CHAPTER 6
Sasha
I don’t know how long I’ve been napping, but when I open my eyes, the music has ended, and everyone around us is packing up their picnics, folding up their chairs, and making their way out of the dark park.
“I fell asleep?” I murmur, covering my mouth to suppress a yawn.
“You did.”
“For how long?” I ask, looking up at Vaughn.
He shrugs, but so gently, I don’t feel compelled to move. His thumb strokes my bare shoulder tenderly. It’s soothing. Nice.
“Forty-five minutes? An hour?”
“I missed the music,” I grouse softly.
“You were tired.”
“ You were comfy.”
“Feel free to sleep on me anytime,” he says, a touch of humor in his deep voice.
“Noted,” I say, looking up at his neck. There’s a small birthmark behind his ear that I’ve never noticed before. “You have a heart behind your ear.”
With his free hand, he reaches across his body and touches it with his index finger, tracing it gingerly. “Yeah.”
“It’s usually hidden by your hair.”
“You’re not usually this close,” he says softly. Instead of returning his hand to his side, he cups the side of my face. “I like you this close.”
“I like it, too,” I whisper, sitting up a little. I flick a glance at his lips, and he licks them, his upper teeth snagging on the lower one for a second before letting it go. “Kiss me, Vaughn.”
Under the boughs of a 100-year-old oak tree, with almost no one else around, he lowers his lips to mine, brushing them slowly, gently, reverently. When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me, his hooded eyes guarded.
“Like that?” he whispers, his voice husky.
I move closer to him, facing him, so that my chest touches his. I lift and wind my arms around his neck in a move I’ve practiced on stage a million times. I break my wrists, pinch my fingers close, then slowly—holding his eyes all the while—I place my palms and fingers flush against the back of his neck until my fingertips touch.
“More,” I murmur, tilting my head to the side.
His arms come around me, pulling me onto his lap as his lips crash down on mine, firmer and more passionate this time. He breathes through his nose, exhaling in a warm puff that makes me arch my back and part my lips. Letting my fingers spread into his hair, I find his tongue with mine, swirling around it with a desperate sigh.
When our tongues touch, Vaughn’s body jolts forward, groaning against my lips. I straddle his waist, my knees on the blanket, his erection pushing up against the V of my jeans. I lick his tongue again, changing the angle of our kiss, our noses nuzzling sweetly as they pass each other, our eyes closed, our hearts pounding against each other as we hungrily kiss again.
We are swept away with each other.
We stoke the fire between us until it burns like the sun.
And then we lean into its warmth, daring to be burned.
We are breathless and eager and won’t be sated.
I want him.
I want all of him.
This will not be enough.
These kisses—against a tree, on a blanket, in the park—will haunt my dreams, will demand my attention at moments when it cannot be given. This beautiful young man who holds me in his arms, this damaged supermodel who thinks he is repulsive, this gentle poet who makes me feel safe in the dark, cannot be this large in my world. Not now.
Not now.
I pull away from him with a soft cry, resting my forehead in the warm valley of his neck as his hands, which have curled into fists on the base of my back, unfurl. His palms flatten. He holds me. And we are, for a moment, still.
“I didn’t expect that tonight,” he whispers, the sound rough and low, like his throat’s been sprinkled with sand.
“Me neither,” I confess.
But I hoped. Oh my god, I had hoped.
After the movie on Wednesday when we stood on the street corner, my body pressed against his, I knew I wanted this. I knew I needed this. And yet…
Now that I have it, what in the world will I do with it?
As though reading my mind, Vaughn whispers,
“What is this, Sasha? What are we doing? We aren’t just…friends.”
“We’re not just friends,” I agree.
I lift my right knee from the blanket and throw it over his lap so that I can sit down beside him. He lets me go, though his hands on my lower back slide away slowly, sorry, like they don’t want to let me go.
Once I’m settled next to him, my heart still pounding and my breathing still quick and shallow, I lay my head back down on his shoulder. He puts his arm around me.
The park is almost empty now.
We are a lone couple, under an old oak tree that’s probably witnessed a thousand kisses, so much wiser and more experienced than we.
“What I feel for you—” he starts, then stops.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
“I see you as a friend,” he says. “But also, as so much more. I…Sasha, I live for these moments. I live for…”
You.
He doesn’t say it, but I know it’s true.
“I know,” I tell him, because it’s true for me, too.
Don’t be reckless with his heart. He is more vulnerable than you are, and you are leaving.
“But, Vaughn,” I say, praying I don’t hurt him. I couldn’t bear it. “Dancing means everything to me. Going to New York is the chance of a lifetime. I can’t let anything get in the way of that. It’s my dream. It’s the most important thing in the world to me.”
His hand on my shoulder clenches, holds, and releases.
I know exactly how he feels because I feel it, too.
It’s like love, but it can’t be love.
The timing is all wrong.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know it is, and I don’t want to get in the way of your dreams, Sasha. I would never forgive myself if I did that.”
My heart, which was already his, blooms under these words like a spring garden in the sun. By supporting me, by encouraging me, by putting me first, he makes me so desperate to love him, I can barely stand it.
“Make it up as we go along?” I say. “Wasn’t that the deal?”
He presses his lips against my hair. “I can live with that.”
We sit. We are silent. We process together.
The night sounds of the park are our music now—a light breeze that ruffles the leaves on the trees, and somewhere crickets, and somewhere a croaking frog. And us. Our hearts beating side by side, in tandem.
“Hey,” he says, “want to come back next week?”
“I’d love it,” I say, grinning up at him. “Can I bring the picnic?”
“You didn’t like mine?”
“Vaughn!” I say, lightly hitting his chest. “I loved it. But it’s my turn.”
“Fine,” he says. “You bring the picnic.” His hand on my shoulder squeezes again. His thumb strokes my skin. And under his breath, he whispers,
“ Doo-sha. Ma-ya .”
It’s soft and organic, but the words make me start.
“Wait! What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
I’m already facing him, but I sit up straighter, and his hand drops from my shoulder. “You said something in Russian. You said, ‘ Душа моя .’”
“It’s just nonsense,” he says, shrugging lightly.
“No, it’s not,” I tell him. “It’s definitely not nonsense. In Russian, душа моя means ‘my heart,’ or maybe even, depending on the context, ‘my soul.’ It’s a heavy-duty term of endearment.”
He stares at me for a second, then looks away. “I’m telling you, it doesn’t mean anything to m—”
“Did you learn it? To say it to me tonight?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’ve always said it. For as long as I can remember.” He reaches for one of my hands. “Do you remember when I told you that my first memories are vague and the first words I can remember are gibberish? That’s what I was talking about. Doo-sha. Ma-ya. Doo-sha. Ma-ya. I used to say it over and over again as I fell asleep.”
His pronunciation is godawful, but the sounds he makes form words I know, words I have only ever heard my mother whisper to my father, or my grandfather to Bubbie. These are words of love you’d find in the works of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, or Pushkin.
Pushkin. His second favorite poet.
Pushkin! Oh my god, of course. That’s where he’s heard it.
“Did you ever listen to Pushkin in the original Russian? On YouTube or something?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“ That’s where you heard it,” I say, reaching forward to put the rest of the bread and vatrushka in the Tupperware container. I pour out the drop of wine remaining in his glass and add it to the bag. “Pushkin loves using the super intense romantic language.”
“That’s true.” He stands up, folding the blanket and tucking it under his arm. “But those sounds—or words, I guess—have been in my head since long before I could read. I think…I think I heard them somewhere when I was little.”
“Huh,” I say, zipping the top of the Trader Joe’s bag and handing it to him. “Maybe. Like in a lullaby or something. Was one of your foster mothers Russian?”
“No,” he says, standing with his back against the tree.
I register his body language and realize I’m pushing too hard to figure out this mystery. “Want to stop talking about it?”
“More than you can possibly imagine,” he says, letting go of a deep, long sigh.
“How’s about walking me home?” I ask him, reaching out my hand to him.
He takes it, lacing his fingers through mine. “With pleasure.”
***
On Wednesday afternoon, I arrive at the theater at five o’clock to get ready for the evening performance of Swan Lake . Most of the company has been there since nine or ten in the morning, rehearsing for next week’s performance of Coppelia , but since I’ll be in New York, I’m excused from rehearsals. I’ve been doing a lot of swimming and yoga during this week to keep my body toned and limber before my exchange program. My career hinges on my body. I need to keep it in stage-ready condition.
I have two and a half hours to stretch, do my makeup and hair, and dress before the performance, but I also promised to meet up with Vaughn on his dinner break. I haven’t seen much of him since Sunday night, and we’re missing each other.
I find him sitting on a bench, in the sunshine, at the River Pavillion, at the southernmost end of the campus. Our rehearsal studios are nearby, so I know the area well.
He’s wearing his ugly, cumbersome work uniform, but he sits back, relaxed, his face soaking up the late-afternoon sun. His cheekbones are slashes of marble highlighted in gold dust, and his long eyelashes rest just above them. His hair is dark, riotous, and unruly, though it’s thrown back against the back of the bench, so I can just see the heart behind his ear.
“Is that seat for me?” I ask, standing in front of him, blocking the sun.
He opens his eyes and grins, like he’s waking up from the best dream ever.
“ Da .”
I put my duffel bag on the ground and sit down beside him with my lunch bag on my lap.
“Hi,” I say, grinning at him. We haven’t kissed since he walked me home on Sunday night. All of a sudden, I feel shy.
“Hi,” he whispers, his eyes tracing my face. “Why are you so pretty?”
I chuckle at his sweetness. “Why are you ?”
He looks out at the Potomac. “You’re the only one who thinks so, котик .”
“Kitten?” I giggle again. “Someone’s been Googling Russian words!”
“Better than душа моя ?” he asks, his pronunciation slightly better than it was on Sunday.
“More appropriate, for sure,” I tell him.
“You leave a week from today,” he says softly, throwing his arm around my shoulder.
I nod. “That’s right.”
He leans forward and presses his lips to mine. It’s a chaste kiss since we’re in public, gentle and sweet and—
“Oh my god! What is this ?”
I shield my eyes from the sun, looking up to see Ming, Maria-Elena, and Sayaka standing in front of our bench. They’re coming from the studios where today’s rehearsal has just ended. They’re headed back toward the opera center to get ready for tonight.
Over the past few weeks that Vaughn and I have been seeing each other, we’ve maintained our privacy at work, keeping our relationship a secret. My heart races like I’ve been caught doing something wrong, and I sit up stick straight. My cheeks flare with heat. My lips open, but no words come out.
Maria-Elena snickers at us while Ming puts her hands on her hips, and says, “Talk about slumming it.”
I leap to my feet. “Shut up, Ming.”
Vaughn crosses his arms over his chest, but he doesn’t hang his head like he used to. He leans back against the bench and looks out at the river, past my castmates, like he can’t be bothered with their stupidness.
“You’re dating the help,” says Ming.
“He’s an employee here,” I say, “just like we are.”
“We’re the talent,” says Maria-Elena. “He’s the garbageman.”
“I thought she smelled different lately,” says Ming to her sidekick. “Like…trash.”
Beside me, Vaughn’s knee starts to bob up and down allegro con fuoco . I’ve never seen him do that before. I don’t know if it’s nerves or anger, but his eyes are narrowed, and his face is rock hard as he continues to stare straight ahead.
“You two are such bitches,” I growl. “Seriously.”
They both shrug, smirking at me like I’m a joke.
“At least we’re not trash,” says Maria-Elena.
“Enough!” thunders Vaughn, springing to his feet, his hands fisted into balls at his sides. “You don’t talk to her like that!”
Ming gasps, and Maria-Elena leaps back, while Sayaka—with haste and grace—steps forward, putting her body between us and them. The very picture of composure, she lifts her eyes to Vaughn and holds out her hand, a tiny smile tilting up the corners of her mouth.
“Vaughn-san,” she says, using a formal, respectful manner of speech. “So nice…to see you.”
Vaughn blinks at her, his eyes flicking to her hand, then back to her face. He’s trying to decide if she’s for real or not. He looks at me, and I nod. It’s okay.
He takes her hand and shakes it gently. “Hey, Sayaka.”
“You are…well?” she asks, drawing him into conversation as best she can.
“Yeah. I’m good. Thanks. You?”
She gestures to the concert hall. “I dance tonight…so, I…must ready.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“We go, girls,” Sayaka says to Ming and Maria-Elena, adding a little steel to her voice when she adds, “Now.”
Perhaps because Sayaka’s a little older than they are or maybe because they’re shocked she’s spoken up, placing herself directly in the middle of things for the first time any of us can remember, but Ming and Maria-Elena turn and follow her back toward the opera center without any more zingers for me or Vaughn.
My heart swells with affection and gratitude for my new friend.
Thank God for Sayaka.
***
Vaughn
I don’t care what anyone says about me. I’ve heard it all.
But Sasha? My Sasha? Trash?
I’m not about to let anyone call her names right in front of me. I couldn’t let it continue.
But the rage inside of me was so hot, so furious, so instantaneous, I’m grateful for Sayaka’s intervention.
Sasha turns to me, her eyes bright with tears.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles.
“For what?”
“For them.”
“You’re not responsible for them,” I tell her. “And I am, in fact, a janitor who empties garbage cans.”
“You’re so much more than that,” she says.
She wrings her hands together, and I see a question in her eyes. I read it quickly. She’s wondering if the fists I had balled at my sides would actually have been put to use.
I am, in some ways, an untamed beast. My first two foster mothers had overcrowded houses and spent minimal time with me. From ages five to nine, I dressed myself and made my own breakfast and lunch by watching the other kids. I went to school, I came home to play in the backyard and watch TV, eat dinner, maybe have a bath, and go to bed. There was no real affection or instruction on how to cope with people or fit into the world, socially or otherwise. Those first five years were about survival. Whatever I learned, I learned from watching, and what I saw probably wasn’t the best education.
As for the ensuing five years…I skip over them in my mind.
Lottie Cigno has been the closest thing I ever had to a mother, and the only person who took an interest in encouraging me to say “please” and “thank you,” to be thoughtful of others, and learn enough manners to get by. But deep inside of me, there’s still a wild child who is in constant survival mode, and when I—or someone I love, apparently—is threatened, he gets angry.
“You wouldn’t have…” Sasha cocks her head to the side, making one of her hands into a fist and holding it up. “You wouldn’t have actually—”
“Of course not,” I reassure her. But here’s the things about not knowing who your people were or where you came from. You can’t be one hundred percent certain of what you’re capable of . Right this second, I’m not certain what would have happened if Ming and Maria-Elena’s cruel taunting had continued. “I just wanted them to shut up. They were upsetting you.”
“You don’t have to fight my battles for me.”
But I do. I want to. I want to vanquish dragons for you, sweet Sasha, even if they’re only 5’4” tall and here on a work visa from China.
“I care about you,” I tell her.
“I know you do, but…” She reaches down for her duffel bag and throws it onto her shoulder. She’s upset. I can tell, and I hate it, but I don’t know what to do about it. “I have to go. I need to get ready, too.”
So much for dinner. I glance at the paper bag on the bench that holds the sandwich Lottie made for me this morning.
“See you Sunday?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says, forcing a little smile. “See you then.”
***
When you love someone…when you love them and want to be in their life, sometimes you have to do better, be better, learn who you are and make edits on the parts you don’t like. That’s what I tell myself over the next three days when Sasha avoids my gaze.
She’s nervous about my jumping up from the bench and yelling at Ming and Maria-Elena. It felt aggressive to her in a way that makes her uncomfortable. And I get it. I’m bigger than they are. I’m a muscular. I’m a man.
Not to mention, Sasha’s only known me for a handful of weeks, and my past—what little I’ve shared with her—is sketchy.
But over the last few days, away from my anger in that moment, I’ve come to the conclusion that I wouldn’t have put hands on Ming or Maria-Elena. I may have taken a step toward them, to intimidate them into backing up and leaving us alone, but I wouldn’t have touched them. I don’t believe that sort of violence is in my nature, and it’s a relief to be sure.
When I show up at Sasha’s apartment to pick her up on Sunday evening, she greets me at the door and invites me in, but I can tell from what she’s wearing—sweatpants and a cropped T-shirt—that she’s not ready to go.
“Are we going to the concert?” I ask her, pushing the door shut behind me.
“Would you mind if we stayed in?” she asks.
I’ve never been in her apartment before. She’s always waiting for me at the gate. But I notice an open, half-packed suitcase on her couch.
“You’re packing for New York? Three days early?”
“They asked me to come tomorrow instead. My train leaves Union at six in the morning. I’ll be in New York a little before nine.”
Oof. That’s a blow. I was hoping for one more date on Tuesday or Wednesday.
“I see.”
“So, I have to finish packing,” she says. “But I was thinking you could keep me company? And we could order food? Maybe watch a movie?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Any time she can give me is time I want. “How can I help?”
Over the next two hours, we pack up her everyday clothes, rehearsal clothes, and about ten pairs of ballet and pointe shoes. I fold warm towels and sheets from her dryer and leave them in a neat pile on her coffee table while she cleans out her refrigerator. I’ll bring two yogurts, a carton of eggs and a container of almond milk back to Lottie’s house with me.
At one point, while we’re sitting on the couch, Sasha turns to me, her brown eyes severe.
“I need to know something,” she says. “And I need you to be totally honest with me, Vaughn. No matter what the answer is, I need the truth.”
“Absolutely.”
“Last week, when Ming and Maria-Elena were giving us a hard time, you jumped up from the bench and yelled, ‘Enough!’”
“Yep. I did.”
“Then Sayaka stepped in front of the girls and helped smooth things over.”
“Right.”
“What if she hadn’t?” Sasha’s holds a pair of socks in her hands, ready to be paired and balled. She gulps softly, holding my eyes. “What would you have done?”
I take a deep breath, take the socks from her hands and place them on the couch beside her. Then I take her hands in mine.
“I know I made you uncomfortable.”
“You did,” she confirms. “I wasn’t sure what would happen next.”
“I was really angry. I don’t care how anyone talks to me, but it hurt me to hear them say those things about you.”
“I get that.”
“But I gave it a lot of thought over the last few days, and while I don’t think I’m above using my size or gender to make them back away and stop, I am positive I wouldn’t have touched them. I thought about my history and searched my heart. I’ve dealt with worse people than those two without resorting to violence. It’s not who I am.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am.” I nod. “Listen, I don’t like talking about my time in foster care, but there were situations in which getting physical with someone was warranted. And I’m not going to say it didn’t happen from time to time. I had my share of fights with other boys. I can defend myself. But I never touched a girl or a woman. Never once.”
Even when they deserved it. Even if any court on the face of the earth would’ve called it self-defense and self-preservation. Even if my skin still crawls when I remember—
“I believe you,” she says, reaching up to cup my cheeks with her hands. She’s sitting cross-legged, facing me, while I’m facing her with my feet on the floor. She leans up, onto her knees, tilts her head to the side, and kisses me.
I put my arms around her, pulling her onto my lap. She straddles me as she did on the blanket last Sunday night, and I slide my tongue into her mouth. She moans softly, which heightens my longing, my red-hot desire for her. My hands land on her bare waist, smoothing upward to her breasts, which are unbound and free. I cup them, running my thumb over her nipples. She whimpers softly, and our kiss deepens.
She reaches for the back of her T-shirt and pulls it over her head, then tugs at the back of my T-shirt. I yank it off and toss it aside. Her chest, warm and soft, collides with mine, rock hard and angular. I run my hands up and down her back while she tangles her fingers in my hair.
Blood pumps to my cock, making it swell and harden in my jeans, pushing against the apex of her thighs. She wiggles on my lap, and I thrust gently upward, swallowing her groan and feeling it vibrate everywhere in my body. Maneuvering slightly, I lower her to her back and slide on top of her, growling softly when she cradles me between her thighs. We are tangled up in each other when she whispers close to my ear.
“Vaughn, we have to stop.”
Her voice is low and soft, sluggish and drugged. Her hands don’t move from my hair.
“Why?” I pant.
“I can’t do this tonight,” she whispers.
I lean up on elbows, looking down at her dilated eyes and flushed cheeks. “You sure?”
She nods, her tiny smile rueful. “I’m sure.”
I push up and away from her. As I pull my body back from hers, she presses her knees together and sits up at one end of the couch while I sit in the opposite corner. I have a raging hard-on, so I grab a pillow and put it on my lap before glancing over at her. She looks at my lap and chuckles softly.
“Vaughn, I should tell you…I mean—you need to know. I’m a virgin,” she confesses, picking up her T-shirt and throwing it over her head.
Wait. What?
“It’s true,” she says, grinning at my expression. I’m glad that she doesn’t seem embarrassed. I wouldn’t want her to be. “I haven’t had sex yet. Not all the way.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her.
“I know it is,” she says, chuckling as she throws a pillow at me. “I don’t feel weird about it.”
“Good,” I say, “because you shouldn’t.”
“Good, because I don’t.” She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Don’t get me wrong…I want to. With you. Just… not tonight. Not when I’m about to go away for three weeks.”
“I get it,” I say, swallowing over my disappointment, even though I completely respect what she’s saying. “I thought you had boyfriends.”
“I have,” she says. “But I wasn’t—I mean, they weren’t the right person, for whatever reason.”
“And I am?” I whisper, my heart in my throat.
She slides closer to me, her smile tender. She feathers her fingers through my hair, pushing a lock behind my ear. “I think so. I think you are.”
She leans forward, kisses me quick on the lips, then jumps up, sprinting to the kitchen and coming back with a handful of takeout menus.
“Dinner?” she asks. “Let’s order. You deserve sustenance after helping me pack!”
We order Chinese takeout and eat it while watching an old romcom called “The Cutting Edge,” about Olympic figure skaters. Sasha is fast asleep on my shoulder by the time it ends. I wake her up with a gentle kiss to her temple.
“I fell asleep again.”
“I’m not complaining,” I tell her, “but I should probably get going. I have to be in at seven tomorrow, and you have a train to catch.”
“I’ll miss you,” she says, her eyes only half-open, her voice dreamy.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“Come to the beach over Labor Day,” she says. “Come and meet my family.”
“You mean it?”
“I do,” she mumbles.
“I’d love to.”
“Text me while I’m gone?” she asks, closing her eyes again.
“I will,” I promise.
I kiss her tenderly and whisper goodbye. As I pull her door shut behind me, I glance at her one last time. My heart thunders with love as I turn and go.