CHAPTER 14
Vaughn
I’m standing outside her building on Monmouth Street at nine-forty-five on Sunday morning. I know I’m fucking early, but I don’t care. I’ve been living for this moment since nine-forty-five on Friday night. Thirty-six hours never felt so long.
Her coffee, in my gloved hand, is hot, so I balance it on the window box of a boutique that hasn’t opened yet. London opens slowly on Sunday morning, with restaurants going first, to offer breakfast and brunch, and businesses opening later. This upscale baby clothes boutique under Sasha’s apartment, for example, won’t open until noon.
I lean back against the building, remembering the feel of Sasha in my arms on Friday night. I don’t know what reminded me of her long-ago impromptu dance to “Somethin’ Stupid,” or what prompted me to request the song.
Maybe it was a purely male instinct—attraction and jealousy—that propelled me to vie for her attention. Friday was the second time I’d seen her out with Igor, and my instinct to do him bodily harm at the gallery segued cleanly to their entrance at Lara’s. Every cell in my body called out to— at the very least —challenge him for her heart. As the vodka flowed, I found I was helpless to do nothing, and I had, in fact, learned the bolero in secret even though I never really expected to see her again.
But I don’t think it was the opportunity to dance with her or primal male jealousy. Not really.
The reason I asked Sasha to dance was because I never stopped caring for her, despite my behavior to the contrary. I drove her away because I felt unworthy of her. And I stayed away because it was easier to bury myself in a new life than try to make amends with someone I loved from the old life I despised.
Until one fall day, when she arrived in London, and it was impossible to pretend that she never existed. Further, it was impossible to imagine my life going forward without her in it. This need to know her all over again is a base and brutal force within me.
Humans love to think we’re so superior to the rest of nature, don’t we? So lofty. So in charge of our DNA and our destiny. But really and truly, aren’t we just as organic as everything else? Of and from and—eventually—back to nature? At the sum of our parts, aren’t we just evolved animals, regardless of our clothes and smart phones and cars? Humans are of nature, whether we like it or not.
And I like it. Because pairs appear everywhere in nature.
Ankles and eyes. Ears and elbows.
Wings and claws. Whiskers and flippers.
Clouds and sky. Sand and sea. Wind and rain.
Like any component of the natural world that finds itself linked to another at the will of God, we exist in nature, cohabitors with one another through no will of our own, and inexorably bound.
Vaughn and Sasha.
Alexandra and Ivan.
The names don’t matter.
Once upon a time, she saved my life with her smile.
Once upon a time, I would have died for her.
And here and now, on a London sidewalk, with straight teeth, perfect skin, and a net worth that far surpasses the pennies I used to save, I would die for her still.
We are animals in nature, and she is mine. That is the truth. Despite every human failing of my miserable life, that is the only solid truth I know.
A door opens, and suddenly, Sasha stands on the sidewalk beside me.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I say, grabbing her coffee from the window box and presenting it to her. “For you.”
“Thanks.” She looks up at the sky. “Rain?”
“It is England.”
“Should I go back for my umbrella?”
“We’ll be fine. We’re not going far.”
She takes a sip of her coffee. “How did you know where I lived?”
“I asked someone to find out for me.”
“That’s sketchy.”
“I prefer to think of it as industrious.”
“Do you have a lot of people who ‘do’ things for you? At your beck and call?”
Sassy . I remember this, and it makes me smile. “I guess I do.”
She lifts her chin. “Ivan Stepanov is a very different person from Vaughn Cigno.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She gives me a look that translates roughly to, “If the shoe fits…,” and lets my comment hang in the air between us like an accusation.
“Ivan Stepanov’s not a terrible person,” I tell her, feeling a little defensive.
“I don’t know about that,” she says, looking me straight in the eyes.
“Okay. If I’m so dreadful, why did you agree to meet me?”
“Maybe I’m curious.” She shrugs. “Or maybe I’m hoping that Vaughn is still in there somewhere.”
“Jesus! This again!” I scoff. “What was so great about the poor little foundling?”
She flinches. “He didn’t know everything about where he came from or who he was. But he was kind. And he was real. He was the realest person I ever knew.”
“ I’m real,” I protest. “ I’m right here.”
She takes another sip of her coffee. “Where are we going?”
My mood has shifted a little since she joined me. I was feeling so certain about the inevitable connection between me and Sasha as I walked here earlier. Now I’m wondering if I was wrong.
And yet.
I look at her, and my heart thunders with joy. Maybe she doesn’t care for me as she used to, but if there’s any chance that she could , I need to know.
“Come on,” I say, glancing up at the sky, “before it starts to pour.”
We walk to the corner of Monmouth and Shaftesbury where I have a car waiting.
“This is us.”
“Am I being kidnapped?” she asks. Suddenly, her face falls. “Oh, Vaughn! I’m so sorry! I was trying to be clever. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, opening her door.
She slides into the back seat, and I sit beside her. As soon as we’re buckled in, the car moves forward.
“That was really thoughtless,” she says. “Sorry, again.”
“You didn’t mean anything by it,” I say.
She changes gears. “Where are we going?”
“To the London Heliport.”
“Where? What is that?”
“A long time ago, you told me that you wanted to go to London, Paris, and Moscow. And I told you I knew you’d get there. Remember?”
“Y-Yes. As we were saying goodbye. I remember.”
“Well, you made it to London…and Moscow’s too far for a day trip.”
“So…we’re going to— to Paris ?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eyes so wide.
I grin at her and shrug. “Why not?”
“Because that’s ridiculous!” she cries. “We can’t just…just…just go to Paris!”
“Sure, we can. We’ll be at the heliport in…” I check my phone. “Fifteen minutes. I have a helicopter waiting to fly us across the channel. And tonight, after dinner, it’ll bring us back to London.”
“This is insane,” she says.
“This is Ivan Stepanov’s life,” I tell her. I can’t resist adding, “Not too shabby, huh?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not dressed for dinner in Paris.”
I start at her black flat shoes, slide my gaze up her skinny jeans to her white button-down shirt, pale peach sweater, brown leather jacket, and pink and tan plaid scarf. She looks fresh and chic and—in my eyes, at least—completely stunning.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “You always were.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, and when I raise my eyes to hers, I see that hers are full of tears.
“Because I want to talk to you.”
“No. You’re showing off by taking me to another country.”
“Not just any country…a country you always wanted to see,” I remind her.
She’s quiet, and I can tell that she’s uncomfortable. Not so uncomfortable that she’s asking to go home, or demanding we stay in London, but this is a grand gesture and maybe—for our first time alone in half a decade—a little over-the-top.
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I do!” she cries. “I want to see Paris. Of course. I just…this is a lot, you know?”
“I know,” I admit. “My life is really different now. Stuff like this is possible.”
“I get that,” she says. “But for me , it’s a lot.”
“Just give me today,” I ask her. “Please, Sasha.”
She takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay.”
***
A helicopter ride is useless for talking, but it’s a marvelous ninety minutes for sightseeing.
I direct the pilot to stay below the clouds, if possible, and we’re able to see the countryside of England, the English Channel, the coast of France, the small city of Amiens, and the suburbs leading to Paris.
A little before noon, we touch down at the Issy-Les-Moulineau Heliport and are helped off the helicopter by the pilot.
“We should be back by nine,” I tell him.
“I’m here at your pleasure,” he responds. “Enjoy Paris.”
“What now?” asks Sasha, her cheeks pink and voice breathless.
“Did you like it?” I ask. “The ride over?”
“It was amazing,” she says, grinning at me.
I lead her over to a black town car that I’ve arranged to take us into Paris.
“Where are we going?” she asks again. “The Eiffel Tower? The Arc d’Triomphe?”
“You have to wait and see.”
She looks out the window as we pass the Eiffel Tower and Place de la Concorde, gasping with delight when we pull up in front of the Palais Garnier, the historic theater of the Paris Opera Ballet.
“The Paris Opera,” she cries, clapping her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Vaughn! I should have guessed!”
Vaughn. I never thought I wanted to hear that name again, but when she says it, it sounds so sweet, I don’t correct her. This is the most relaxed and happy she’s been since our unexpected reunion, and nothing I’ve experienced in the last five years can compete with the rush of joy I feel to know that what I’m doing is bringing her pleasure. It’s like a drug. The best drug I’ve ever known. I want more of it. I’d like to get hooked on pleasing Sasha.
“Come on,” I say, holding out my hand to her.
It’s only because she isn’t thinking, but she takes it, braiding our fingers together like we didn’t lose the years between D.C. and now. Giggling with anticipation, she pulls me along, up the left wing of the entrance and into the lobby of the Paris Opera House, where our tour guide is waiting.
***
Sasha
When Ivan said we “needed to talk” on Friday night, I agreed to meet him because I wanted some answers.
I wanted to understand why he’d turned his back on me, treating me so callously when he left Washington and joined his family in Moscow. If there was an explanation to be had, I wanted to hear it. And further, I wanted to know why he was so cold to me when we ran into one another in London. I wanted to understand why the one man I’d ever loved had abjured me so completely and with so little cause.
He’d broken my heart. And years later, I still didn’t know why.
I feel that I deserve an explanation.
But since he picked me up this morning, aside from a brief exchange on the sidewalk in front of my apartment, we’ve been on the move. Too busy to talk. The excitement of the helicopter ride. The beauty of Paris. They’ve distracted me from the reason I said yes to today. As we are led around the Palais Garnier on a private tour, I wonder if that was his objective, and it bothers me. Because if I don’t get some answers by the end of today, I can’t help but feel that, despite seeing a bit of Paris, all of this will have been a waste of my time.
I don’t trust Ivan. I don’t like Ivan. I don’t want to be in his life, and I don’t want him in mine. I just want to understand what happened, and after that, we can go our separate ways.
“You are a dancer, I believe, Mademoiselle Collins?”
“ Oui ,” I say, putting my thoughts aside and focusing on the tour. “I’m a soloist with the Manhattan Ballet Theater. Right now, I’m on loan as a consultant to the Royal Academy of Ballet in London.”
“My goodness! Maybe you will dance on this stage one day!”
We step onto said stage, and I gasp with delight as I look at the tiered, horseshoe-shaped seating of the Opera House theater. Every ballerina I’ve ever admired has danced on this stage. And now, I’m standing here too.
We continue to tour the building, admiring the Grand Foyer, with its Greek mosaics and gilded marble columns, which are works of art in and of themselves. Heading back to the exit, we descend the Grand Staircase. It takes my breath away.
We say our goodbyes to our guide and are led to the coat check. Ivan and I take a moment to put on our coats and scarves before heading back outside.
“What did you think?” he asks.
“Stunning,” I say softly, “in every way.”
His forehead creases. “I sense a ‘but…’”
“Why are we here?” I ask him. “Don’t get me wrong. The helicopter ride. The Paris Opera House. Both wonderful. But I—I don’t understand.”
“I was…” He puts on black leather gloves, fisting his fingers, then releasing them to be sure they’re on tightly. Finally, he looks up at me. “I was mean to you when we broke up. I just wanted to do something nice. Is that so wrong?”
“It’s not wrong,” I say. Then, I gesture to the marble lobby around us. “But this is all too much.” Before he can interrupt me, I ask, “Do you remember that summer…? Giving me that little book of Russian poetry?”
He nods. “Sure.”
“ That was perfect,” I tell him, trying to be gentle. “You bought that book for me when you had nothing, and I suspect it was the very best you could do, the most you could give. I bet bus fares were exchanged for the price of that little book. You walked so I could read. I take it everywhere with me, that collection of poems. It means the world to me, still.”
He looks away from me, his eyes narrowed, his lips downturned and disappointed.
“You can’t compare some old book of poetry from a Barnes and Noble to a day in Paris,” he mutters.
“I can. I do,” I tell him. “I’ve received both as gifts, and both were very fine, but I would choose a battered book of poetry from Vaughn Cigno over a hundred days in Paris with Ivan Stepanov.”
“Why?” he half-growls at me.
“Because I loved Vaughn,” I tell him simply. “And from what I’ve seen, I don’t like Ivan very much.”
“Fine.” He stares at me, his nostrils flaring with frustration. He reaches back and rubs his neck in a gesture I recognize from before, and it tugs at my heart. “I can take you back to London. There’s no point in—”
“Can’t we just talk?” I ask him. “I came with you today because you said we needed to talk, and frankly, I’d like to know what I did to deserve the way you treated me when you left D.C. A minute ago, you mentioned that you were mean to me when we broke up, but I don’t remember us breaking up. The last thing I remember is you saying you’d be home in a few weeks, that you’d meet me in New York. For a little while, we tried to stay in touch—tried texting when we were able. But then I start getting these phone calls and voice messages—”
“My behavior—”
“Yes. Your behavior did the job for you,” I say softly, my eyes starting to burn. “But what I’ve wondered for years is…” Damn it. Tears flood my eyes, though I manage to choke out the strangled word, “Why?”
We’re still standing in the foyer of the Opera Ballet. He blinks at me, his own eyes watery, his face the picture of misery.
“The Intercontinental is half a block that way,” he says, gesturing loosely. “I’ve booked us for tea. Why don’t we talk there?”
“Lead the way.”
***
Ten minutes later, we’re seated at a corner table in the elegant wintergarden of the Verrière Café.
With bright green velvet loveseats, matching green toile armchairs, marble tables, and palm trees, it’s very like The Palm Court at the Plaza Hotel in New York City, and I feel instantly at home.
A waiter takes our tea order, then slips away, leaving us alone. Since I opted for the couch, I sit back in luxury, leaning one elbow on a lime green throw pillow. Ivan, in a straight-backed armchair, sits across from me looking much less comfortable.
“So,” I say. “Talk.”
He tightens his jaw, staring at the arrangement of three white roses in a bud vase at the center of the table. When he looks up at me, those already-stormy eyes are a hurricane of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice low and fraught. “More than anything else, Sasha, I want you to know how sorry I am.”
It’s a good start. It’s an apology I’ve been owed for years, and there’s something satisfying about receiving it.
“Thank you,” I murmur. I take a sip of water, then look back up at him. “But I can’t accept it until I understand why you acted the way you did.”
He nods, his head bobbing up and down slowly as he leans back in his chair, thinking. As he stares back at the roses, I gaze at his face—at those high cheekbones and long lashes, at those lips I’ve kissed and that dark hair that I’ve spread between my fingers. My body stirs with the force of my attraction.
Here is the truth: I never got over Vaughn Cigno.
Once I knew that Vaughn and I were over, I lost my virginity to a dancer I met in New York. We didn’t last. We only dated for a few weeks. I slept with Phillip that one time, yes. There were men I kissed at clubs while out on the town with friends. And one very cute ballet dancer from Argentina who spent four months living in my New York apartment with me before returning to Buenos Aires.
But with all of these men—with each and every one of them—I felt Vaughn’s presence, even from a million miles away. I felt his breath on my neck and his hands cradling my heart. I heard his voice reciting poetry and felt his eyes looking for me. I wanted him , not them.
We loved each other for such a short time, but it was the best and purest love I’d ever known. That he threw it away so spectacularly is something I may never completely get over.
As these thoughts tread through my mind, I look up to find Ivan Stepanov staring at me.
“Start at the beginning,” I tell him. “And don’t stop until you’ve told me everything.”
“I fell in love with you,” he says softly. “That’s where it all starts.”
***
“I loved you from the moment I first saw you, walking into the Grand Foyer of the Kennedy Center to audition. You were with, two other girls? Or three? I don’t remember, and it doesn’t matter. It was you I saw. It was you who asked me, a janitor vacuuming the floor, where auditions were being held. I pointed. You thanked me. That was it. That was our first interaction, and I was lost. It was like my heart went with you to that audition, and I watched through a cracked door to see you dance together. You were the best, Sasha. Of all the girls who auditioned that day, you were the best.
“For six months, I watched you, falling more and more in love with you every day, though I knew you didn’t see me. And what made this especially painful, especially horrible, is that you were kind. You thanked me off-handedly for emptying your trash. You offered a sweet, generic smile when you passed me in the corridor. You saw me as a fellow human. None of the other dancers did that. It turned out I wasn’t invisible, but I wasn’t sure until you saw me.
“My life had been…a nightmare. My earliest memories are of a couple who didn’t want me. Then, foster families. Some caring. Some cruel. One foster mother in particular liked to touch us…to—to use us in shameful ways. Those were the bleakest days of my life, the first time I contemplated killing myself.
“But then I was moved to Dom and Lottie’s, and they were kind. And I so appreciated that I was safe in their care. But I could see the difference in their affections when they were with their son and grandchildren. They loved their family. I was a tenant of whom they were fond. Not the same thing.
“And then I saw you.
“You must understand that I had never experienced love. Never felt it. Never received it. Never once.
“So, to experience love—for the first time in my entire life—by feeling it for you…it made you…everything. Larger than life. Brighter than the sun. Lovelier than anything else the earth could offer.
“But what I realized, over time, was that your kind smiles and polite thanks weren’t the same as you loving me back. You were kind to everyone. I wasn’t special to you.
“And then, that day…that fucking day. I was going to end it all, Sasha. I went to work with razor blades in my pockets. I left a farewell note for Dom and Lottie. I’d decided that I had no reason to live. No one loved me. I didn’t know who I was. I belonged nowhere.
“But I found I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t actually make the cuts to my wrists—without seeing you one last time. You had been kind to me. You had seen me. You had validated my existence on the earth. If I was going to kill myself, I needed to see you one last time. Once. Just once. As a way of saying goodbye.
“So I entered your dressing room that day, and I…I…”
***
“Stop!”
I reach up to dry my face, which is wet with tears. I think I started crying the moment he started speaking, and I haven’t stopped since. He’s been speaking in a stream of consciousness, staring at the white roses, but now, he whips his head up to look at me.
His eyebrows furrow. “You said to start at the beginning.”
“I didn’t know,” I sob softly, my heart throbbing with the terribleness of his story. “I didn’t know you wanted to die.”
“Nobody knew. There was no one to tell. No one who would care. That’s the whole point.”
“Vaughn,” I say. “You were going to—”
“Not after that day!” he cries, swiping at his eyes. “You defended me and spoke to me. You shook my hand and asked for my name. You really saw me, and it lit a spark inside of me that turned into a fire.”
A waiter approaches our table with two teapots.
“Earl Grey for mademoiselle and Darjeeling for sir.”
“Thank you,” says Ivan. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and takes out a one hundred euro note, handing it to the server. “Please bring everything else without ceremony. Just place the food on the table. We’re talking about something important and don’t wish to be interrupted.”
The waiter shifts his glance to me, then back to Ivan. He plucks the bill from Ivan’s fingers. “I understand, sir. We will be discreet.”
“I appreciate it.” As the waiter walks away, Ivan looks up at me. “Shall I go on?”
I tilt my head to the side. “I think you’re wrong about something. I think Dom and Lottie love you.”
“There’s a difference between love and kindness.”
“Is there?” I ask.
“Love is patient and kind,” he recites from the Bible. “Kindness is just a part of love.”
“Kindness can be an expression of love,” I argue.
“Well, it doesn’t matter because I didn’t feel loved.” He takes a beat, before responding in a clear, firm tone. “Don’t get me wrong, Sasha. Dom and Lottie were great. I will always be grateful for them. They gave me a safe haven after the nightmare of my previous placement. And yes, they were genuinely fond of me. But we weren’t family. What they felt for me was different from what they felt for their son. And that’s okay. I wasn’t their child. I get it.”
More tears slide down my cheeks, and I quickly wipe them away.
“The foster mother who abused you…”
His eyes narrow. “What about her?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She’s dead,” he mutters. “She can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
His words send a chill down my spine.
“I’m still sorry.”
He stares at the roses. “Do you want me to go on?”
No , I think. It’s all too much. It hurts too much to hear about his pain. It could make me weak for him when I need to stay strong to protect myself from loving him all over again.
But the reality is that I need to know, I need to understand, and this is likely my only chance. If I say no, I may never have peace where Vaughn Cigno/Ivan Stepanov is concerned.
Once more into the fray…
I look up at him and nod.
“Go on.”