Chapter 9
The Next Night…
He’s bluffing.
He has to be.
He’s just messing with me. There’s no other explanation.
And I’ve tried to find one too.
All day today, during classes and rehearsal, I’ve tried to find an explanation as to why he’d be doing this. I think it’s because he’s angry at what I did. He’s angry that I lied to him and all of the world. And since he is mad, he’s trying to scare me.
Right?
Because the alternative is that he’s blackmailing me. For real.
And oh my God, I cannot believe that.
I cannot believe that I’m getting blackmailed. By someone like him.
By someone who everyone thinks is such a good guy. And yes, I have had my doubts about his goodness, but even so, I never expected him to stoop to this level.
Well, maybe you pushed him there…
Like you pushed Shepard to give you an ultimatum.
God.
How is this my life?
How in only a matter of two weeks, one twin gives me an ultimatum and the other blackmails me? And maybe if he was only hurting me, I could bear it—somehow—but I’m not the only one at stake here, Shepard is too and I…
I don’t know what to do.
I absolutely do not know what to do about it.
Okay, you know what, I know what to do. At least right this moment. I’ll figure the rest out later but for now, I need to stop thinking about him and focus on my boyfriend.
My would-be boyfriend.
If I earn his forgiveness.
So I pick up my phone and fire off a series of texts to him.
Isadora
I’m wearing a nightie.
It has cherries on it.
And lace.
I’m sitting on the bed like last night and the windows are open and the curtains are billowing. It’s all the same as yesterday, except I’m a lot more nervous and as the last whoosh fades, I think that was so out of the blue. All my texts sounded so random and context-less.
God, I’m an idiot.
This was supposed to be the perfect plan. But in my nervousness, I botched it up.
I pick up my phone again, ready to explain to him what I just did, when his text comes in.
Shepard
What color?
My heart bangs in my chest then as I reply.
Isadora
Pink.
Shepard
Are the cherries pink or the nightie?
I look down at my nightie as if I don’t remember what I’m wearing.
As if I didn’t deliberately wear it in the first place.
Isadora
The nightie.
Shepard
What color are the cherries?
Again, my heart races and races in my chest as I type out my response.
Isadora
Red.
Well, dark pink.
So I guess they’re both pink…?
I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?
I totally am.
This is not how you sext your boyfriend.
Which is what I’m trying to do. But I don’t think it’s coming out that way.
Shepard
No, I think there’s a difference.
Isadora
What difference?
Shepard
Only one of those is the color of your mouth.
Finally, all the racing and pounding that my heart was doing stops and my body goes still.
I freeze.
But thank God my fingers are working, so I can ask,
Isadora
The color of my mouth?
Shepard
Yeah.
Isadora
Which one’s the color of my mouth?
Shepard
The cherries.
My fingers inevitably go up to my mouth.
It’s tingling. It feels swollen.
Isadora
You think my mouth’s the color of cherries?
I know, I know.
It was stupid. Again.
But I can’t help it. I can’t help being stupid in this moment.
Because did he just describe my lips as cherries?
Shepard
I think your mouth’s the color of ripe and swollen cherries, but yeah.
Isadora
Ripe and swollen cherries.
Shepard
The kind of cherries that are so ripe and so swollen that the moment you sink your teeth into them, they can’t help but overflow with juices. That kind of cherries.
Isadora
I didn’t know.
Shepard
You didn’t know what?
Isadora
That you could talk like that.
Shepard
Probably because we’ve never talked like this.
Isadora
No, we haven’t.
Shepard
So what else do you want to talk about?
Isadora
Do you think about my mouth a lot?
Shepard
Define a lot.
Isadora
Um… At least once a day maybe?
Shepard
If you think that’s a lot, then we both have a very different definition of it.
Isadora
What’s your definition of it?
Shepard
Probably once every hour, if not every minute.
I let my lip go then.
Before this, I’ve been biting my lower lip. The moment he sent me that text about sinking his teeth into them, I sank mine. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because I wanted to see if he was right. If my lips really feel like ripe cherries that overflow with juices.
But that’s all beside the point now.
In the face of this revelation.
Because I…
As I just mentioned, I didn’t know.
Even though I knew how he felt about me, I didn’t really know.
I didn’t realize the extent of it. I should have, though.
Isadora
That’s… actually a lot.
Shepard
Yeah.
Isadora
And is it always about sinking your teeth into my lips, your thoughts?
Shepard
No.
Shepard
Sometimes I want to leave a mark.
Isadora
A mark?
Shepard
Maybe on your neck.
Or the triangle of your throat.
And you know what the color of that mark would be?
Isadora
What?
Shepard
The color of ripe and juicy cherries.
To match the color of your lips.
Isadora
What else?
Shepard
If you want me to tell you what else, you better finish what you started.
Isadora
What did I start?
Shepard
This.
Which I can only assume is your way of sexting.
My eyes go wide, and I rush to reply.
Isadora
You got that?!
Shepard
Yeah, I’m surprised too that I did.
Isadora
I thought I was fucking it up!
Shepard
You were.
But when a girl tells you about what she’s wearing, it isn’t exactly rocket science.
Isadora
I was just trying to cheer you up.
Shepard
I think I’m getting that too.
Isadora
Because I saw the game.
And you looked upset. On the field I mean.
He did.
Tonight’s game was a disaster. Not because the team lost—they won actually—but because their captain wasn’t playing. They kept bringing the camera back to Shepard, who was sitting in the box, to get his reaction after every goal or a miss or a pass, a foul, and every time they did, his face would look like a stony mask. The commentators kept making speculations as to what had caused their captain to be benched, and if tonight’s win, without him, means something more and indicates to a deeper issue. So far, the story’s that Shep got injured during practice, but it’s minor and he missed the game as a precaution.
But of course the truth is something much worse and far uglier.
The truth is me.
A girl who came between two twin brothers.
And now Shepard is paying the price.
Shepard
So you thought like a good girlfriend you’d cheer me up.
Isadora
Yes.
That’s exactly what I thought.
Because I know how important soccer is to him. How important winning is. The team’s finally doing good. They won last season and despite the losses in the previous weeks, there’s still hope that they’ll do it again. And imagine potentially not being a part of that. Of something you worked so hard to achieve.
I know my poor attempt at sexting won’t fix things, but I have to do something.
Something to make him feel better.
Until I find a permanent solution to the problem, to somehow get him reinstated on the team.
Well, you could just give him what he wants and then all of this will be over, won’t it?
No.
No, no, no.
Haven’t I just decided that he’s bluffing? He has to be.
He can’t expect me to… give him what he wants.
Shepard
But you’re hardly good, let alone my girlfriend.
Isadora
I want to be.
Shepard
Good or a girlfriend?
Isadora
Both.
For you.
I do. I want to be.
So that while I talk to him, I don’t think about his twin brother.
Because that’s what I’ve been doing, haven’t I? I’ve been wondering what he thinks about my lips. If he ever thinks about them at all. Does he think my mouth resembles an overripe fruit? Does he want to sink his teeth into me? Does he want to give me bruises on my neck that match the color of my lips…
My phone pinging breaks my thoughts—thankfully—and I grab it with both hands, trying to stay in the moment.
Shepard
So then you gotta pay your dues.
Isadora
Tell me how.
Shepard
That’s a very good question, isn’t it? How do you pay your dues?
How do you pay for a year worth of torture.
For a year worth of stringing me along. For making me watch you from afar. Forcing me to fucking watch.
I couldn’t respond to him even if I wanted to.
And he doesn’t seem to need any as another one of his texts arrives on the screen. But I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not, him not needing a response from me just yet because every word he says hits me like a sharp dart.
Shepard
As you smiled at other men with that cherry pink mouth of yours. As you forced me to listen to your throaty fucking laughter.
Shepard
Do you know what your laughter does to men?
It’s hard, but I pull myself together enough to fire off a reply.
Isadora
What?
Shepard
It makes them go insane.
It makes them go feral.
It chips away at their control, slowly, piece by piece until all what remains is that feral instinct. To possess it. To gorge on it, to eat it up. To kill every man who’s ever heard it. Your laughter, Cherry Lips, turns men into murderers.
Isadora
Did you just give me a nickname?
Shepard
Seemed appropriate for a girl whose mouth is the color of ripe cherries.
And God help me, I can’t stop thinking about how he calls me by his own name too. How Dora, even though derived from my own name, sounds so new and unique. How I like it more than…
Okay, no.
I’m not going to think about that. I’m not going to compare stupid nicknames.
Isadora
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I’m not sure what I’m saying sorry about, though. The fact that I immediately thought of his twin brother and the name he gave me or because of all the ways I’ve tortured my best friend because of him.
Shepard
Well sorry isn’t enough, is it? When not only have I had to hear your laughter and watch you strut around in your frilly skirts and skimpy dresses, but I’ve had to watch you dance in them too.
Isadora
But you know that I like to dance.
Shepard
That’s the thing though, you don’t dance, do you. You put on a show.
Isadora
What’s the difference?
Shepard
The difference is that when you dance it looks like you’re getting paid to do it. It looks like you’re a cam girl and your only job is to make all the men who’ve been eye-fucking you on their screen, blow in their pants in under two minutes.
When you dance it looks like you want something between those honey-colored thighs of yours. You’re aching for something to dance against and I’m not talking about a pole. Or not the kind that you’ll be dancing against if I have a say about it.
I jolt in surprise.
My thighs clenching. My belly clenching too.
And I have a very strong urge to lie. A very strong urge to tell him that no, I don’t dance like that. When in fact I do. I have. Like I’m putting on a show. Like I’m getting paid to do it. Only I’ve done it for his twin brother.
Shepard
You know that you do, don’t you? You know you dance like that.
You dance like you want someone to watch.
Isadora
Yes.
And as always, in the quest of this, I never paid any mind to my best friend. I never paid any mind to what he must be feeling, watching me put myself out there like that.
In my defense, though—if there could ever be any—I never thought Shepard had any feelings toward it. He’s not the jealous type. He’s just not. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never, not once, said or expressed anything to this effect and…
Well, I’m lying about this too, aren’t I?
Because he did once.
We were at this bar with his team for a victory party. There were drinks and dancing and revelry. And until that night, Shepard had never cared about what I wore or how I danced. So when he gave me his jacket to put on in the middle of the dance floor, I was taken aback. I didn’t even think he was wearing a jacket—he’s not a suit jacket wearing kind of guy. But apparently, he was and when he draped it over my shoulders, I looked at him in confusion. He said something about some guys watching me and that it was better if I covered myself up. And since he’d never made a demand like that, I agreed and did what he said.
But even back then, I didn’t get the jealous vibe from him.
I thought he was being protective like a good friend. And I don’t have siblings, but it felt… brotherly, for the lack of a better word.
Now I know, though.
And it twists my heart.
I never wanted him to feel that way.
God, there are so many things I never wanted but did anyway.
Shepard
So how do you make up for something like that?
My fingers type and send the text before I’ve had time to think about it. And when I watch the screen, waiting for his reply, I realize it’s the right thing to do.
Isadora
I’ll do it. I’ll dance for you.
Only for you.
Shepard
Only for me.
Isadora
Yes! I’ve made you watch, haven’t I? While I’ve danced like that for other men. So from now on I’ll just dance for you and no one else.
It makes perfect sense.
Besides, why would I want to dance for someone else anyway? Now that I’m with Shepard, I don’t need to put on a show for someone else. Or rather the only man I’ve ever deliberately put on a dancing show for.
So yeah, this is a perfect plan.
A perfect way to pay my dues.
Shepard
Do it.
Isadora
Dance?
Shepard
Yeah, for me.
Isadora
You mean like when you come back?
Shepard
No, I mean like right now.
Isadora
Right now?
Shepard
Do you remember the white dress you wore the night we met?
I straighten up in the bed then. I move away from the pillows as my fingers shake and fly on the keyboard.
Isadora
The white dress from my eighteenth birthday?
Shepard
Yeah, the one that was sheer and flimsy. So sheer that your parents locked you up in your room that night.
I told him about that dress when we were dancing. I told him how I got into trouble for wearing it and how I thought I should be able wear something of my own choosing because eighteen was a kinda big birthday; selecting your own wardrobe should be allowed.
I know I keep saying it, but once again, for the millionth time, I didn’t know Shepard remembered. We’ve never talked about that dress after that night.
Not until now.
Isadora
Yes.
Shepard
I want you to find that dress and put it on.
I read his words a few times before I can manage to unglue my fingers from the screen and type out my reply.
Isadora
You want me to wear that dress?
Shepard
And wings.
Isadora
My good luck wings?
If I told him about my dress, then I definitely told him about my wings. The ones that always make me feel that I can fly. The ones I don’t wear anymore.
I don’t wear that dress anymore either.
Not in public, no. Not for anyone’s eyes.
In secret, yes.
In the dead of night, I wear that dress and those wings.
And then I go into the back garden. I like to stand under a tree and pretend it’s the pink magnolia tree. I like to smoke too. Like he was doing that night. I like to pretend that I’m him. That I’m inside his head, taking up all his thoughts. I’m in his chest, curled around his heart. I’m on his tongue so all he tastes is me. I like to pretend that I’m in his body, possessing him like he possesses me.
Sometimes I like to play the character of a witch. A witch in that white dress and fake wings, that brews a love potion that I somehow trick him into drinking. So he falls in love with me.
So yeah, I do remember that dress and I do remember those wings.
But to wear them for Shepard right now feels… wrong.
It feels disloyal.
It feels like I’m giving away a part of myself I’d kept reserved for the man I love.
But he doesn’t want that part, does he? He doesn’t care about my white dress or my fake wings. He doesn’t dream about that pink magnolia tree, and he doesn’t care that I color my lungs black for him.
And even if he does, I don’t care.
I only care about Shepard.
About fixing things for him and facing the consequences.
Shepard
And when you’re ready for me, I want you to pick up my call.
Isadora
Your call?
Shepard
Yeah. Because tonight, you’ll dance and you’ll be on display. But only for me. Only where I can see you.
Isadora
Will I be able to see you?
I don’t know why I ask that. Maybe because it feels… strange that I’m going to see him after how we just… After all the things he said to me. I mean, he’s my best friend and…
Shepard
I’m not the one paying my dues, am I?
Isadora
No.
Shepard
So then you’ll see me when I decide you have.
You’ve got two minutes.
I breathe out a sigh of relief even though I shouldn’t. As I dress and follow his instructions, I keep telling myself that I’m not breaking any rules. I’m not breaking any promises. I’m not doing anything wrong.
In fact, I’m doing the right thing.
For the first time in months.
When I’m done, I put on the music—something slow but bass heavy—I prop the phone against my pillows like I’ve done countless times before. Not to dance for him or anyone for that matter. But to record myself doing scenes or reading lines. As soon as two minutes are done, he video calls me. I pick up on the first ring and my nervousness reaches new levels.
Because all I can see is the darkened screen and moving shadows, the silhouette of his body. Which I expected, of course. But oh God, I can’t…
I can’t cope.
I can’t… This is exactly like the night I’d met him.
This is exactly how he had looked—covered in darkness, his body shadowed by the pink flowers and sturdy branches. And for a second, all I can do is imagine him. That he’s the one I’m dancing for.
Like I’ve always, always wanted.
But it’s not.
It’s Shepard.
So somehow, someway, I make myself move.
I keep my eyes on the screen where I can see the broad strokes of his frame, the hills of his shoulders, the planes of his chest. Where I can see the slopes of his thighs that I think are spread as he lounges in, from what I can gather, his bed. I let that image ground me. I think he’s got his phone propped up against something too. As if he doesn’t want any responsibilities right now. He doesn’t want to divide his attention but rather wants all his focus on me.
I watch him and follow the beat.
I sway and writhe my hips. I throw my arms in the air and put myself on display.
I bow my back and thrust my chest out.
But as I lose myself in the beat, in the music, it gets harder and harder not to float away. Not to become untethered and unmoored until the seams of my body become attached to his.
Until suddenly, I’m doing exactly what I didn’t want to do.
Dance for him.
Like he’s a king and I’m one of his slaves, a dancing girl.
I remember my biji telling me stories of Mughal emperors who used to rule India, the king of kings, the shehanshas. They used to have dancers in their court, the pretty slave girls, who would entertain the king whenever he desired.
The legend goes that there was once a prince, the heir to a kingdom, who fell in love with a common dancer. It was against the rules, of course, so they would meet in secret. They would meet under the moonlight, in the darkened corners of the castle. But one day, their forbidden love is discovered by the king. To protect his love, the son goes to war against his father. He loses, though, and is sentenced to death. However, the king says that the prince’s sentence would be revoked if he handed over the slave girl. The prince refuses; he was ready to die for his love.
And so was the slave girl.
So she gives herself up and the king orders her to be entombed alive.
That’s what it feels like in this moment.
That he’s my king and I’m his slave girl, and I love him so much that I’m doomed to give my life for him. That I’m doomed to love him forever. I’m doomed to dance for him until my feet turn bloody and the last breath in my body leaves.
And this thought, that I’m at his disposal, that heats me up so much, that arouses me so much that even the chilly breeze through the windows can’t cool me down.
I’m so fucking aroused right now that even my shame won’t stop me from getting wet and slippery between my legs. So much so that I think I’m soaking my thighs. The droplets of my lust slide down my legs, making a puddle on the floor.
Which is why I slip, I think.
Or maybe it’s from how fast I’m spinning as I put on a show for him.
Whatever it is, I stumble and fall to the floor. My knees crash against the hardwood and my breaths are somehow both broken and loud. Even through that, though, I hear when my phone dings with a text message. I snap my eyes up and scramble on my hands and knees to get to it. I don’t even know when he disconnected the call.
Shepard
Tomorrow.
Isadora
Tomorrow?
Shepard
Same time.
Isadora
For the call?
Shepard
Don’t keep me waiting.
I won’t.
But first.
Isadora
Did you like my dance?
Shepard
Did I like your dance?
Isadora
Yes.
Shepard
Does the fact that I’m texting you with bloody fingers because I had to punch a hole in the wall, something that I’m going to point out that I’ve never done before in my entire fucking life, answer your question?
My eyes are wide as I stare down at the screen.
Isadora
You punched a hole in the wall?
Me: Why?
Shepard
Because I got pissed.
Isadora
Why did you get pissed?
Shepard
Because Houston is over fifteen hundred miles away from where I want to be right now.
Panting, I read and reread his words for a few seconds.
Isadora
And where you want to be is with me?
Shepard
You have a very annoying habit of pointing out the obvious.
Isadora
Yes.
Shepard
Yes what?
Isadora
That answers my question.
Good night, Shepard.
Despite myself, I can’t help but feel happy about the outcome. He liked it. Maybe it did help him a little bit and maybe this is a step in the right direction.
But every love story has a villain, doesn’t it?
Mine has one too.
It’s his twin brother and with a deep breath, I dial his number.