CHAPTER 18
Sasha
In preparation for my return to the Kennedy Center, I treat myself to a new dress from H&M. It’s light-blue satin with a round neckline, gathers at the shoulders and waist, and a hem that ends a bit above my knees. My long legs, tanned from the summer sun, are toned from swimming and workouts. I’ve borrowed my mother’s wedding pearls, and I add a pair of bone-colored slingbacks and a matching clutch to finish my ensemble.
I smile at myself in the mirror. I look fresh, fun and summery.
Though Bubbie gave me a gift card for dinner before the show, I decide to use it for brunch tomorrow before heading home, so I take a taxi from the hotel directly to the theater.
After being given the ticket, I’d looked up who’d be dancing tonight, and recognized many of the dancer’s names, most notably, that of Ming Chao, who’s risen to the position of principal. She’ll be dancing the role of Titania, and I silently wish her no end of “sloppy” pirouettes at this evening’s performance, remembering her harsh critique of Sayaka once upon a time. Sweet Sayaka, who is now my best friend, beloved sister-in-law, and the mother of my two rambunctious nephews.
I wonder briefly about our dressing room fourth, Maria-Elena, who was forever arguing ( then making up ) with her boyfriend in Italy. I heard that she left Washington D.C. a few years ago and haven’t heard a word about her since. Perhaps she dances in a smaller, regional company in Italy now or teaches children, or perhaps she’s given up dancing altogether. I’ll probably never know.
But more than anyone else, I think about Vaughn Cigno as my taxi draws closer to the Kennedy Center. His ghost will surely be everywhere tonight. Vacuuming the red carpet in the Hall of States, shining the mirrors in the Grand Foyer, and waiting for me under our weeping willow near the Terrace Fountain, a book of poetry on his lap and loaf of challah by his side.
I miss him.
Sometimes I miss him so much it aches.
But then I remember who he became and remind myself that the Vaughn I knew is gone forever.
“That’ll be eleven dollar and sixty cents,” says the driver, stopping in front of the glass doors that lead to the Hall of States.
I use a card to pay my fare, then exit the cab, entering the Kennedy Center from the front doors, as I did so many years ago as a young woman, auditioning for a major ballet company for the first time.
When Vaughn recounted the history of our relationship—during our afternoon tea in Paris—I had no recollection of our first meeting. I don’t remember asking him for help. I don’t remember seeing him at all, really, until that day in our dressing room. I’m ashamed that I didn’t notice him—that he blended in with the building because he was cleaning it.
Stepping through the glass doors, I’m surprised by how swiftly the sights, smells, and sounds of the Kennedy Center are familiar to me. Walking the red carpet toward the Grand Foyer, I find myself pulled to the Gift Shop, somewhere I never visited during my tenure as a ballerina. With twenty minutes until the performance, I take a quick detour, letting my eyes glide over the tchotchkes—mugs, T-shirts and keychains, jewelry and books. A framed poster catches my eye. It’s a photo of the company taken several years ago, and I’m surprised and delighted to see myself in the background, wearing a swan maiden headpiece, my hands over my head in a fifth position pose. Beside me is Sayaka, and next to her, Maria-Elena. How young we look. And how serious. It feels like a million years ago instead of only six.
Still strolling down memory lane, I leave the store and head for the Grand Foyer. When I get there, the theater doors are open, but so are the doors to the terrace. I step outside for some fresh air and memories before taking my seat.
Drawn to Vaughn’s and my weeping willow, I walk past the fountain, seeking its verdant shade, as though seeing it again will affirm that Vaughn and I once existed— we were real —in those soft, perfect moments we shared.
As I approach, I see a man and woman sitting side by side, their heads down as they stare at their phones. The woman wears a dark blue shirt dress with white socks and sneakers. The man, who is impeccably dressed, has dark, thick hair and…and— No. Wait. It can’t be.
My feet keep moving forward, but my skin prickles, and my lips go numb.
He looks up, and I gasp with shock.
Stormy gray. Vaughn.
“Sasha?” His mouth drops open, followed by a full-face smile. “Sasha!”
He jumps up, staring wide-eyed at me from under our weeping willow.
“Vaughn?” I murmur, feeling wobbly. “S-Sorry. I mean…I— Ivan Stepanov?”
I will not faint. I have never fainted. I am scared I might faint.
I vaguely register an arm sliding around my waist. I am moved quickly but gently to the cement wall we used to share.
“Cordelia!” he says urgently. “Get her some water. Please!”
The woman who was seated beside him leaps up and rushes inside.
I look up at Vaughn, who still has his arm around my waist.
“It’s you,” I whisper.
“It’s me,” he answers.
I was worried about ghosts. It never occurred to me that Vaughn Cigno, in flesh and blood, might actually be here tonight.
“Are you okay?” His eyes scan my face like he’s worried about me.
I’m staring at him. I can’t seem to get my mind around the fact that he’s here, sitting beside me. Get a hold of yourself, Sasha!
“I’m…okay. I—I skipped dinner.” My heart thunders almost painfully.
The woman he was sitting with—Cordelia?—returns, thrusting a bottle of water at me.
“Drink up,” she advises. “It’s stupid hot out tonight.”
“Hey,” says Vaughn to the woman, “did they have any food inside?”
“Yeah. Snacks. Like chips and stuff.”
“Can you grab her a couple of things?”
“No problem,” says Cordelia, disappearing once again.
“No milk!” he yells after her. “Nothing with milk!”
I drink the water and sit up, away from his arm, which was still pressed against my back, holding me up.
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Are you sure? Cordelia’s getting food. Maybe you should eat something.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, glancing at him ( damn it, he looks good!) before taking another gulp of water. “This is so strange…I mean—I didn’t expect to see you, um, anyone, that…you know, that I knew.”
“Neither did I,” he says, and for the first time, I realize his voice is a little breathless too.
“Is she, um…” I clear my throat. “Is Cordelia your girlfriend?”
“No,” he says. “My assistant.”
“Good,” I say. “Good for you, I mean…because, um, she seems very efficient.”
His lips quirk up just a touch, and I’m reminded of the day he caught me staring at his ass— er, um, his book —in the Grand Foyer.
“Yes,” he says. “She is.”
On cue, Cordelia returns with a bag of potato chips and some gummy bears. She holds them up in front of me.
“Which one?”
I take the candy from her. Maybe a jolt of sugar will help.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, staring at me for an extra second, like she’s trying to figure out who I am. She glances at Vaughn. “I’m going to go grab our seats.”
“Great,” he says. “I’ll be there soon.”
As I pop a handful of gummy bears in my mouth, I realize that I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. I was too excited about my little getaway to eat anything.
“So…how’s your family doing?”
I look up at Vaughn, tracing his face with my eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden and unwanted joy that bubbles up from deep inside of me. He looks much the same as he did about a year ago when we met in London: his hair is carefully coiffed, and his face is lean and gorgeous. But he looks healthier , I think. More whole and less haunted. Not to mention, wearing a tan suit with a light-blue dress shirt, no tie and sock-less loafers, he looks— oh, fuck —delicious.
“Sorry. What?”
“Your family,” he says. “I was asking how they’re doing.”
“My family?”
“Yes. The last time I saw you, you were headed home. Your Bubbie had just had a heart—”
“Attack. Right. Yes. She’s good,” I say, placing the package gummy bears beside me. “She had surgery and rehab…and now…now, she’s good. Doing well. Thanks for asking.”
“Your parents? Brothers?”
“All good.” I look up at him again, relaxing a little as we chat about my family. “Did you know my brother Greg married Sayaka?”
He grins at me. “That’s amazing.”
“Best sister-in-law ever.”
“I’ll bet.” He chuckles softly. “I always liked her.”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. He leans his face away from me like I’ve smacked him, and maybe—verbally, speaking—I have. His smile dims, and I rush to apologize. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so harsh. I…I just don’t—”
The concertina bells ring, alerting patrons that the ballet is about to start. He glances at the Grand Foyer, then looks at me, his eyes gentle and kind.
“I’ll be back here at intermission,” he says, standing up, “and again after the show. If you want to talk more, come and meet me.” He smiles at me, and it’s a strange smile. It’s warm and sad and hopeful all at once. “It’s really good to see you, Sasha.”
“Thanks for the…” I hold up the water.
“Anytime.”
He stares at me for a moment, then turns around and walks back into the theater.
I put the package of gummy bears in my purse, take another swig of water from the bottle, and follow him inside.
***
Bubbie treated me to a pretty decent seat, but instead of losing myself in A Midsummer Night’s Dream , I’m distracted. My mind keeps wandering back to Vaughn and our chance meeting outside.
First of all, I’m blown away by the differences between the Vaughn I just ran into and the Ivan I met in London last year. Ivan was so cold and indifferent to me that first evening on the sidewalk near the Royal Ballet. And later, at the art gallery, and even at Lara’s, he’d acted so haughty and superior.
But tonight?
He’d helped me sit down, asked his assistant to get me water and food, and asked about my family.
If anything, it was me who was rude tonight, demanding to know why he was attending the theater, when he has every right to be here, just like me.
As Ming flits across the stage in fairy wings, ably fulfilling her role, I can’t stop thinking about him, and trying to puzzle out what’s brought him to D.C. Why is he here? Why isn’t he carousing in London with his horrible brother? Or on a yacht in the Mediterranean? Or in his private jet headed to Thailand to indulge in lewd and lascivious—
Stop it, Sasha. That’s enough.
Ming does an enviable Grand Adage on stage, demonstrating incredible strength and balance by doing a series of attitudes and similar poses, slowly, but without stopping. She’s good. I have to hand it to her.
I’ll be back here at intermission and again after the show. If you want to talk more, come and meet me.
Damn it, but it’s impossible to stop thinking about him.
I should stay seated for the single intermission between acts, and hurry from the theater when the show’s over to avoid him.
I should. Definitely.
But to be honest, Mendelssohn’s dramatic score isn’t making my decision-making process any easier. It makes everything feel more romantic and urgent and intense than it probably is. I want to meet him. I want to talk to him. I want to know why he’s here. I want to gauge if he’s really changed from the person he was in London.
You’re at the ballet, for heaven’s sake! Concentrate on the show.
I sit up straight and mindfully watch the performers with a critical eye, but to be honest, I can’t find much fault. The sets and costumes are lovely, and the dancing is on pointe , especially Ming’s, which is full of emotion and grace. All too soon, her Pas de Deux with Bottom, the donkey, has come and gone, and Puck puts the pairs to right as the curtain falls on Act I.
The lights come up.
I take a deep breath, stand up, and head for a certain weeping willow.
***
Vaughn
I leave my seat before the curtains close, eager to get to my spot the terrace in case she takes me up on my offer. I couldn’t stop thinking about her for the last 80-minutes, bewildered and bemused by the fact that we’d both show up to the ballet on the same night. And in a sea of a thousand or more people, that we should run into each other.
Fate. Kismet. Grace.
I had intended for the next time I saw Sasha Collins to be our last first meeting and our first step toward a forever together. I was going to plan something memorable and charming to sweep her off her feet, and instead I offered her a bottle of water and some gummy bears.
Mortals plan, and God laughs.
It’s cooler outside now than it was before the performance, a breeze off the Potomac making the evening more comfortable.
I scan the glass doors, my heart in my throat.
After the way I treated her in London, I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t come. But I hope. Oh, please, give me one more chance, sweet Sasha.
And then, like God himself heard the whisperings of my heart, I see her.
Dressed like an angel in light blue, she walks toward me, her eyes catching mine, a cautious grin lifting the sides of her lips.
I promise I will never, ever hurt you again .
I stand up to greet her.
“You came,” I say, holding out my hands to her and surprised when she takes them, squeezing them lightly before taking a seat.
“Curiosity got the better of me,” she confesses, placing her tan bag beside her. Her brown eyes, so familiar and so dear to my heart, look up at me, seeking answers.
“You have questions.”
“So many,” she says, with a rueful laugh.
I grin at her. “Well, go ahead. I’m ready.”
“Why are you here?”
“I moved back a few months ago,” I tell her. “I have an apartment across the Potomac in Arlington.”
She gestures gracefully to the theater. “Isn’t this a little dull after Moscow, Paris, and London?”
“This is home,” I say. “I think I wanted those other places to feel like home, but they didn’t. I spoke Russian when I was a toddler, of course, but I consider English my first language. I understand American people and customs. For better or worse, this is where I feel most comfortable. This is where I want to be.”
“So you moved back,” she says.
“Yes. In June.”
She looks down at her lap, clasping her hands together. Her voice is chilly when she says, “I’m sure your brother misses you.”
“He does,” I say. “But Mikhail and I want different things out of life. I’ll always love him. He’s my blood. But I have to make my own way…be my own man, you know?
Halfway through this response, she looks up at me, her eyes luminous and full of wonder. “Yes. I—I know. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are you?”
She nods, then looks away. Being together again is overwhelming. I get it.
I nudge her gently with my elbow. “Anything else you want to know?”
“I don’t know. I’m still sort of stunned to see you.”
“I’m glad to hear your Bubbie’s better. And that your family’s doing well. How are you doing? How’s your hip? Where are you dancing?”
She looks like she’s about to answer, then drops her head, staring down at her lap. As much as I’ve wanted to use a private detective to follow her around and figure out what she does every day, she made it clear in London that she thought those methods were creepy, so I’ve promised myself not to use them anymore where she’s concerned. I follow her on Instagram, but she rarely posts. So, I really have no idea what she’s been up to since returning to Maryland last fall.
“I took a break after London,” she says. “To spend time with my family.”
“Are you teaching?”
“No.”
“Huh.” This surprises me. She loves dancing. I don’t understand why she’d take such an extended absence from it, unless she was unable to continue. “Is it your hip?”
She lifts her chin, her tone no nonsense. “It’s my choice .”
I nod, backing away from a topic that’s obviously pressing on a nerve.
“Are you working?” she asks, a little bite to her tone.
I keep my voice even. “I am, actually.”
“Really? What are you doing?”
I was hoping she’d ask me this. I tilt my head to the side, taking a gamble. “Are you in town overnight? I could show you what I’m doing…if you’re free tomorrow.”
“Oh. Is it like a shop?”
“Um…well, it’s a place, but not a business, exactly. You’ll understand the project a lot better if you see it.”
“I don’t know,” she says. The concertina bells ring. Act II is about to begin. “I have brunch plans.”
“Please, Sasha,” I ask her, reaching for her hand. “Please. It would mean a lot to me.”
She looks down at her hand in mine, and to my surprise, she doesn’t instantly jerk it away. She lets me hold it.
“I guess I have a little time…after brunch…before heading home.”
“I’ll pick you up. Where are you staying?”
“The Washington Hilton.”
“One o’clock?”
“I’ll be ready.”
I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her skin, breathing in the scent of lavender and talc. When I lower her hand and release it, her brown eyes are wide and surprised, but her lips tilt up in a tentative smile, and pink blossoms stain her cheeks.
“See you tomorrow,” I say.
She stands up. “See you then.”
***
As she walked back into the theater last night, I opened the web page for a local florist and arranged to have flowers waiting for her at the Washington Hilton when she returned from the ballet.
At around midnight, I receive a brief text from Sasha thanking me for the bouquet and sharing that she looked forward to seeing me tomorrow.
Lying in bed, reading her message again and again, it occurs to me that in order to send that text, she had to unblock me from her phone, which fills me with happiness and hope. We are back in communication. Maybe we’re even getting back on track. And if I don’t fuck up things this time, I may be able to convince her that I’m worthy of her love.
For so many reasons, not the least of which is that I’ve been in love with her for seven long years, my physical longing for Sasha borders on painful. Seeing her tonight, looking so beautiful—her dark hair up in in chignon, her silk dress fluttering in the evening breeze, the pearls around her neck complementing the creaminess of her skin—I can’t stop picturing her. I can’t stop remembering the end of that summer together when I could kiss her whenever I wanted to, when her body melted into mine because she wanted it to.
Of all the women I’ve been with in my life, only one stands out—the touch of her lips, the taste of her mouth, the soft, round globes of her breasts in my palms. Sasha is the only woman who’s ever mattered to me. My attraction to her, my hunger for her, is unyielding.
Poets and madmen talk about attraction. About one heart seeking another. About souls reuniting. And yes, I feel all of that for Sasha. But it’s more primitive than that, isn’t it? Iron and magnet. Moon and earth. Pairs overwhelm the natural world, and the distillation is simple. It all comes down to attraction. To gravity.
My rivers tilt toward you.
I— in all of my forms, in every form —tilt toward Sasha— in all of her forms, in every form —forever.
I will tilt toward Sasha forever.
I belong to her.
My soul is hers. My heart. My body.
And never again will another woman touch me while she is yet living.
Because as long as Sasha breathes, my only hope, my only wish, my only object, is to be with her.
I turn off my phone, roll to my side, and dream.
***
Before I can get out of the car and open the door for her, she’s already sliding into the passenger seat and buckling her seat belt.
“Hi,” she says. “You’re right on time.”
I give her a look. “I would’ve gotten your door for you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of opening my door for myself.”
“I know…I just wanted to—”
“Not necessary.” She smiles at me. “The flowers you sent were beautiful.”
“Were they?”
“Yes. All in blue. Hydrangeas, cornflowers, and irises.”
“You wore blue to the ballet last night,” I say, chancing a look at her.
Sometimes it hurts to look at Sasha. It hurt when I was a janitor. It hurt in London. And it hurts now. Desperately wanting what you don’t have is excruciating.
“Thank you, again,” she says softly, facing front.
I put the car into drive and pull away from the circular driveway of the hotel, onto Colombia Road NW.
“Where are we headed?” she asks.
“Brentwood.”.
Though I keep my eyes on the road, in my peripheral vision, I see her head whip to face me. “Brentwood! That’s where you work?”
With the highest crime rate in Washington D.C., Brentwood is not somewhere you visit. Brentwood is somewhere you avoid at all costs. And someone like Sasha, who lives in Maryland and worked in Washington D.C., knows it.
“You trust me?” I ask her.
“Absolutely not.”
“You got in my car.”
“I was curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Is it also going to kill the Sasha?”
I chuckle softly. “Not while there’s breath in my body, котик .”
I’m surprised when she doesn’t object to the old endearment. She’s quiet for a second before asking, “Why do you work in Brentwood?”
“That’s where I was sold,” I say.
“Vaughn.” She whimpers softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, then rush to add: “I—I mean…it’s not okay . It’s not okay that I was kidnapped or sold, of course. But the sellers chose this neighborhood because no one cared. Crime was high. Selling a toddler to a young couple in a parking lot wouldn’t have hit anyone’s radar. I wanted to change that. I wanted to bring something new to this neighborhood.”
“I think I pictured an office building or retail shop,” she says.
“Something you said to me in Paris really hit hard,” I confess. “You asked me what I did during the day. You asked if I was useful and if I made the world a better place.” I swallow, and it’s painful because there’s a growing lump in my throat. “And the truth, at the time, was that I didn’t do anything during the day. I wasn’t useful. And I wasn’t doing anything to make the world a better place.”
“I had no right to judge you.”
I stop at a red light and turn to her.
“If not you, Sasha, then who?” She’s about to answer when I stop her by speaking again. “Did you ever hear that story of the foster kid who brought his father’s gun to school? He’s planning to kill himself after school. But then, a teacher reads something he’s written and tells him that he’s promising and talented. He takes the gun home and puts it away. He lives another day…all because one person saw him. One person cared .” The light turns green. I feel tears welling in my eyes, so I’m grateful to look away from her and stare out the windshield. “You’ve done that for me twice now. Seen me. Cared enough to try to save me. Once in your dressing room when I was twenty-four. And once in Paris when you held up a mirror to who I’d become.”
“Vaughn…” I think she’s crying. Or about to.
“You’ve saved my life twice,” I tell her.
“No.”
“You’ve saved my life twice,” I tell her again, my conviction unwavering.
She’s quiet for the rest of the short drive, and I can only hope that she’s processing and accepting my words because it’s important to me that she understands that I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her.
“We’re here,” I say, pulling up to the sidewalk and putting the car in park.
Across the street, there’s a vacant lot—only recently vacant because I just had two buildings knocked down to make room for new construction.
“Come on,” I say, getting out of the car and rounding the bumper to open her door for her.
She unbuckles her seat belt and steps from the car, standing beside me on the sidewalk. I gesture to my lot. A billboard posted in the large, fenced rectangular area says that Fostering the Arts owns the land and has permits to build.
She follows me across the street, we stand at the chain link fence.
“What’s Fostering the Arts ?”
“It’s a non-profit I’ve started,” I tell her. “I thought about what you said…about making the world a better place. So, I spent six months shadowing my sister’s non-profit in Moscow. And then I came home to start my own.”
She turns to me, her eyes wide and surprised, her lips parted. She scans my face, then chuckles softly. “Tell me about it.”
“This land is mine. And I have permission to build here. I’m still in the process of getting the plans finished, but I’m building a place for foster children to learn about the performing arts. Over there—” I gesture to the far left. “—will be the building entrance. Welcome desk. Free vending machines with drinks and snacks. Bathrooms. A long hallway to the left will have lesson and practice rooms for the kids interested in learning to play piano or violin. And then, on the other side, another hallway with a large ballet studio, two smaller studios for practicing, and a black box theater.”
I can picture it. I can picture it all.
“Vaughn!” she exclaims. I feel her eyes on me.
When I slide my gaze to her face, her eyes are full of tears, but her smile— oh, god, her smile —is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re creating something…” She pauses, then turns back to the cleared lot. “Wonderful!”
“I hope so.”
“A place for foster children to learn how to play instruments and perform… Fostering the Arts ,” she whispers, her voice full of emotion. “This is your work.”
“Thanks to you,” I tell her. “All thanks to you, Sasha.”
“I can’t take credit for this,” she says. “This is you .”
“You approve?” I ask. I know she does, but I want to hear the words.
“I’m blown away,” she whispers. “I’m…so impressed, Vaughn. It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing here.”
I grin at her, picturing kids walking up this sidewalk to attend classes or perform in recitals. Having a place like Fostering the Arts in this neighborhood could revitalize the whole area.
“It feels good.”
Her phone trills, and she takes it out of the back pocket of her jeans. “I set an alarm. I need to get going.”
“Already?” My heart drops. I was hoping for more time. The whole afternoon. Maybe even dinner.
She nods. “Sorry. Yes. I promised my mother I’d be home by four.”
We walk back across the street to the car. I open her door and close it behind her, my mind desperately trying to find a way to extend our time together. I sit down in the driver’s seat and turn to her.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
She looks surprised. “I…um, why are you asking?”
“Because if you are,” I say, “I shouldn’t ask you out for dinner next weekend. But if I do ask you out for dinner…” I grin at her, knowing she’ll understand my reference to our shared history. “…it’s because I’m asking you out on a date. Not as friends.”
The pause between us feels eternal, and everything within me hopes and prays that she’s not attached, that the stars are aligned, and our time has finally come.
“I’m not seeing anyone right now,” she says softly.
“Are you free for dinner next weekend?” I ask her.
She peeks at me, her cheeks rosy. “I don’t work on Friday nights.”
“You’re staying with your parents?” I only assume this because she said she promised her mother she’d be home by four. When she nods, I ask, “Can I send a car to pick you up at six on Friday?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I think my heart stops beating. It’s a gamble for her, of course. I hurt her when I left Washington for Moscow and made it worse when we ran into each other in London. She doesn’t have to give me another chance. But I would give up everything else in my life for a chance to prove to her that I can be the man she wants.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her head turn toward the empty lot with the large white billboard. She stares at the future site of Fostering the Arts for a moment before turning back to me.
“Okay,” she says. “Dinner sounds nice.”