1. Maeve
Chapter 1
Maeve
February
T his is going to be bad .
My ankle twists beneath me as I hit the ground with a sharp thud, my wrist bending back as I try to break my fall. The pounding in my chest nearly drowns out the collective gasp in the room, and I close my eyes, breathing through the pain.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” a sugary voice calls out as the pianist’s rendition of Rondo Alla Turca peters out amidst the fuss.
I glare up at the raven-haired ballerina standing nearby, my hand twitching to grab her by the bun and toss her. She’s been fucking with me for months, but I didn’t think she’d go this far.
“Watch it, Manon, my God!” cries Miss Sabine, lavender ballet skirt fluttering as she hurries over. Kneeling beside me on the hardwood floor, she reaches for the ankle I’m cradling. “Are you okay, Maeve?”
“I don’t know.” But I do know. This feels a lot worse than the sprain I had back in college, and that had me on my ass for weeks. The other dancers crowd around me, their faces a mixture of concern and pity—all except for one, of course. Manon stays at the edge of the crowd, her doll-like blue eyes glittering as they meet mine. I stare her down until she folds her arms and looks away. Bitch.
Sabine sighs, touching her fingers gently to my rapidly swelling ankle. “This doesn’t look good. Wes, help me get her off the floor.”
Wes, the company’s principal male dancer, comes forward. His normally stoic expression flickers with sympathy for a second before he bends and scoops me into his arms.
Startled, I grab his arm. “Oh!”
Sabine sighs. “That works too, I guess.” She claps her hands twice, and I glance back as she addresses the rest of the class. “All right, back to the wall. We only have a few minutes left.”
The pianist starts over as the dancers resume the cha?né turns we were doing before Manon ran into me like a classically trained Mac truck. Now she steps to the front of the line, arms raised gracefully as she begins spinning across the floor. She’s as pretty as she is rotten.
When class is over, Sabine emerges from the storeroom with a pair of old crutches. “Use these for as long as you need, okay? Hopefully your ankle’s not as bad as it looks.”
It is that bad, but I force a smile as I loop my bag over my shoulder and steady myself on the crutches. “Thanks.”
I don’t wait for her to make excuses for her bratty little sister. Sabine might run this studio, but Manon is its star. I know where her loyalties lie. Taking a deep breath, I hobble out to my car in the parking lot behind the studio. My right foot is fine, so technically I can drive. It’ll just be a little awkward.
Not surprisingly, Callum hasn’t responded to any of my calls or texts yet. He does marketing and promotion for his uncle’s company, so he’s constantly on the go. I didn’t mind so much the first few months, because I was busy too, settling in at a new dance company and exploring my surroundings. We’ve been together a long time so we tend to do our own thing.
But eventually the novelty wore off. The gorgeous house in the Berkeley Hills with its stunning views started feeling empty and lonely, and when Callum was home, his friends were usually with him. The life I’d envisioned for us, the one he’d sold me when he begged me to move across the country to be with him, felt like a mirage that disappeared the closer to it I got.
Times like this I wonder, in the quietest part of my brain, if I made the wrong choice coming out here. Back home in Boston I had a solid spot in my company’s corps de ballet. And I had— have —a lot of people who love me. People who’d be around to pick me up from dance and help me take care of this ankle. But I’m not home, and apparently, I have only myself.
I’m merging onto the 580 when Callum finally calls back. “Hey,” he says, his voice filling my car via the Bluetooth connection. “Just saw your texts. Are you okay? Can you walk on it?”
“Not without crutches,” I reply. “Sabine lent me some, though. She probably feels bad.”
He pauses, and I can hear him talking to someone else before returning to me. I roll my eyes. Of course , he’s with the guys. He might as well be married to his cousin Griff and bestie Mac. They followed him out to the West Coast too, but unlike me, they actually get to see him. “About your fall?” he says finally.
“About her sister tripping me.”
“Manon tripped you?” he asks. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she’s psychotic,” I say, wincing as my ankle brushes the side of the car. “I told you she’s had it out for me since I got here.”
He chuckles, which really fucking irritates me. I won’t be able to dance for God knows how long because another ballerina tripped me and he’s laughing ?
“Glad you find this so amusing.”
“Sorry, Mae. It’s just.” He pauses. “Crazy. I can’t imagine her doing something like that. She’s always seemed so sweet.”
“Because you’re not a threat to her.” In fact, he’s the opposite—whenever I see Manon around Callum, she’s a flirty little beam of sunshine. “Ballet is competitive, Callum. Manon is everyone’s favorite, and she wants to keep it that way.”
Manon and Sabine’s family owns Michel’s, a small, exclusive dance company in the heart of Oakland. I was only invited to audition as a favor to Callum’s mother, whose family has known the Michels for years. It’d seemed like a stroke of good luck at first, but I soon realized that the tight-knit group of dancers, while polite, had no room for a newcomer. I was promptly put in the corps and forgotten about.
Well, until they realized how good I was. Manon did not like that, hence the passive-aggressive bs.
Traffic slows. I peek down at my throbbing ankle, now a nasty bloom of black and blue. I’ll have to elevate it as soon as I get home. I swallow the lump in my throat, desperate to keep it together .
“Crazy,” Callum says again, sounding distracted. “Anyway, you’re strong. You’ll probably be back on it in a week or two.”
“I don’t know,” I say dubiously. “It feels pretty bad this time.”
“So, rest it. Take a break.”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but once I start spiraling it’s hard to stop. The last time I was forced to take an injury-related break, it cost me a solo in my university’s production of Le Corsaire . I know how easy it is to fall behind, especially in the world of dance.
“You should come down to San Clemente with me this weekend,” he goes on, oblivious to my angst. “It’ll be fun.”
“Fun for you, maybe. I won’t be able to walk,” I remind him.
“Better than moping around at home,” he quips. Someone yells something in the background and they all laugh. “Anyway, I gotta go. See you at home.”
“Fine.” My chest cracks, and the tears I’ve been holding back for the past hour finally spill free.
It’s nearly dusk by the time I pull into the driveway. There’s no one else home, not that I expected there to be. Popping a couple of extra-strength ibuprofen, I struggle through a quick shower and grab a glass of wine before collapsing into bed.
We have a housekeeper who does a lot of the shopping, so the kitchen is generally well-stocked, but there’s no way in hell I’m making dinner tonight. Instead, I pull up a delivery app on my phone and order in.
I’m just polishing off my Greek salad when Callum’s Mercedes roars into the driveway, followed by another vehicle. Griff’s, I’m sure. He’s one of the Barry cousins from Brooklyn—he and Mac moved out here soon after Callum did. The front door opens, their voices echoing in the foyer as they come inside.
A moment later, Callum enters our bedroom, pouting when he sees my ankle propped on pillows and wrapped in ice packs. “Hey, baby.”
Putting my salad aside, I wipe my hands on a napkin. “Hey.”
He comes closer, letting his backpack fall to the floor as he leans down to kiss me. His cheeks are flushed. “I’m really sorry about your ankle,” he says softly, ghosting his fingers over it. “You wanna smoke or something?”
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “I just want to sleep.”
Nodding, he grabs his backpack and disappears into the walk-in closet. “I got us an Airbnb right on the beach,” he calls, voice muffled.
Frowning, I stare at the half-open closet door. “What?”
“In San Clemente,” he says, reappearing. “You said you can’t really walk, so I got us one with a pool and a hot tub facing the water. You won’t even have to leave; you’ll love it.”
“Oh.” This doesn’t delight me the way it should. For one thing, he was going to go anyway. This is a business trip, so he’ll be busy … as usual. Bit also, I’m willing to bet his stupid friends are going to be there. “Where are Griffin and Mac staying?”
He shrugs, rifling through the mess of shit on his nightstand. “I don’t know. A hotel, I guess.” After a while, he seems to remember I’m there, because he glances over his shoulder at me. “What? I thought you’d be happy.”
“I … am.”
He snorts. “Yeah, I can tell.”
“I’m just really bummed right now, Callum,” I say quietly. “This injury is really going to derail my plans.”
“That’s why I’m getting you out of town for a few days.” Opening a drawer, he grabs something and slides it into his pocket.
I rub my face, wondering how we got here. We used to be on the same page, emotionally, but now it’s like there’s a glass wall between us. We see each other, but we can’t connect. “Thank you,” I say eventually, not wanting to seem ungrateful.
“You don’t sound thankful,” he teases, but there’s an edge to his voice.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I cry, worn out by this conversation. By this whole damn day . Is it too much to ask for him to just stop and listen ? To sympathize? “I’ve had a shit day?—”
“Yeah, I got it, Maeve,” Callum says, slamming the drawer so hard the lamp wobbles.
I freeze, watching as he turns around to look at me. His face is flushed, a sure sign he’s pissed off. Is he really that upset I don’t feel like going on a road trip with him? Is he this clueless? “What is your problem?”
He scoffs, rubbing his nose. “My problem’s that you’ve been bitching nonstop and nothing I say seems to be helping. I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Are you serious right now?” I huff in disbelief. “This is not about you, Callum! I can’t dance because I have a sprained ankle and it really, really hurts!” I point to the bruised, swollen mess.
“Yeah, that sucks, but there’s nothing you can do about it at this point,” he says, throwing his hands up. “It happened, so you can either stay here and have a fucking pity party or you can come with me to get your mind off it. You might actually have some fun. Remember fun ? We used to have it all the time.”
I stare at him, stunned. He usually doesn’t get this shitty and rude unless we’re hardcore arguing and I didn’t think we were.
Something about my expression must get through to him, because his face falls. Sighing, he pushes his hand through his hair and comes to my side of the bed. He squats beside me, gently squeezing my hand. “Look, I’m sorry baby. I know you’re in pain. I just hate seeing you like this, you know? It’s frustrating. But we’ll do whatever you want, okay? Let me know what you decide.”
My heart flutters anxiously, but I nod, preferring this version of Callum to the one of ten seconds ago. He’s always been a passionate person, but lately his emotions shift so unpredictably, from one extreme to another, that I never know what to expect.
He presses a kiss to my lips before straightening up. “I’m meeting Uncle Dario down at the club, but I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay,” I whisper, nodding again.
He leaves, and a moment later his car growls to life. I stare at the wall, listening to him and the guys peel out of the driveway like sixteen-year-olds with new licenses. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m being negative and whiny, and I should just get over myself. Maybe I should go to San Clemente.
Or maybe I should just go home to Boston. I could use some girl time with Bria, maybe even an ice cream date with Liam. And there’s nothing like Sunday Mass and brunch with the Kelly family. The images float around like happy bubbles, buoyant and bright .
But then reality sets in, popping them all. I open my eyes with a small, humorless laugh. I can’t go home now—it hasn’t even been six months. What would I say—that it didn’t work out? That everyone was right? Because that’s what they’d all think.
Things have been weird with my parents since I moved out here. They don’t like that I gave up my career for a guy, even though it wasn’t even like that. They just don’t like Callum, period, and that hurts. It feels like in rejecting him they’re rejecting a part of me. I know how he comes off, but they don’t know him like I do. They don’t see his sweet side or his silly side, and they don’t even try.
Whatever. San Clemente it is. Groaning, I grab my crutches and hobble over to the walk-in closet. Kneeling on the hardwood floor, I dig around my purses and bags until I find my favorite weekender. We won’t be gone for too long, so it’s perfect.
“Oof,” I mutter, pulling it toward me. It’s heavy, like I forgot something in there. I haven’t used it since the last time I flew to Boston, last Christmas, and I can’t imagine what I would’ve left in it. Unzipping the bag, I peer inside. At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at, so I pull out one of the small, plastic-wrapped packages for a better look.
My mouth goes dry. I’m fairly sure this is cocaine. There are maybe ten or twelve packages inside the bag, all wrapped in brown paper and clear plastic. Zipping the bag shut, I shove it back into the corner and scramble out of the closet.
Callum likes to party, and I’ve long feared his drug use could become problematic, but this isn’t that. This is evidence that he’s still dealing, even though he said, when he left the East Coast, that he was done with all that.
I feel stupid for believing him. It’s not like I’m an innocent, na?ve little flower. I come from one of the biggest crime families in Boston. My dad and brothers don’t run drugs, but they’ve got their hands in plenty of other things, so I grew up around that life. It’s not a life I really wanted for myself, though, and Callum knows that. He’s always known that. I put up with his dealing when we were younger because it always seemed like something he did on the side. He always had other stuff going on: sports and academics in high school and college, interning at his father’s corporate office afterward. When he moved out here, it was to help run his uncle’s club. He was going to be a promoter, he said .
And that’s what he’s been saying. But now his behavior over the past few months makes more sense. The constant absences, the trips, the weird randos stopping by. He never stopped dealing.
It’s like wiping fog from a mirror, how it all becomes so clear. Callum has been different since he moved to the Bay, I haven’t been imagining things. His impatience and volatile mood swings, the near constant need for sex ... it’s as if he’s a more exaggerated version of his worst self.
I lie back on the bed, pressing my fingers to my eyes.
My boyfriend is a dealer, an addict, and a liar. What the hell have I gotten myself into?