“Nah, it’s Ben, isn’t it?” Taylor lets go. His face is reddening. He takes a few breaths with pursed lips as his nose flares. “Everything in my body says it’s him. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Ree. There was something very strange about that kiss between the two of you. It was very hard to read, but I get that it’s my fault with what happened between us. I should never have gotten involved with someone right after I saw her kissing another guy. How stupid am I?”
“You’re not stup—”
“Shut up!” he rages and I bite my lip with a shudder.
Taylor starts to pace back and forth. He’s clawing at his hair and the red in his face is deepening. Part of me wants to hold him, settle him down before blame overtakes his mind. He’ll want to blame himself entirely for this and I can’t let him do that despite the part of me that wishes more than ever my feet worked so I could turn around and run right outta here.
Smearing the tears across my cheek, I manage to open my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Taylor. If it’s any consolation, I want you to know that, although you were not able to teach me to dance, you did teach me other things. Things about myself. Feelings and desires that were hidden within. I feel more alive now than ever, and I believe I’m much braver and stronger having met you. So, thank you.”
Please, please accept this. At least, this part is true.
“Fuck your damn thanks,” he says, eyes blazing with his finger pointed in my face. “I’m still in love with you.” He points to his cheek, sporting the small scar from my cane. “Every time I see myself, I’m going to think of you and tomorrow I’ll be a thousand miles away wondering what the hell I did or didn’t do to make you want to fuck somebody else.”
“Taylor, it’s not your fault. You have to understand sometimes things just happen. There’s no rhyme or reason, we just have to accept things as they are.”
Taylor glowers at my foot with eyes so wet and red, I fear his devout fans in the audience waiting might get more upset seeing him in distress than they probably are now with his tardiness.
“You should make your entrance now,” I encourage. “Your fans—they’re waiting on you.”
“I bet they are,” he nods cockily, his face still frowning. “Just tell me if you’ve slept with someone else. Maybe while I was at rehearsal? That’s all I want to know. If you did, I won’t question you anymore since I feel like I can finally understand the reason you want me to go on tour so badly. So, did you? Have you really been with someone else?”
I clench my eyes shut. Deep down, I always knew this moment would come—the moment we both found out he’s too good for me—and it’s okay if I have to take the blame here. “Yes.”
His eyes search mine. The vein about to pop on his forehead says he’s still in disbelief. I feel so weak, I want to collapse. I want to kick myself so that I just might. But I keep my stance. I can’t allow myself to crumble and fall. This man needs me right now to stand tall for him, so I keep my stance.
Taylor’s head finally falls forward. He pinches his nose, allowing tears to drip and pool near his toes. Rage is dissipating. Sadness is taking its place.
After a minute, he rakes his hands through his hair, sucking up a sniffle. “Wow. Why can’t I believe you?”
“Because you’re special, a very special human being, unlike me. I tried to tell you that.”
“Right,” his indigos go dark as his eyes dry up.
We stare at one another. We are alone and I wish so badly that I could press my lips to his pouting mouth.
“You should go in,” I encourage before I’m tempted to confess the truth.
“I’m going,” he nods, with narrowing eyes. I hate that he looks so disappointed.
“Break a leg,” I joke with a halfhearted shrug of my shoulders.
“I’ve always hated that saying,” he growls.
I grip my cane to avoid falling over. The crippling pain in my chest and gut is worse than any pain I’ve ever felt in my life.“Oh, I’m sorry. I think I used that as a meme on one of your profile pictures. It was quite popular considering the picture it contained of you.”
“I recall the image. I didn’t like it, so...” his flat-lined mouth turns into a chummy grin, “you’re fired.”
My world, my whole life feels like its crumbling—crashing—as I watch Taylor show me his back and walk away. The moment he opens the door, applause erupts and I turn my own back on all of it.
I wish could run!
With heavy feet, which seem to get no help with my cane in hand, I make my way out the heavy doors and to the curb. I rest my cane against my thigh as I pull out my phone to call for a ride. I’m struggling to breathe seeing the last several texts from Taylor. Is it possible that I will never see or speak to him again? I know what just happened was very harsh on both of us, but I feel numb.
“This is all for the best you know?” says Diamond creeping up from behind.
Thank God, I’m numb.
I turn my head to see her approach wearing a very thin, strappy, shimmery black and cheeky leotard that accentuates every curve of her body and her black pointe ballet shoes strapped around her ankle.
“I know,” I reply.
“I don’t just mean for him. I mean for you,” she says coming to stand next to me crossing her arms across her chest. “Did Taylor ever tell you he loved you?”
“Yes,” I admit. My honesty in this is not likely to get between them.
“He told me he loved me, too,” she says, rolling the tip of her pointed ballet shoe into the sidewalk. “We never used protection. He said he didn’t care if I got pregnant. I almost believed it was his way of saying he loved me. As if he wouldn’t mind creating a family with me. ‘I don’t care. I don’t care.’ Did he say the same to you whenever he made love to you?”
I feel nauseous. He did say that to me. All the time! I can’t answer.
“For the record,” she continues, “You should know Taylor does care, to a certain extent. He was there in the clinic holding my hand. I wanted to keep our child, but he didn’t want a kid. That’s why he left me. I whined about it too much afterward.”
“I’m sorry.” I really am, for both Diamond and Taylor, but especially Taylor. It’s unthinkable he’s turned out to be just like his father.
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “But in all fairness, I want you to know that I was trying to protect you so perhaps you’ll be more open to posting pictures of Taylor and I together across his media platforms while we’re on tour. Since I see the two of you are going your separate ways, I’ve decided I’m not going to give up on him.”
I look Diamond in the eyes. “Please, don’t give up. The two of you are perfect together. And it doesn’t matter anyway.” I shrug. “Taylor just fired me.”
“He fired you?” Her icy tone cuts through the noise of the busy city as she uncrosses her arms. “Well, then...” she chortles without finishing and spins on her toes to scurry swiftly back inside.
18
Taylor
Four and Half Months Later...
Eat. Dance. Sleep. That’s pretty much all I do nowadays. That’s all there is to do on this damn tour. Eat. Dance. Sleep.
Somedays, I switch it up and I just dance and eat.
Somedays, there’s no eating or sleeping—just dance.
I think I can finally understand how my mother got so ill. I feel like an empty shell.
On the outside, my pearlescent exoskeleton shines and it’s tough to crack, but on the inside I’m hollow. I have no soul.
This is why some of my critics, I believe, call me a machine. My limbs move, my fingers point, my body leaps, and my head spins, but my movements have no true direction. They just go where they’re told.
So, I’m hungry. All of the time. But not for food. I don’t care for sustenance. In fact, I still don’t care about anything and I don’t want to because the only two things I’ve ever truly cared about are gone.
“Taylor!” shouts Viktor, our choreographer, in
terrupting my thoughts. “You’re not paying attention,” he says. “Again.”
I put my hand up. “Tonight is the last performance.” I look at Diamond, who has both hands on her hips to support her slouch. She looks as exhausted as I feel. We’ve just flown across the Atlantic back to America. It felt like less than five minutes after finishing the previous show that we were on a plane and now we’re in rehearsal at the theater. I haven’t even been back to my apartment. I look back to Viktor. “Why are we making changes to the choreography?”
“Because it’s the Finale!” Viktor claps his hands as if he thinks that makes his words more meaningful.
“Exactly. We should leave it as it is.”
“No, no, no, Mr. Rose. Tonight’s finale is going to be recorded and posted all over the Internet. Everyone is going to see you and your lovely lady dancing in my company. This is a great opportunity for us both. We must make the most of it. Yes? Come now,” he says, pointing at Diamond. “Pick her up.”
I sigh, walking over to Diamond as she spreads her arms and lifts her leg back to point and pose in an arabesque. Planting my one hand under her thigh and the other under her abdomen, strangely, I find I can’t lift her.
“Taylor?” Diamond’s voice sounds as shaky as I feel.
My vision gets hazy and I blink, shaking my head against an encroaching blackness.
“Hold on a minute,” I say, trying to regain focus and, for whatever reason, not only does Diamond scream my name but Viktor starts yelling at me as well. I’d really like to shout back but I can’t. I’ve lost control of my speech.
Suddenly, my butt hurts. I think I’ve landed on the ground. I’m losing control. I’m losing control of everything...
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Jesus! These people keep telling me I need fluids and I need rest but being in the hospital seems to be the last place you’ll ever get any of those things.
“Nurse!” I shout into the hall. “The bag is empty again.” I go ahead and push the off button to the machine pumping fluids in me. I’m sure I’ll get yelled at again, but I don’t care.
“Taylor,” growls Nurse Nia.
She’s an older black woman. She’s been taking care of me since I woke up yesterday afternoon. Apparently, I was unconscious for a couple of days due to “overexertion.” Nia tries hard to be a mean one but I already have her wrapped around my finger like the rest of the staff.
“Young man,” she grumbles, playing with the machine. “What did I tell you about touching things you’re not supposed to.”
I smile wickedly. “It’s not my fault, Nurse Nia, that my fingers like to touch things.”
“Mmm,” she shakes her head, replacing the empty bag of fluids with a new one. “You’d better stop with that sweet talk before I tell your girlfriend you’ve been flirtin’.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Nia puts her hand on her hip as she fronts me. “What about that pretty girl that came yesterday? Black hair. Ain’t she your girlfriend?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “Diamond is my dance partner. Most certainly not my girl.”
“Well, you could’ve fooled me.” Nurse Nia gives me a look over. “So, you’re single?”
“Yep.”
“What you into? Boys or girls?”
I let my head fall back in defeat. “What do you think?”
“Taylor,” she groans. “I’m asking because you never know nowadays. It don’t matter to me. People should be happy no matter what their preference. I’m only asking because of that handsome fella—the blond—has been coming by and calling regularly. He’s so worried, I thought maybe he was your boyfriend.”
“Not boyfriend. My best friend,” I reply. “We’ve been through a lot and grew up together.”
“I see. There’s also an older gentleman—silver-haired—come by yesterday before you aroused. He seems very interested in you. Holds his heart whenever he stops at the desk to see if you’re awake. No one seems to know who he is and he refuses to say. He says he’ll come by again today, as he’s eager to see you.”
There’s a knock on the door.
“And speak of the devil,” says Nia. “How are you, sir?” she says to the guy, who looks to be in his fifties, paused in the doorway.
“Fine, thank you,” he says, adjusting his thick glasses to glower at me.
“Taylor, do you know this man?” asks Nia.
I examine him a bit further. He’s very tan—overly orangey tan—and I see he has an oversized flat yellow manila envelope in his hands.
“Hi, Taylor,” he smiles. I can’t tell if it’s a genuine smile or not. “I’m Chris,” he says. “Do you by chance remember me?”
Chris does look familiar, but I can’t place him. “No.”
He clears his throat. “I didn’t suspect you would. The last time I saw you, you were just a boy. A very rambunctious and quite temperamental little boy.” He laughs to himself chuckling. “Your mother certainly had her hands full with you.”
Blood drains from my cheeks realizing who this man is. “You were the photographer at the studio taking pictures of my mother and me the day she died.”
Chris scrapes his nails along the scruff of his jaw. “About that...” He steps through the doorframe, pointing at the open seat near my bed. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Taylor, is that okay?” asks Nia. “I need to check on another patient, but if you’re not comfortable allowing this man in here...”
I’m nervous to be alone with Chris, but I remind myself that I’m a grown man and if this guy tries anything, I’m confident I’ll be able to kick his ass even though I did pass out days ago. Nia has pumped so much stuff into my body, I feel great. Maybe too good. I’m so frickin’ eager to get outta here, I want to bust out. I feel invincible.
Squinting one eye at Chris I answer, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
As Nia leaves, Chris sits in the empty chair next to my bed. He has the oddest grin on his face as he examines me. “Your mother would be very proud of you.”
“And how would you know? Were you friends or something?”
“You could say that.” He bobs his head. “Your mother and I had many photo sessions together.”
“Chris, if you’re here to tell me that you and my mother were involved in some way—”
“Not at all, Taylor. I was one of few photographers paid by Vander Rose himself to take pictures of his dancers and the school. He was very possessive of his primas, especially his favorite. Do you know the truth about the relationship between Vander and your mother?”
“Of course, I know.” I scowl. Most people think I don’t. “I know everything about the school, its history, the students, and the administrators.” When I was younger, I spent hours upon hours in the library and studied all of it. Eventually, I believe I became numb. I didn’t want to think about all that dark shit—a grown man with a harem of young women, teenagers, trained to be at his disposal. I chose not to care, but I’m not immune to the understanding that Vander Rose was my father, although everyone was told to believe he was my grandfather.”
“She loved you, you know—your mother. And, if it’s any consolation, Vander loved her most, above the others.”
I hate that he’s trying to console me. As if that’s supposed to help make my guilt go away. To think of all those mothers who were coerced into losing their kids while I happened to be the one kid who survived but still lost his mother. So, it’s not just my mother I dance for. I dance for those who were never given a choice.
I shake my head in disapproval. “Whatever. I told you I don’t care.”
Chris leans forward planting the envelope he’s been carrying at my side. “I brought these for you.”
I take the envelope and meddle with the clasp for a few seconds without opening it. I have a strong feeling as to what rests inside.
“I would’ve brought these to you sooner, but you’ll have to forgive me,” Chris says, clearing his throat. “Since the day your mother di
ed, I can’t escape the feeling that I was somehow responsible.”
“Excuse me?” My head spins in his direction.
“I’m so sorry, Taylor.” The man’s eyes get dewy and he reaches his thumb and forefinger under his glasses to smear the wetness away. “I knew your mother wasn’t feeling well the day she died. I could see it in her face. But still, I pushed her to take the photographs. Photographers don’t make a lot of money and I was in desperate need of a paycheck. There isn’t a day that goes by that I wished I’d just taken you from her and at least let her lie down. I almost feel like I killed her.”
Now, this really upsets me. How dare Chris think he’s responsible for my mother’s death?
“Hey,” I chortle. “No way are you responsible. Seriously, it was me. I know because I kicked her. Right in the heart and she went down. I knew she was sick, too. I could feel it and still, I misbehaved.”
Chris shows me a most crooked face. “Is that what you were told?”
“No,” I groan. “That’s what I remember.”
“Wow. Jeez, Taylor.” He runs his hand through his gray hair before he makes eye contact. “Son, you are in no way responsible for the death of your mother. She loved you and I don’t remember you kicking her at all. I remember her tickling you and you were enjoying it. Of course, you were pushing back—a normal reflex, but in no way did you hurt her.”
“Chris,” I speak lowly. “Trust me, it was my—”
“Look at the pictures,” he says. “They’ll show you.”
I’m reluctant to look, but I flip open the seal anyway because I know I’m right. After twenty years of running the scenario over and over again in my head, how could I not be? I pull out the stack of 8 x 10 black and white photographs and immediately, my eyes gush wet and warm.
The first image I see is of my mother and me. We are both smiling up at the ceiling as if there’s some joke shared only between the two of us and we are laughing about it.
The next image is a bit more serious. My eyes are squinted, staring straight into the camera as my mother presses a firm smooch into my chubby cheek.
The Kisser Page 17