2. Maeve
Chapter 2
Maeve
March
T ightening the wrap on my ankle, I straighten up and face the barre. I slowly lift my left leg and rest it there, giving my ankle an experimental roll. This is the easy part; all my weight is on my good leg. I go through a series of stretches before lowering my foot back to the ground and switching.
It hurts a little this time, but not as bad as it did a few weeks ago. Mostly it’s just stiff. I go through the same stretches, paying close attention to how my left ankle holds up while bearing all my weight.
I’ve been able to get around without crutches for the past week, but I’m still limping. Dance is still out of the question, so I’ve focused on strengthening my ankle in other ways, like going to physical therapy, special exercises, yoga, and Pilates workouts. I’ve even started swimming laps in our heated pool, braving the cold. I’m determined to maintain my stamina.
Today, though, is my first day back on the barre. Callum had it installed in one of our guest rooms as an apology gift.
When I found the drugs, I knew it was time for me to leave. I packed a couple of bags, looked online for a ticket, and confronted Callum when he came home. He bluffed at first, unrepentant, telling me I could leave if I didn’t like it. “How do you think I pay for all this, Maeve? Flipping burgers? We live in one of the most expensive zip codes in the entire fucking country.”
But when I started to call for an Uber, it was like a switch was flipped. He grabbed my phone and begged me to stay, explaining that he was in the middle of a deal he couldn’t walk away from. He said he’d quit as soon as it was taken care of, that he was just trying to set us up for the rest of our life together. He got sidetracked. He knew better. He was sorry. Nothing was worth it if I wasn’t going to be around.
“You know me,” he said, tears streaking down his cheeks. He’d begun crying, which made me cry, too. “No one gets me like you, Maeve. I love you.”
It was true. I knew Callum and he knew me. We’d grown up together, had seen each other through the worst and the wickedest of times. We’d been together so long it was like a marriage, and I wasn’t sure who I was without him. Not really.
“Don’t give up on me,” he pleaded, kissing my face and running his fingers through my hair. “Don’t give up on us.”
So, I stayed.
For a while he was my Callum again. We took late night drives through the hills, smoking as we admired the views. We had movie nights and went on breakfast dates. He sent cute texts and came home when he said he would, bringing me flowers one time, doughnuts another.
A week after everything went down, he brought me into one of the guest bedrooms on the other side of the house. He’d had mirrors installed on one wall and a ballet barre across the other. “I know how much you miss dancing,” he said. “Maybe this will help you heal.”
It was the most thoughtful gift, better than anything I could’ve hoped for, and I knew I’d been right to overlook his most recent transgressions. “I love it,” I told him, tugging him into a hug. “Thank you.”
I texted Bria a picture of the room later that night, promising I’d show it to her one day in person. I wanted her to see how good Callum was to me, wanted her to understand.
You deserve it , she said. I miss you.
But slowly, subtly, things began to shift again. Callum’s phone would buzz at all hours and he’d step out of the room to take the calls. He’d come home late from his meetings, offering flimsy excuses about traffic or last- minute errands, and my phone calls often went to voicemail, my texts returned late if at all. The sweet gestures became less frequent until they stopped altogether.
When a two-day work trip to San Diego turned into four days, I knew we were right back where we’d started.
I started checking all the closets and hidey holes in the house for drugs, but I couldn’t find any. I figured he’d just gotten better at hiding them, because deep down I knew he was still in the game.
I could tell when he was coked up, too. It made him giddy and confident, but also sharp and aggressive. We argued viciously one night, and in a fury, I locked myself in the bathroom with his stash. I was tempted to flush it down the toilet but decided on a whim to try some myself to see what the big deal was. I wanted to piss him off, but once he realized what I’d done, he thought it was hilarious.
I was flying too high to stay mad and we fucked like animals that night. I felt connected to him in a way I hadn’t in a long, long time, even though it was chemical. And then I woke up alone the next day, achy and depressed. Coming down felt terrible. I couldn’t understand why he’d want to go through this over and over and realized that he’d probably been doing a lot more than I’d thought.
I didn’t want to stick around, but I couldn’t leave. I thought maybe if I could help him get clean things could go back to how they were. I’d scroll through years of pictures on my phone with blurry eyes, going back in time. School dances, parties, sneaking out of my room, sneaking into bars. Dates at Coney Island and Fenway Park. Photo booths, late night study sessions in college, sleepovers. Skiing in Switzerland, swimming in Bali. Graduations.
A snatch of music floats from a car passing by on the main road. I blink, coming back to my ballet room, where one of Mozart’s sonatas is playing on the speaker connected to my phone. Sunlight glimmers through the trees outside the window, a soft breeze accompanying it. I find my reflection in the mirror, trying to remember the last time I was truly happy.
The nagging voice in the back of my head grows louder with each passing day, whispering that I deserve better than this constant uncertainty and emotional whiplash.
But I push it aside like I always do.
Bria’s birthday is next month, and the entire family will be celebrating at Lucky’s beach house in Mashpee. I’d like to go. I miss my best friend, and I could use a little space from Callum.
Besides, being back in Boston for a few days might be what I need to solider on here. I don’t need to move back there—not yet.
Callum’s guilt-tripping me about it, though. His birthday is in April, too, less than a week after Bria’s. He’s throwing a huge party at his uncle’s new club in San Rafael. I keep explaining that I can make both events happen, but he’s convinced that once I go home I might not want to come back. He says it like he’s joking, but I can tell it bothers him.
One Saturday, I load Sabine’s crutches into my car and head to Michel’s. I haven’t been back there since the day I sprained my ankle. Because I can’t dance—obviously—but also because of the bad blood between Manon and me. If she’s going to sabotage my efforts and not be held accountable, there’s not much I can do but find another company.
As expected, Sabine understands my decision. I sense that she’s relieved, but that’s no surprise. Her little sister can’t stand me, so my presence has caused problems from the beginning. She wishes me the best, and then I’m on my way. Honestly, I’m relieved too. Regardless of how hard I worked or how good I was, Michel’s was never going to be a good fit for me.
I pull away from the curb, slowing to a stop at the light. Directly across the street, Manon Michel is leaning into the window of a car parked on the curb. It’s Callum’s car—I’d recognize his flashy, red Mercedes with the custom rims anywhere. His windows are tinted, so I can’t see him, but I know it’s him. I narrow my eyes, watching Manon laugh and toss her hair.
I stare so long that the car behind me honks its horn.
Facing the windshield, I tap the gas and proceed in a daze. They were just talking, but there was a level of intimacy in the way she was talking to him that just doesn’t sit right. Instinct, I guess. It never occurred to me he might be fooling around, let alone with Manon, of all people? Anger shoots like a flare from my belly to my chest, burning me from the inside out.
I have no recollection of driving home, but I end up in the driveway. I walk inside, kicking my shoes off near the door and rotating my achy ankle. I’m having a glass of wine in the kitchen when Callum gets home about ten minutes later, his music announcing his arrival even before the roar of his engine.
Mac and Griffin file in behind him, heading for the living room as he comes to greet me. “Hey, baby.” He brushes a kiss across my cheek as he continues to the fridge.
“Where were you just now?” I ask.
He frowns faintly, obviously caught off guard by the question. “I stopped at the club, and then I went to see someone.”
“Who?”
“My friend Steadman.” He eyes me as he goes to the fridge. “Why?”
I finish my wine, folding my arms across my chest. “You weren’t with Manon?”
A flicker of surprise passes over his face, so fast I would’ve missed it had I not been watching for it, and he shuts the fridge without getting anything. “What?”
“Manon,” I say crisply. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t be crazy, Mae.”
“I’m not,” I say, shaking my head. “I literally just saw you talking to her near Michel’s!”
Suddenly he titters, like my questions are so silly he can’t keep a straight face. “Really?”
Snatching an orange from the bowl on the island, I hurl it at him. “Yes, Callum. Really!”
Our relationship has been disintegrating for so long that I thought I was ready to end things. But this hurts. And it really, really pisses me off.
“Oh, we’re throwing shit now?” he asks, the smile wiped from his face.
“Because you’re lying to me!” I hiss.
“Don’t be paranoid, Maeve,” he shoots back, sneering. “That’s not you. Come on.”
“Paranoid?” I choke out a bitter laugh, my hands trembling as I reach for another orange. “How am I being paranoid when I just saw you with her! You think I’m making it up?”
“You better not throw that shit,” he warns .
“Or what?”
I go to beam it at his face, but he moves fast, wrapping his fingers so tightly around my wrist that the small bones inside shift. Wincing, I drop the orange.
“Stop making a fucking scene,” he says, his grip like iron. “This is ridiculous.”
“Ow, Callum!” I pull my arm, but he holds tight. “That hurts! Let go!”
Blinking, he releases a harsh exhale and drops my wrist. “Look, Manon needed a ride. That’s all.”
“That’s all ?” My stomach knots so tight I can hardly catch my breath. That’s even worse. I thought they were just talking. “Then why’d you lie to me just now?”
At least he has the decency to look guilty. “Because I knew you’d freak out. Just like this.”
“Can you blame me? You were hanging out with the same girl who fucking tripped me, Callum. I can’t dance because of her. Of course, I’m freaking out!” Hurt throbs through me, from my heart right down to my ankle. I’m so tired of feeling gaslit about what went down between Manon and me. “Why would you drive her around after that?”
“What happened was fucked up, and I even told her that,” he says. “But she’s like a little sister to me, Mae. You know that. We ran into each other and her Uber was late, and she needed to get to class.”
“You expect me to believe that?” I ask, my heart pounding.
Callum lifts his chin. “Believe what you want. I’m not gonna keep explaining myself to you.”
“I’m done,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. Whether there’s something going on or not, the fact that he’d give her a ride when she’s the reason I sprained my ankle—and then lie about it—is just too much.
Something about my tone must alarm him, because he grabs my arm again. “What?”
“I said I’m done.” I look up at him. “Done with this. With you.”
His expression shifts from confusion to anger in a heartbeat. “Because I gave Manon a ride? Be for real.”
“Manon’s just the latest.”
“So, you’re just gonna walk away? After everything? ”
“Yes,” I say firmly, my resolve hardening with every word. “I deserve better than this.”
“Better than what?” he asks with a harsh laugh. “All I’ve done is try to make things better for you, but you’ve had one foot out the door since the day you got to the Bay.”
“That is not true,” I say, pulling my arm away. “Don’t turn this around!”
“Did it or did it not take all kinds of convincing to get you to move out here?” he shouts. “We’ve been together for more than ten years, and you still had me begging like a fucking simp, Maeve.”
I shake my head, trying to deny his accusations, but I can’t. Because he’s right—maybe I haven’t given this a fair shot. But still… “What does any of that have to do with you and Manon?”
“There is no me and Manon!” he roars, sweeping the vase of flowers he bought me off the island. It crashes to the floor, shattering.
I gasp, flinching away as water and splinters of glass spray outward.
Griffin appears in the doorway, holding up his phone. “They called. We gotta go.”
“Gimme a minute,” he snaps, waiting until Griffin walks away before looking at me. I can see his chest rising and falling, the red splotches fading from his cheeks. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m sorry you saw Manon and thought something was going on. I was just being nice to her, but if it’s going to piss you off, I won’t give rides to anybody else.”
Frustration prickles over me. I don’t even know where to start. How does he not understand why I’m upset? How isn’t it clear to him?
“And I’m sorry for not telling you right away, but I was trying to prevent this,” he says, gesturing to the broken vase. The front door opens, and Mac yells something to Griffin outside. “Anyway, I’ll clean this up later. Or you can, whatever.”
He leaves before I can say anything else, and I stand in the kitchen for a long time, watching the light change and the shadows move across the floor.