The Unraveling

Chapter Twenty-Three

It might just be my elation, but the theater feels alive tonight. The show is amazing. The last night of a run can always be hit-or-miss. The exhaustion of being overworked sometimes kicks in; the tiredness catches up. But it’s best when the adrenaline hits. The feeling of This is it, this is the last chance until next time. And for some, the hopefulness that next time they will be in a better role. For the corps de ballet, they are praying this is their farewell to being one in a flock on the side of the stage. The soloists hope they have a shot at the Swan Queen next time. In a way, everyone dances as if it’s their last dance.

Tonight there is a magic onstage that simply cannot be pinpointed. The audience is there with us. A show depends not only on the dancers but on the audience as well. Sometimes I get onstage and feel like I’m performing in a darkened auditorium of bored teenagers. Other times it feels as though everyone in the theater was meant to be there on that very night. Like serendipity that leads to some unknowable resolution of fate.

I danced Big Swans and Princesses. I always laugh at the term big swans , as if being five foot six and a hundred and eight pounds is considered big.

I sent my friend Sylvie a text tonight before I went on, with a silly picture captioned, how the mighty have fallen! Last time I danced Swan Lake , Sylvie, who is a petite waif, was a little swan and I was Swan Queen. Sylvie quickly responded.

Ha! Big Swan, never! Odette better watch out you might eat her!…But for real Jocelyn I’m so proud of you! I love you and hope to see you soon!

The difference between a big swan and a little swan is literally two pounds and two inches. Finally, though, my muscles are starting to remember, and I’m starting to feel as limber, lean, and agile as I was before. I feel good tonight. As if a soft warmth radiates throughout my body and seems to get hotter and hotter until I nearly feel as though sparks are flying from my fingertips and toes.

I’m ready for Manon . I have found my way back to my career, to myself before it escaped.

The shadow has lifted tonight, and it is the first time in months there hasn’t been a dark, murmuring cloud over my head. Whenever I’ve not been focused in a rehearsal, my mind has wandered to my mother, to Mimi, and to Jordan and, unfortunately, Alistair. Try as hard as I might, I can’t stop thinking about him.

But not tonight. Tonight, I am Jocelyn. Sylvie is right to be proud. I’m the strong rebel she met all those years ago.

After the curtain call, we head up to our dressing rooms to take our makeup off, releasing our bones from the beautiful costumes, all the while knowing that outside, the audience is pouring onto the chilly street, chatting about the show or about where they’re going for drinks. Most people don’t know Balthazar across from the theater says they close at eleven p.m. but that’s just a lie they tell tourists.

A week ago, I sat there until two in the morning with one of the guys in the company. We shared green beans and wine as we bonded over ballet faux pas. His was accidently asking a principal to move barre spots. He thought it was a new corps member, not the new guest artist.

Now, as we all remove our costumes and makeup, I feel warm at the memory. Like maybe some things are falling into place.

Natasha, another soloist, announces to the dressing room that it’s snowing outside.

There’s an excited din at the news and everyone starts to get ready to leave a little more quickly. There’s a day off tomorrow, so people are talking about their plans. As I head to the showers the soloists share with the corps girls, I overhear that Arabella invited a group to her flat. I feel a little embarrassed. The age-old feeling of being left out. I quickly replace the feeling with a peaceful gratitude, knowing that Arabella is just jealous and bitchy. Plus, I am going home to a gorgeous flat, and soon I’ll be in Manon rehearsals.

Plus, I think, as my ear burns with the memory of her bite, who the hell wants to go hang out with Arabella when she’s clearly been possessed by the still-living soul of Mike Tyson?

If I wanted a booming social life, I could have flitted around with Jordan or sucked up to Arabella, but that’s not my focus right now. I’m a ballerina. That means work is my life. I have plenty of time to hang with filler friends the rest of my life.

I bundle up for the cold and prepare to walk home. It seems like my Louisiana blood might never get used to cold temperatures despite my living in New York City for six years.

I leave the dressing room and start walking down the hall, when I hear my name.

I turn to see Luca. He quickens his pace, smiling that absurdly gorgeous grin. He reaches me and says, “Congratulations.”

I’m a little stunned by his beauty. I don’t even know if I’m attracted to him. He’s just one of those people who is so undeniably gorgeous that he is everyone’s type.

“On—oh, on Manon ?” I stutter.

“Yes, I’m dancing as Des Grieux. Your penniless lover.”

He has a strong Spanish accent, and I crumble a little under how beautiful the words sound.

It’s just laughable how hot he is.

“Yeah! I can’t wait. It’s really exciting.”

As I step out of the stage door, I think back to a few years ago when I met Sylvie for brunch on the Upper West Side. It was snowing then, too, and I was even less prepared for the cold than I am today. That day, I remember distinctly that I was idiotically dressed in a short skirt and sheer tights.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon for rehearsals,” he says, giving me a friendly wave, and then heads off in the other direction.

I blink after him for a moment, watching him go, seeing that he’s meeting up with a group of people. Not dancers, just friends waiting for him.

I breathe in the air, which has that distinct snow smell, and take off down the road. I already know tomorrow, Sunday, the streets will be peaceful and quiet, everyone tucked into their little flats.

Yet there it is again. That sad little ping in my chest.

There’s a chance I’m kind of lonely.

I hate that word. Lonely. It’s so pitiful.

I think about my mom, then wonder why. If she was alive right now, I’d be staying as far from her as possible, not hunkering down to endure the storm with her. I guess it’s just that there’s something lonely about losing family, no matter how estranged. Besides Mimi, and whatever random rich dude my mom was fucking, she was my only known relative. So now Mimi is all I have, and she doesn’t seem to recognize me most of the time.

Yeah, that’s probably a pretty good reason to feel lonely.

It doesn’t hurt that I can’t stop thinking about Jordan and also Alistair. I can’t stop thinking about what either one is doing.

I sigh. There’s no use thinking about Jordan. He has a new girlfriend. That fucking blonde. I need to remember that. And I really shouldn’t be thinking of Alistair.

I need to stay in good spirits. It was such a good night. I don’t want to sit here, dragging myself down, remembering all the things that should be depressing the living shit out of me. I’ll call Sylvie later. We always have something to laugh about.

I get back to the building, Ivory Towers, and am allowed in by the doorman, who then calls me the elevator. I thank him, and he tells me to have a good night.

Once in the flat, I take my coat off and hang it in the coat closet by the front door, kicking off my shoes and letting my aching feet relax on the plush rug that sits in the entryway.

Usually, when I arrive home, there is fresh produce, and often there is dinner waiting for me.

There’s never anyone else in the place, but there’s evidence they’ve been there.

Someone has cooked and prepared dinner; someone has cleaned the bathroom and made the bed.

Someone has handwashed my ballet clothes and done laundry.

Someone has brought in an extravagant bouquet of fresh flowers.

It really is like living in a hotel and, from what people say, like visiting a nice parents’ house where they just want to take care of you. Except that I’m hyperaware of every little spill, slosh, and stub.

Tonight, however, there is no dinner. I feel like a psychology test subject: how long does it take her to expect a warm dinner prepared every night?

It’s not that I feel entitled to it, only that it’s what usually happens and I haven’t really prepared for what to do if it’s not provided.

I open the fridge, and see that there’s not really anything but eggs and random ingredients like a bed of wheatgrass and microgreens.

I’ll have to order something. I’ve done the eating-nothing-but-eggs-and-spinach starving-ballerina routine for the past few weeks and now I’m working hard enough that I feel like I don’t need to do that. Not tonight at least. Not when it’s snowing and I’ve got good news to celebrate.

First, I decide, I need to get out of these clothes. There are lots of places open late on a Saturday night, and it’s not that late yet, so I don’t think I have to worry about places closing, even in the snow.

I put on an old Beyoncé album and get into my loosest sweatpants and an old, oversized Nike T-shirt from the nineties that I found at a thrift store once and have worn to sleep in since high school. I put my hair in a loose bun and paint dark green mud onto my face. I grab my phone and the book Manon Lescaut to read again and curl up on the sofa.

I sing along with the music and scroll through Deliveroo, trying to drown out the urge that is once again creeping into my mind. Jordan versus Alistair.

I really want to text Jordan. I want to tell him I got the role. In some weird, perverse way, I want to show him this crazy penthouse and have him enjoy it with me. Yet, there’s another part of me fantasizing about being here with Alistair.

Ugh. I need to stop obsessing.

I want him to like me. Like I like him. I want to know if he thinks of me.

I shake off the forbidden thoughts of Alistair. I’m only thinking about him because I’m living in his space.

As much as I miss Jordan, I can’t call him. Or text him. Out of sheer pride, I have to resist. I mean, he hasn’t once tried to contact me. Not once. Probably because he’s got that other blond girl in his life now who says I love you and picks things up from his place. And who has a key , for fuck’s sake.

If I texted him, he’d probably say something awful like, I’m so happy for you. It’s good to hear you’re doing well. Something distant and uninvolved, something that makes me seem like a distant friend who just got out of rehab and is really getting her life back in shape.

Or he could ignore me. Or he could tell me to leave him alone.

Then there’s the small chance he’ll say something like, I’m so glad you texted. I can’t stop thinking about you.

How likely is that, though? Not likely, since he hasn’t even tried to call. Not even after too many glasses of wine or late on a lonely night. Even if he did say that, would I even be ready for that? Or would I just push him away again?

There’s no reason to text him. There’s no good outcome.

Instead, I just sit with my feet on the chair beneath me, the novel of Manon in my lap, my fingernails between my teeth, and I stare at my phone still resting on the coffee table.

I’m startled out of my skin when I hear the bell of the elevator ring, the sound almost lost in the loud music, but startling nonetheless.

Is it someone dropping off food? They usually do it when I’m not here, but maybe?

The doors open, and to my horror, it’s Alistair. I honestly think it would have been more desirable to see a cat burglar.

“Ah!” I say, seeing him. I open the book and put it in front of my face.

“Don’t you look pretty?” he asks, with that wry tone of his.

“Alistair, why—I didn’t know you were coming. I—”

“I texted you,” he says.

“Did you?”

I look at my phone. He did indeed text me. My phone was still on Do Not Disturb from the show tonight. He only texted a few minutes ago, but that might have at least given me a chance to get myself slightly more presentable. I would have seen it if I hadn’t been paralyzed with indecision about Jordan.

“Um—one second, I’ll be right back,” I say, walking quickly sideways so he doesn’t see my face.

“I can come back,” he says. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come, I—”

“No, no! Just wait one second.”

I run into the bedroom where I’ve been staying.

I feel suddenly very exposed. Not just because of the mud mask and my ugly pajamas. But because the place isn’t tidy. It’s Saturday night, so I was taking it easy.

This is all made worse by the fact that shutting the bedroom door on him feels wrong considering that it’s actually his house. I look too comfortable.

I wash off my face. It’s the kind of mask that dries to a hard, cracking shell, so my face is all red and splotchy beneath it.

I redo my hair to look a little more collected, and then stand in front of my closet. Do I change? If I put on something else, won’t I look like I’m trying too hard?

“I can really go,” he says from the other room.

Fuck it, I decide, no time to change.

I leave the bedroom and see that there’s a big brown bag on the counter and that he’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, as if he’s never been here before.

“I’m sorry about that,” I say. “I didn’t know you were coming or I would have—”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I’ll call next time, make sure I get you before I just waltz in. I feel like a prick. I thought the doorman told you I’d be stopping by. Did he not?”

“He did not. But seriously, you’re fine!” I say. The truth is, I’m happy for the company, even though I wish I looked better. “Come over whenever. Obviously.”

He smiles awkwardly and I don’t know what to say, so I just smile back.

At the same time as he says, “I brought dinner,” I say, “Is that food?”

“I was at the show tonight,” he says. “I took a colleague. He’s considering becoming a donor himself. I caught up with Charlie afterward, and he told me the good news.”

“Good news?” I’m so flustered by all this that I momentarily forget. “Oh, the role?”

“Yes. It’s good. I’m glad to see you’re rising through the ranks as promised already.”

I blush a little. “I’m trying.”

“It wasn’t until I was out of the show that I received a text from one of my employees telling me that they had been detained by the bad weather and hadn’t been able to drop off your dinner. So I stopped off and picked something up.”

“Really?” I say, genuinely surprised. “That’s so nice of you. You don’t need to be providing me with dinner at all. I was just going to order something.”

“If you don’t like the food, then—”

“No, it’s great!” I say, scrambling. “It’s delicious, it’s not that. It’s just that you’re being—well, you’re really going above and beyond, that’s all.”

“You’re a priority and I’m not going to lie, it’s refreshing to be around you.”

I can’t hold his gaze, so I look down at the floor, noticing that my pedicure has rubbed off of two of my toes. It’s almost impossible to keep the polish on when dancing.

“It’s ramen,” he says, walking over to the bag. “I was in meetings all day, so I picked up something for myself as well. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course,” I say. “More than all right.”

He glances at me, and then takes off his coat.

“Here,” I say, taking it.

“Thanks.”

I run it over to the coat closet and hang it beside mine, a strange thrill running through me at seeing them hanging side by side, both damp from the snow.

“I wasn’t sure what you would like, so I got two different kinds. You can have whatever you prefer.”

I go back over to the kitchen and see that he’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. My eyes linger on the ropy muscles of his forearms.

“Let me do it,” I say. “I can heat it up and everything, just—”

“Sit,” he says with a gently commanding tone.

“Are you—”

“Sit,” he says again, this time gesturing at the stool across the counter with the chopsticks in his hand.

I look at the expression on his face, searching for anger but instead finding an unexpected shadow of amusement there.

I look on the counter and see that there’s a bottle of champagne.

“Where did that come from?” I ask.

“The wine refrigerator,” he says. “In the study.”

“Huh. I haven’t gone in.”

“Not very curious, are you?”

“I am, actually,” I say, suddenly defending the fact that I’m more likely to snoop than evidence would suggest.

“I suppose I won’t have to check to make sure you haven’t stolen any Caymus out from under me.”

“I don’t even know what that is. I thought this was a booze-free household.”

He makes a face. “That would be uncivilized.”

“I just thought it was because you were trying to keep me in prime shape.”

He pops the bottle and then says, “A fair assumption. You would like some, yes?”

I nod eagerly. I’m glad to have stopped partying like I was after finding out my mom died, and then after Jordan and I broke up, but there’s nothing like a good glass of champagne. Especially after a good show.

He pours me a glass, and pours one for himself. He then holds his aloft and I follow suit.

“To Manon ,” he says.

“ Manon ,” I repeat, the glasses clinking, our eye contact lingering.

My heart skips a beat and I take my sip. It’s delightfully bright with lots of tiny, sharp bubbles. I feel my body relax immediately.

“It’s quite impressive,” he says, pouring the ramen into a saucier on the gas stove, then lighting it with the tick-tick-tick sound before the flames light. “I might not know much about ballet, but I have a feeling it’s hardly the usual to slip into the leading role this early on at a company.”

I flush with color and heat and say, “Yeah, kind of, but I’m not cast yet, just added to the casting list; and, not to brag about myself, but I was a principal at my other company. I’m good.”

“Do all the other girls hate you for it?”

I shrug and take another sip. “It’s ballet. No one’s ever happy for each other. Ever.”

I think about Arabella earlier. My hand gravitates to my ear.

Just then, the song changes to “6 Inch,” Beyoncé’s old song with The Weeknd. It’s just a little too sexy.

“I’ll change the music,” I say. We’re trying to be good.

“I got it,” he says, then pulls an iPad from god knows where, and changes the music to something else without lyrics. But it is, I consider, also very hot music.

“I thought Arabella and you were close,” he says. “Wasn’t it Arabella who connected you with the company?”

“Yes,” I say. “Which is why it’s strange that she’s treating me so weirdly now.”

“Hm.”

The soup is already warm, so he dumps it into a large bowl that looks expensively designed. He heats up the second one.

“I think you’re exceptional,” he says. “I’ve never watched someone with such interest before. Not even Victoria.”

“But everyone loves Victoria Haley,” I say, in a slightly mocking tone.

“My wife loved her. Not me, so much. I thought she was a brat.”

I laugh in surprise. “Wow, I didn’t expect you to say that.”

He puts the second soup in the second bowl, and then says, “Let’s go to the table.”

He leads me to the dining room table, and we take two seats where we can look out the windows at the snow.

“It’s so pretty out,” I say.

It occurs to me then that the weather might not make it easy for him to get home. I haven’t been in London long, but I do know even a little bit of snow here stops everything. I wonder then where he lives.

“Gorgeous,” he says.

And then, before I can stop myself, it falls out of my mouth. “My grandmother, Mimi, would love it here.”

I try some of my soup as he tries a bite of his. It’s one of those subtle, delicate kinds. I usually go for the spicy kind that knocks your socks off.

“Here, try this one, see if you like it more,” he says, reading my mind and sliding the other bowl over to me.

Sharing food is actually very intimate, in my opinion. It’s something done by close friends, family, lovers. Not donors and their dancers.

But I accept anyway.

I like his way more.

“Take it,” he says, reading my mind again. “I prefer the shoyu.”

He takes my bowl and pushes his toward me.

“Thank you,” I say.

“So where is your grandmother?” he asks, taking another bite.

“Louisiana. That’s where I’m from.”

“I’ve been to New Orleans a few times. Does she like it?”

“She used to. She’s in a memory care center now. She has dementia and rarely remembers me anymore, but I really miss her. Or…I miss who she was.”

My throat tightens with emotion and stress as I think about the house. When I called Joel back to talk about the house sale, it turned out that it didn’t sell for as much as they had hoped.

Even more pressure on me to figure out how to pay for her bills in addition to all of my own.

He looks at me and says, kindly, “That must be very hard.”

“It’s all right.” I shrug. Then, unable to help it, I spill. “Actually, I’m not all right. I’m responsible for her bills and I’m scared shitless. I can’t afford it. I—”

Tears threaten, and I breathe in deeply, trying to steady myself.

“It’s okay. I told you my life story the night I brought you here.”

I relax a little and then he gives me a small smile.

We sit in peaceful silence for a few minutes, both of us eating, the music adding a deep, thrumming intensity to the quiet.

“I know this is something of an inelegant transition,” he says, “but I cannot stop thinking about the night we met.”

This surprises me, and I choke on my wine. “You can’t?”

“No. And I shouldn’t say it out loud. But I…find myself breaking a lot of rules when it comes to you.”

My eyes catch his, and there is something strange and intense there between us.

I cannot think of a word to say.

I grow hot, speechless, and full of pulsing desire.

This is so unlike me. I’m strong. Not the girl who goes weak in the knees over a handsome man with an accent.

His eyes search mine and I get the psychic feeling he’s asking me for some kind of permission.

If this was not my donor, if this was not a married man, then I would find it very hard to resist him.

I don’t know when exactly or how this intense attraction came to be. How, mixed in with all of my rehearsing, all of the strangeness with Arabella, and all of the darkness—how I managed, through all of that, to wind up where I am now.

Staring into the eyes of the one man on the planet that I cannot have and should not want, trying to stop my body from acting on its own volition.

I slide back in my chair, unsure what I’m going to do. Get up? Excuse myself and go to the bathroom? Run away?

His eyes have followed me.

“Jocelyn.” That husky voice.

He pushes his soup away.

I’m delirious with desire. The part of my brain that makes decisions has been cut off from the rest of me. I am simply human for him.

He moves his chair away from the table, so that he’s facing me. “God, you are really doing something to me,” he moans, and runs his hands through his hair.

Instead of running, like I should, I drop slowly to my knees and put my hand on the armrest of his chair.

I spread his legs apart and put my hand on his stomach. It’s hard with muscle and warm to the touch.

I allow my hand to move to his chest.

He lifts his own hand and wraps it around my wrist, and for a moment, I don’t know what he’s going to do.

He takes my hand and places my palm on his jawline.

Air escapes my throat at the strangeness, the badness of this. So much different from our night in the hotel room as strangers.

I put the slightest bit of pressure on him and he leans down toward me.

I’m so close I can count the specks of hazel in his tourmaline eyes.

Then his lips are on mine.

The familiarity sends an electric shock through me so intense I don’t know if I can stand it. It feels exactly like the night we met. When I knew him as Max. Like a month hasn’t gone by.

I press my tongue against his lips, and then I taste his tongue on mine. And then we are kissing with an intensity and hunger I’ve never quite known before.

His hand is on my waist, his other now on my neck, my fingers are in his hair, his five-o’clock shadow is scraping against the softness of my raw, clean face. His lips are on my neck, my nails are in his flesh.

He shies away from my fingernails and I know instantly that it’s because he doesn’t want to be caught with marks on him.

He did the same thing the first time.

This lights me further for some reason, and I pull back, biting his chest just hard enough for him to feel that I’m not leaving marks on him.

Alistair then pushes me gently off of him, still keeping his hands on me, still looking at me like he wants to devour me in one bite.

“I should go,” he says.

I nod urgently. “Yes, of course,” I say. “I don’t know what—”

“Don’t,” he says.

I’m not sure what he means. Does he mean Don’t apologize, it was me, too , or does he mean Don’t say another word, I need to start pretending this never happened ?

I stand up, my legs as stable as bamboo in a heavy breeze.

He looks unbalanced, too, running a hand through his hair as he turns in a circle and then says, “My coat?”

“Oh, sorry.” I go to the closet and pull it out for him. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for dinner—thank you for everything, really.”

“Yes, of course, and congratulations again.”

God, this is so awkward. I am not looking forward to the night of embarrassment ahead of me. And tomorrow—what if it’s worse than embarrassment? What if I get fired?

Oh my god, I’ve ruined everything.

I keep it together. I just need to wait until he’s out of the apartment.

He gets in the elevator and presses the button for the lobby.

“Have a good night,” I say.

He nods.

The doors begin to slowly close, and I feel that I am only a few seconds from breaking down completely.

But just as the doors are about to shut, he sticks his hand between them.

They relent and open back up for him. He keeps a hand on one and looks me in the eye.

I’m braced for anything. I’m ready to be reprimanded.

“Jocelyn,” he says.

“Yes?”

“I just want you to know that it is taking everything from me to step into this elevator right now.” His eyes drop briefly to my completely hidden body. “It’s taking everything. I’m trying to be a good man.”

He then gives a half shake of the head and grits his teeth.

I wait for him to say something else, but instead he releases the door and steps backward, his eyes dropping down one more time to my body before landing on my eager, heavy gaze.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

The doors shut.