and I try not to look at him as I focus on what the nurse is saying. I’m still so furious at him, I don’t trust myself to speak.
I’m furious with both of them, but I don’t know what I’d say if I tried. I’m overwhelmed with shock and grief, and I feel as if a yawning hole has opened up inside of me, threatening to drag me down and never let me out again.
I’ve never felt like this before, but it feels impossible to fight against. Right now, all I want to do is close my eyes, sink down into the darkness, and never come back out.
“The doctor will be in soon,” the nurse says, and Chris goes to sit down. As he starts to sink into a chair, I finally find the strength to open my eyes again.
“I want to be alone.” The words come out smaller than I’d hoped, my voice cracking a little, and I hate it. I sound as if I’ve been crying, my voice thick and broken, and I hate feeling weak. I hate showing so much emotion in front of a man who is partially responsible for what happened.
I should have just broken up with him, I think despondently. I’d put it off because it had felt like a distraction, like it would take too much focus away from my performance, and told myself that it was better to wait.
Now look where I am.
“Genevieve, I—” Chris starts to speak, but I cut him off.
“I want to be alone. Please, just… go.”
His mouth tightens. “If I come back and find that redheaded piece of shit in your room?—”
My head drops back against the pillow, and I fight the urge to scream. Right now? That’s what you’re focused on right now? “I told him I didn’t want to see him again.”
“Well, he was here.” Chris sounds angry, and when I open my eyes again, I can see the muscle in his jaw twitching. “He was trying to get your room number.”
That should make me angry. I told him to go, that I never wanted to see him again, and he showed up at the hospital anyway. And yet…
A part of me can’t help but be touched that he tried. It makes me wonder, for just a moment, if I haven’t been fair to him. If I should have given him a chance, rather than writing him off completely from the start.
No. That’s the last thing I need. Rowan is complicated in ways Chris never has been. The chemistry between us alone would be a distraction, and his position in the mafia is a complication I don’t need in my life.
Although now… now who knows? Maybe it won’t matter any longer. That thought opens up that yawning pit of despair again, and I feel tears brimming at my lashes. “Well, clearly they didn’t give it to him,” I mutter. “And I really, really want to be alone. Just go, okay?”
Displeasure is written over every inch of Chris’s face, but he finally shrugs. “Alright,” he says. “Whatever, Genevieve. Just let me know when you’re coming home.”
He strides out of the room without so much as a peck on the cheek, but I’m honestly grateful. I don’t want to be touched right now. I don’t want anything other than to be alone, and to go to sleep.
I’m not alone for long, though. A few minutes after Chris leaves, both Evelyn and Dahlia burst into the exam room, Dahlia first. They’re both pale, faces wreathed with worry, and rush over to my bedside immediately.
“Genevieve,” Dahlia breathes. She, like Evelyn, is still dressed for the performance—wearing a mint silk gown in a Grecian style that disguises her growing pregnancy. It’s undoubtedly one of Evelyn’s creations. Evelyn is wearing a navy blue chiffon dress with tight sleeves off the shoulder, and the bump of her six-month pregnancy showing just beneath the waist of the dress, her hair piled up atop her head. “Are you alright? I couldn’t believe what we saw…” she breaks off. “Of course you’re not alright. I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. I’m just—” She looks at Evelyn, who is standing there quietly, her lips pressed together.
I shake my head, trying to keep from bursting into tears again. “I’m not okay. But I’m glad you’re here.” I’d known they would be in the audience, known they would have seen me fall, but my two best friends are the only people who I know for certain won’t think less of me for my failure. But I can’t bring myself to tell them the rest of it right now.
I haven’t said anything to either of them about Chris or Rowan. I haven’t known how to explain how Rowan makes me feel, the combination of anger and combustible desire that he rouses in me, and I haven’t wanted to talk about it with anyone. It felt like just another distraction, a way for it to worm deeper into my mind and psyche instead of shaking him loose. And Chris…I haven’t wanted to talk about our problems, either, not least of which because I know if either Evelyn or Dahlia’s husbands found out that Chris has scared me in the slightest, he’d be receiving a terrifying visit from either one of them or one of their right-hand men. That, too, was something I wasn’t prepared to deal with the week before my performance.
And yet, I’ve ended up here anyway, with everything in shambles despite my best efforts to pretend that it was all okay.
“Alek and Dimitri went home,” Dahlia says quietly. “We can stay as long as you like. Where’s Chris?”
“I told him to go home.” My throat tightens. “I wanted to be alone.”
Evelyn looks at me sympathetically. “Do you still want to be alone?”
I look at them both, my two best friends… and a part of me wants them here with me. But any minute now, the doctor is going to come in, and I don’t know if I can handle their worry and sympathy on top of whatever terrible news he’ll have for me.
Part of me just wants to hear it by myself, so I can feel however I need to, and not worry about the emotions of anyone else around me.
“I think so,” I manage finally. “I’m sorry, I just?—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Evelyn says firmly. “Call either of us if you need anything, okay? Anything at all. I mean it.”
I nod, and they both come over to hug me gently before slipping out of the room.
The doctor comes in a little while later—a tall, lanky man with hair that’s slightly beginning to gray and a sympathetic expression on his face. He looks over at my chart, and then at me. “How are you feeling, Ms. Fournier?”
I stare at him. “How do you think?”
He clicks his tongue, nodding. “Well, I went over your bloodwork. Everything is normal, nothing to indicate that your fall was caused by any physical issues. It was an accident, nothing more. And fortunately, not as bad of an accident as it could have been. I’ve seen much worse.”
A tiny flicker of hope lights up in my chest, even as I know that, no matter what, things have changed irreversibly for me. I know —and still, I look at him with that little bit of hope, as if reality could change because I so desperately want it to.
“You fractured your ankle,” he continues, and my stomach drops. “Not a complete break, but the joint is fractured. It’s not a career-ending injury,” he says slowly, and I know the but is coming before he even says it. “But it will put your career on hold. You’ll need rehab if you want to dance again. It will take time and patience?—”
His voice blurs. I don’t hear anything else.
In that singular moment, my career is shattered.
—
The doctor says there’s no reason to keep me overnight. Physically, aside from the injury, I’m the picture of health. I’m put in a cast and given crutches along with instructions to rest and take it slow, as well as information for follow-ups and rehab. It’s all clear, matter-of-fact, as if my world isn’t crumbling around me. The only reason I’m not crying as I numbly take all of the paperwork is that I’ve cried so much, I don’t think I can any longer.
I text Chris to let him know that I could use a ride back to the apartment. When there’s no answer after several minutes, I call. It goes to voicemail, and then again, and again, until I drop my phone into my lap with a heavy sigh and close my eyes tightly.
I’ll just call an Uber. I have a fractured ankle, but I’m not completely helpless. I know that this exact situation is what Evelyn and Dahlia meant by call us later if you need anything , but it’s late—after midnight, by this point. I can’t bring myself to call either of my very pregnant friends, and ask them to come get me this late because my boyfriend won’t answer his phone. I know they could just send a driver if they didn’t feel like coming themselves, but I also know them . They’ll come anyway, and I’ll feel guilty for making them feel obliged to.
Grabbing my crutches, I buzz a nurse and ask if I can be taken down to the lobby so I can call an Uber to take me home. Being wheeled down sounds humiliating, but I don’t feel that I can navigate the entire trek down on these crutches. I’ve never used them before, and I’m not confident that I’m going to be great at it.
I try Chris again as the nurse takes me down to the lobby. Nothing. I try not to think about how helpless I feel, until we reach the lobby and I see a familiar shock of copper-colored hair and broad shoulders, slumped forward as the man they belong to scrolls through his phone.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I blurt out before I can remember that the last thing in the fucking world that I want is for Rowan to see me like this—for anyone to see me like this. But when he looks up at me, all I see in his face is shock and concern.
“They wouldn’t let me up to your room.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “And your boyfriend is a wee bit possessive over you. So I waited here. I thought eventually, someone would tell me something, or I’d see you leave, and…” He gestures toward me. “Well, here you are.”
“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” I know the words are cruel as soon as they come out of my mouth—the man just sat here for possibly hours, for god knows what reason, waiting to find out if I’m alright. But I’m hurt, and angry, and scared, and there’s a significant part of me that can’t help but think that he’s partially to blame for all of this. It makes him an easy target for everything I’m feeling right now.
Rowan’s face smooths over, going carefully neutral. “I do, lass,” he says finally. “A good deal else, actually. But—” He trails off, as if he can’t think of a justification for why he’s here, waiting to find out about me instead of doing any of those other things. “Where is he, anyway? Chris? He’s coming to get you?”
I pause, unsure why I feel ashamed that Chris isn’t here. I sent him away earlier, after all, but I thought he’d at least pick up his phone when I needed to come back to the apartment. Now I feel adrift, abandoned, and my mind spins, wondering how things have managed to spiral out of control so utterly fast.
I’m silent for a moment too long, trying to think of what to say, and I see understanding dawn on Rowan’s face. “I’m just going to get an Uber,” I say hurriedly. “It’s easier for us both. It’s not a big deal?—”
“Like fuck it isn’t a big deal, lass.” He’s on his feet in an instant, and I feel the nurse behind me twitch, as if she’s unsure what exactly is happening here. “I’ll call my driver to come around right now, and I’ll give you a ride back.”
“That’s not necessary,” I start to protest, but Rowan fixes me with those deep green eyes, his expression mulishly stubborn.
“You’ve been injured, lass. I’m not letting you try to get yourself home on your own, and neither would that boyfriend of yours, if he had a speck of manhood in him. I won’t hear any argument about it,” he adds, as I open my mouth to try and continue doing exactly that. He’s already fished his phone out of his pocket, tapping out a text, and I stare at him.
“Rowan, I’m capable of?—”
“Of course you are.” He pockets his phone again, standing in front of me, and his gaze meets mine once more. “But what kind of man would I be if I let you, Genevieve? Not the kind I want to be, that’s for sure. I’ll take you home, and that will be the end of it.”
I slump back into the wheelchair, aware that arguing with him is going to be a dead end and take more energy than it’s worth. And besides that… something in me softens at the stubborn look on his face, the intensity there.
“I’ll take it from here,” he tells the nurse, as I see a black town car pull up at the curb just outside of the doors. The nurse glances at me, and I nod, too tired to resist any longer. And if I’m being honest, there’s some small part of me that wants to forget about how angry I am at Rowan, just for a moment, and let someone take care of me.
He holds out an arm, and I realize a moment later that he’s giving me assistance to get up. I take it, gingerly, and I’m painfully aware of how close he is, his warmth and that woodsy scent washing over me. I have to resist the urge to lean into him, to let myself enjoy the feeling of being held up by him for just a moment.
Rowan waits patiently while I figure out the crutches, and then walks next to me as I hobble out toward the waiting town car. Every part of me hates him seeing me like this—just a few hours ago, I was a bird on the stage, graceful and beautiful and doing what I was always meant to do.
Now I’m struggling to walk, awkward and hobbling, and it makes me feel like a shell of myself.
Rowan opens the car door for me, helping me in, and I slide into the cool leather interior. I feel overheated, and I turn my head, pressing my cheek against the leather of the seat as I hear Rowan slide in next to me.
“What’s your address?” he asks calmly, and I realize he needs it if he’s going to take me home.
I give it to him, and he whistles with a slight grin. “Fancy,” he says, before nodding to the driver. “Does it make up for what a dick your boyfriend is?”
“I’m sure wherever you live is even nicer.” I close my eyes, wishing I could somehow stop time for just a moment. Everything feels like too much—the accident, Rowan, going back to the apartment, Chris. I don’t know how to unravel it all, where to begin to figure out what I’m going to do next.
Healing and rehab will mean months away from the ballet company. By the time I return, they will have replaced me as prima . If this were a wrist injury—something that wouldn’t affect my dancing so severely, they’d have my understudy take my place for the remainder of the performances, and then have me come back. But even with rehab, I don’t need a doctor to tell me that I will likely never reach the heights that I was at just hours ago. I won’t be the prima . And the thought of becoming just one of the company again, of melding back into a sea of dancers with no possibility that I’ll ever achieve what I dreamed of ever again… it makes me feel as if I’m coming apart at the seams. As if I want to scream, and scream, and never stop.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts and grief that we make it back to the apartment before I realize it. “This is your stop,” Rowan says, dragging me back to reality, and when I look at him, he offers me a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry, Genevieve,” he says softly. “I?—”
I can’t hear any more. I grab for the door handle, shoving it open as I struggle with my crutches getting out. I hear Rowan getting out of the car, too, but I hobble up the sidewalk as quickly as I can, trying to put distance between us before he can say or do anything else.
I don’t look back to see if he’s still watching, or if he’s following. I get to the front door of the building as quickly as I can, and I have a hard time looking the doorman in the eye as he sees me. I can see the shock on his face, but he smooths it quickly, opening the door so I can hobble inside. The crutches squeak against the slick tiles, and the elevator seems miles away.
Once inside, I tap the keycard for the penthouse against the reader and lean my head against the mirrored wall, closing my eyes. For a moment, I think I might actually fall asleep like this, until the elevator chimes and brings me back out of my momentary fugue.
The penthouse is dark when I walk inside. I have no hope of navigating the stairs leading up to the bedroom on my crutches, so instead I make my way slowly to the kitchen, getting a glass of water before retreating to the couch. I stretch out on it awkwardly, looking out at the city skyline beyond the huge windows. The couch is all leather and hard lines, meant more for aesthetics than lounging, and I have a hard time getting comfortable. But I’m so exhausted that it doesn’t matter—I’m asleep as soon as I have a chance to yank one of the stiff throw pillows under my head.