23. Maeve
CHAPTER 23
MAEVE
Sunday, he leaves me alone, and after what happened on Saturday, I’m grateful for it. Whenever I think of what we did, I imagine my family as an audience, sneering and pointing. My cheeks burn so brightly it’s a physical pain. I’m a whore. I’m ashamed. If I didn’t hate myself before, I certainly do now.
Sunday night comes with a knock on the door.
No one has ever knocked, so I’m not sure what to do, and I sit there stupidly until it opens on its own and a team of men file in, carrying boxes. They don’t say anything to me when I try to greet them. Instead, they fill the closet, and begin unpacking. All of twenty minutes later, they’re done and gone, with the door locked once more. I step into the closet and find all the contents of my closet from my apartment.
I never told Diego where I lived or gave him a key, yet this is literally everything. Chills break out over my skin at the depth of the intrusion. He wasn’t kidding when he said he made it his job to know about the Sinclairs. What’s yours is mine runs insidiously through my head.
My eyes move around the room, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. What else could he be watching? He’s not got eyes on me now, does he? How could I think I was so clever when the reality is that I’ve always had someone aware of my every step? Did I ever fool anyone but myself?
I sleep fitfully that night, wrestling with how stupid I’ve been in every facet of my life. How powerless I am and have always been, and how that doesn’t seem to be changing any time soon. The mercy of not seeing Diego doesn’t last, and on Monday morning, he’s at my door.
“Rehearsal time,” he says from the doorway. “Get dressed. You’re due at the theater.”
I stare at him, not sure what to make of the sudden change. A deep sinking feeling in my gut tells me it’s more of the garden party, more humiliations for me to endure. It doesn’t help that there’s a strange guilty twist to the set of his mouth that I haven’t seen since we were kids.
I miss ballet enough to ignore my misgivings and be tempted by the offer. My life is usually full of adrenaline and people pleasing. This lack of input is getting to me. I’m cooped up in here, and stir-crazy enough to convince myself to have hope. There might be some shred of kindness left in him somewhere.
I stare at his beautiful face, then the hands that put his name on my neck. I don’t really have a choice anyway. I do what he tells me, when he tells me to. Maybe I should fight him more, but I think my brain is falling apart like they talk about in those true crime shows. I’m becoming loyal to my captor.
“Okay,” I finally agree without further discussion. He stares at me for another minute before he shuts the door so I can change.
I get dressed as quickly as possible, and I recognize it’s insane to be this excited for anything Diego has planned. I should know better by now than to trust anything, yet I look at his name tattooed on my neck in the mirror, and I hope for good.
Embarrassing me embarrasses him now too… doesn’t it?
Diego still has my phone, which is good after what happened with my family, but that means I haven’t talked to Lyla at all. I can only imagine she’s been blowing up my phone, wondering where I am. I’d do the same if she suddenly fell off the planet.
Dressing in my leotard and pale pink tights, I then find a comfy sweatshirt and loose shorts. I stuff my pointé shoes into a bag and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to get his attention to let him know I’m ready. Just when I’m considering banging on the door, he comes back for me. Convenient timing.
“Let’s go,” he says, pocketing his phone. A brief flare of jealousy flashes through me, and I almost ask who it is, but I don’t need to give him any more leverage over me.
No snarky comments, no mockery at all. His silence is thick, worse than his sarcastic demeanor. I swallow my fears because they don’t matter and follow him out. The silence stretches through the drive. I’m anxious at every stop sign, every bump and turn. He parks in front of the theater and nods to the entrance, letting me know it’s time for me to go. I want to ask why he’s so quiet, and what he’s planning that is worse than bringing me to my dad in that state, but I know better than to think he’ll tell me.
With resignation heavy on my shoulders, I hop out of the car. I can barely see the theater door with all the ballerinas blocking the entrance. I get chills thinking maybe this is a new casting call because they’re replacing me as the Black Swan.
I won’t blame them. I left without even letting them know if I was ever coming back, so it’s not crazy to think that they would replace me. It still feels odd since we don’t usually put our cast calls right in front of the theater.
As I get closer, I feel like this is something completely different. The mood is not of excitement. They whisper among themselves, judgmental words spoken so low I must have stepped into something bad.
“What’s happening?” I ask when I join the back of their cluster.
“Oh, Maeve!” One of the girls flinches when she sees me.
She makes a face. I think for a second she can see my shiny new tattoo, but I notice quickly she’s doing anything not to look at me. I’m confused, but before I can ask, they step to the side. The sea parts so I can have a look at what is attached to the door that has everyone’s attention.
My whole body freezes when I find myself face-to-face with my naked body. The reaction is quick and visceral. The shame takes over, a horrible tingling sensation that goes from head to toe. My cheeks burn bright red, and tears burn behind my eyes, threatening to fall.
This was before I started stealing cars; when I was so alone and without real connection, I thought I was going insane. A few drinks later, I thought I looked good, and I wanted proof for when it faded. A crazy part of me thinks that I still look good, and no matter how revealing it is, no one can pretend I’m ugly.
That belief doesn’t make this hurt less, and I rip the paper off, accidentally tearing the show poster beneath. “Dance, Sugarplum” last season’s production blazes instead of the advertisement for Mikhail’s Black Swan reimagining. I hold the crumpled paper against my chest as I aim for the entrance to the theater.
Stepping away, I crumple the picture in my hands and lift my chin to see Diego still parked there. He still doesn’t smile at me or mouth taunting words. He doesn’t need to. He’s destroying my life brick by brick, and I know he’s loving every minute of it. We watch each other for a long moment. My options are obvious. I can go back to his car until he drags me to face my fate, or I can do it myself.
“You’re just jealous of my ass.” I shrug confidently, but the second the door closes behind me, I gasp in pain.
I’m done giving Diego or anyone else satisfaction. I turn on my heels and head toward the changing room. They’ll be behind me shortly now that there’s nothing to look at.
My eyes stay cast down, watching my shoes as I quickly make the path straight to the dressing room. Why the hell did I stop for Miss Angie? I wish more than anything I had just run, that I could now. Forget this humiliating moment and all the other ones Diego has caused for me. My dreams come to a screeching halt when I step into the dressing room and find Lyla removing pictures of me from every cubby.
“You didn’t see the one out front?” I ask, and she turns, a guilty expression covering her face.
She shakes her head. “I came in the back with Mikhail.”
She doesn’t pause in her efforts. One by one, she rips them off, moving fast. My knees feel weak as I stand there and watch her work on my behalf. The big poster from out front is still pressed against my chest, and I look for a trash can to shove it into.
Lyla’s on her knees, removing the last of the pictures. When she’s finished, she puts them in the trash, then takes out the bag so there’s no chance of anyone removing and keeping them.
That’s when I break, and fat tears roll down my cheeks as she ties off the top.
It’s easy to pretend you don’t care around people you don’t care about. Lyla is the only person I ever wanted a deeper relationship with in this company. This is nothing compared to the tattoo on my neck, the papers, or the scorn from my family, yet it still fucking hurts.
Her eyes flare wide when she sees the tattoo, her brows pressing together in question and concern. The truth hangs on the tip of my tongue. Diego is my husband, my tormentor. I’m not ashamed of my body. I think I look good, but I am ashamed of their perception of me.
They’re making faces over my thick thighs, and I’m sure they’ve seen the gossip columns by now. I’m a social pariah, and even if I wasn’t, they already hated me for getting this role Mikhail had imagined. The ammunition to destroy me has already been spent, and now it’s just robbers picking over the remains of a broken and burned city. I want to shake their judgment off, but I guess I care more than I realize.
The voices of the other dancers break the silence as they file down the hall. Sure enough, they’re talking about the articles as well as the pictures. The shame is all-encompassing, and I wish I didn’t exist rather than having to live through the next few moments. Lyla? She jumps over to me, drying my tears with her thumbs. Her gray eyes are fierce as she gets my attention and forces me to look at her.
“No,” she whispers. “You’re not crying. Listen to me, you’re not.” She squeezes me until I look at her, so different from the way Diego did the same. Another tear falls, and Lyla shakes me rather than trying to comfort me. “Maeve, listen to me. They won’t see you cry. I’m not letting this happen.”
Lyla is usually so sweet and soft. She’s never been like this with me. She looks right into my soul, her face set in determination.
“I want to know what’s happening,” she whispers. “Whenever you’re ready to tell me, but right now, I need you not to give them any tears and pull yourself together.”
She’s right, but I don’t have time to tell her because the dancers come in. If I really want to beat them, I need to nail the best performance of my life. Lyla nods in approval toward me, and I take a breath.