“I did.” He sighs the longest sigh, and he’s usually Mister Optimism—that girl must have done a number on him. “Such a wasted night.” He chuckles but it’s forced. “Anyways, why do you ask? You did go home with her friend.” He mumbles, and I’m not sure if it’s because he went home alone or because he’s hungover. “Do you know who her friend reminded me of?”
“Who?”
“Like she could be the cousin of that singer Jhené Aiko?”
“Who?” The name sounds familiar, but I don’t remember what she looks like.
“You know, Jhené. Gorgeous voice, beautiful. Fucking beautiful. I think she’s half Japanese, half African-American… She’s drop-dead gorgeous. Like that girl you went home with last night.” He pauses like he does when he’s thinking hard about something—usually about the best melody to go with a song…or about the ins and outs of engineering. Even though he cultivates his image of music sensation, he graduated early with a degree in Chemical Engineering, becoming the first one in his family to graduate college. “You did go home with her, right?”
“I did. She left before I woke up.”
His laugh booms, followed by a loud grunt. “Fucking shit. My head is killing me. Don’t make me laugh.”
“That’s not funny. She left without leaving anything behind. No note, no nothing. Like last night didn’t happen.”
“That’s usually the way you roll though…” He sounds like Benji, and the pain of losing my best friend crashes into me. Just thinking about Benji still hurts.
“Usually.” I lean back, resisting the urge to tell him to mind his own business. I called him. I asked for help. I reached out. It’s not his fault.
His laugh is more subdued now but definitely more real. “She’s the one-night stand who got away.”
“Fuck off.” I hang up to the sound of his laugh.
My phone beeps shortly after. You’re Lucas Clément Wills, you’ll get the girl.
And maybe he’s right.
But maybe this time, my name won’t get me any nearer to the goal.
My brain replays every moment of last night. Every smile, every laugh, every touch.
Her friend’s a dancer. What if she’s one too?
A dancer. She could be a dancer. She looked like a dancer: in the way she walked, in the way she got me mesmerized with every movement. After all, she lied about her name—she probably lied about that too. Maybe she lied about everything. Maybe she did recognize me.
I want to scream. I used to trust people so easily, but Olivia really did a number on me.
I didn’t want to go to those auditions tomorrow. But now I have to. I have to see her again. If her friend goes, maybe she will too.
Steve’s words rush back to me. “The one-night stand who got away.”
And for the first time in months, I sit at the lonely piano standing in the middle of the room. We used to come up with songs here, but now it’s only collecting dust. When my fingers touch the keys, the weight of Benji’s senseless death smashes into me all over me again.
But I inhale deeply, forget the dissonance screaming with each beat of my heart, and play the melody running through my mind. This melody isn’t happy, it’s not gritty or loud or in your face. It’s sad and hopeful. It’s a soundtrack of last night, it’s a soundtrack of the doubts, and the pain, and finally of the hope.
Words fill my mind. A song forms in my head.
And my lips turn up into one of those smiles the press calls mysterious when I write its title: “The One-Night Stand Who Got Away.”
CHAPTER 9 - JEN
Even though my tiny apartment isn’t very welcoming with its bare walls and gray coloring, my big fluffy bed looks oh so inviting, but no time for a nap. I need a shower. I need to change. I need to stop thinking about Clément.
The warm water unwinds my muscles, but it does nothing to clear my mind. I lean my head against the door and turn to the mirror. The fog makes everything blurry and my reflection almost looks surreal. Sometimes, that’s how I feel. As if life is passing me by. As if I can’t press pause. As if I simply don’t know how to live in the present.
Which is weird.
And strange.
And doesn’t make any sense.
I’ve learned the hard way that the little moments are what matter most: seeing my sister smile as I danced for her at the hospital, hearing her laugh when Mom read her a story making the different voices, having one more day with her.
I wipe the fog away, focusing on my eyes. When I was little, I asked Mom why our eyes didn’t look the same as all my friends’. I asked because a little boy at school told me my eyes looked stupid and that when I laughed, it looked like I was sleeping, while another told me my eyes didn’t look as Asian.
Whatever that meant to him. Mom squatted down to my level, gently caressed my face and said that everyone looks different, but everyone has love in their hearts.
I believed her then. Not so much now.
When she told Dad, he laughed his booming laugh, the one that transformed his usually serious face into total happiness, and he hugged me saying stupidity can be found anywhere, but that I needed to remember I was his beautiful and smart little girl.
But I screwed up in so many ways. Despite all of that, they never stopped looking at me with love… Dad always said that making mistakes was part of living and that learning was the important factor. He always made sure to be there for me, but ever since Mia died, they both simply disappeared.
They work long hours.
They don’t talk.
They stopped hoping.
They almost separated—they have no idea I overheard them one night when Mia was still at the hospital. They were fighting, angry about everything, quarreling about the smallest things. How the trip to France that last summer was a stupid idea, how Dad never closes the toothpaste. In the middle of the argument, they both broke down and cried.
They’re still together, but it’s even harder now that Mia is gone.
I pull my hair away from my face, apply some makeup.
I need to focus on the “here and now.” I can’t take back yesterday or the day before or the years before that. I can’t change what happened no matter how I wish I could dance away the pain. But I can do something about my future.
And my future is all about forgetting my past, moving on. Shit, moving to France was part of the big plan, making sure my past doesn’t come back to haunt me. But it’s there, in my mind, eating at me, eating away the present.
My breathing is shallow. My hands clam up and my chest constricts. My heart speeds up and I want to scream. I recognize all the signs and it’s clear I should call my therapist in New York to get a referral for someone here in Paris.
I lean against the bathroom door.
I almost hear my sister telling me it’s going to be okay, and I struggle to not let the sadness overpower every cell of my being.
I inhale slowly, exhale loudly.
Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending.
After a few minutes, the wave of emotions that was crushing me subsides. I wipe away the fog with a shaking hand. Time to put the Resting Bitch Face on…the one that makes it seem like I have everything under control even though I’m spiraling.
Being in Clément’s arms last night was only a parenthesis, a nice break. Nothing more.
But as soon as I’m dressed in comfy jazz pants and a loose shirt, I take a few more minutes to search his name on my phone. Clément. Roadie. Way too many hits.
The sky outside my window is white, full of heavy clouds, and it seems like it’s going to snow again. My eyes glance again to the comfy bed with warm comforters and throw pillows I could bury myself under, but I clench my teeth in resolve, grab my bag, put on my boots and my winter coat, and hurry out the door.
The dance company is right around the corner. The smell of warm bread and croissants, wafts through the air coming from the bakery next to the dance company, reminds me
I haven’t eaten anything yet. All the pastries in the windows—macarons, almond-chocolate croissants, apple pie and more—are oh so inviting, and I do need coffee. I push the door to the bakery and a bell rings.
“Bonjour!” The lady at the counter sounds happy.
“Bonjour,” I reply and her smile widens. She probably noticed my accent.
“Cela.” I point to a raspberry macaron. “And café.”
“Noir, café au lait, espresso?” she asks, showing me each choices.
“Café au lait, please.”
I wait to be outside to bite into my macaron and I almost moan out loud. This is the most delicious macaron I’ve ever had, and it might not be the best idea after all the pizza and cookies I had last night, but I need the sugar rush and the coffee before facing Igor again.
Starting in a company, I knew I wouldn’t receive any favors, but it’s still a learning process to go from being the lead in a showcase to paying your dues by dancing smaller roles. I am learning a lot, not only about dancing but also about myself and it only reinforces how much dancing means to me, how much I want to dance.
I stride inside the courtyard of our building. It always amazes me to see it—like being tucked inside Paris, full of secrets and history. Our building dates from the 17th century. Not the oldest building in Paris, which I’ve read is in the 3rd arrondissement. Most of the dancers from our company are already here, milling around, smoking, drinking coffee like me. The sun is out, so even though it’s still cold, standing outside feels good.
I spot Alisha away from the small crowd, a cigarette between her fingers. She waves at me and I join her. Alisha blows smoke away to the other side. “It’s my last one.”
“You say that every single time.”
Alisha has quit smoking at least ten times since I met her five months ago. “This time I mean it.” She drags on her cigarette again and closes her eyes. “I know it’s basically cancer on a stick but…” She winces. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…” She looks at me and I can sense another apology coming. Everyone at the company knows about my sister. I got an extension when they offered me a spot, and I left for a week when it was time for the funeral.
“I know.” I stare at her cigarette. It’s been four years since I smoked last, and my fingers still itch sometimes. But I turn away. I speak through the lump in my throat. Pretend. I can pretend to be fine, to only care about one thing. Shit, it’s been the main reason I’m still active, still doing something. Dancing saved me from myself, but sometimes there is a part of me that wonders if it’s only a smoke screen.
Instead of going crazy asking myself questions I have no answer for, I lean against the wall next to her. “What’s that audition you were talking about? Do we even have time? And how are we going to manage to do it?” I take a deep breath. Finally calmer. “It does go against the contract.”
“I’m not entirely sure; we can’t dance for another ballet company while we’re employed here, and we have to avoid activities that could result in injuries, but technically we could stretch the rules.”
“You never stretch the rules.”
“And you always said you wanted to make a career out of dancing. What Steve told me is that they need to make a splash with this new video. He said something about the band banking everything on that music video.” She pauses, drags another puff of her cigarette as if she isn’t sure if she should enjoy it or hate it. “He still didn’t want to tell me the name of the band. Apparently it’s very hush-hush. I Googled it and there were a few articles about super big names like Villain Complex.”
“Aren’t they touring right now?”
“They are. I don’t think that’s them anyways, because I didn’t hear a new band member was going to join them.”
“You seemed to be having a good time with Steve last night.” I probe her, smiling.
“Mmm-hmm.” That’s her only answer on the topic. I recognize avoidance when I see it. She bumps her hip to mine. “But come on, dancer in a music video? It could change our careers. Don’t tell me dancing in a music video doesn’t sound appealing!”
“Hmmm…do we have to be naked? Is it an adult video?” This time my teasing her is more natural, less stiff, and my voice has less of an edge to it.
“Ha-ha, you’re so funny.” She scratches her nose with her index finger. “He gave me the address and the time. We would have to prepare a short choreography that would fit the theme of the song. I did find all the details on Dance World. So it has to be legit.”
“What’s the theme of the song?”
“Grieving, and celebrating life and moving on.” She hesitates while she speaks. Because clearly, that could be the soundtrack of my life. When I don’t say anything, she continues. “They’re looking for one star, one dancer who is classically trained.” This sounds like it could be a perfect fit. And maybe, just maybe, I could see Clément again. Do roadies go to auditions? Then it hits me. “Wait, did you tell Steve where we work?”
“Nope. I did tell him my real name though.” She stares, and I feel the urge to explain myself.
“It’s only the second time I used that name. And the first time was definitely needed. I didn’t want to run into Irish Dude ever again. One, he was sloppy and two, he was talking about getting engaged right after. Not my plans.”
Alisha shakes her head. “I don’t get it. When you got back inside, you looked like you were ready to live life to the fullest.”
“I was. And I did. For one night.” I return her scrutinizing look. “How about Steve? When are you seeing him again?”
She tilts her head back. “At the audition, I guess. I don’t know.” She tries to sound like she doesn’t care. But she speaks way too fast and too low. Alisha is still a novice in the art of pretending. She lights up another cigarette. I raise an eyebrow but she shrugs. “That’s my last one.”
“Before the next one.”
“Anyways. I kind of left the club in a hurry yesterday. I don’t know, I just broke up with Olivier. Everything seemed fast, way too fast.” She stares at her cigarette. “I shouldn’t be smoking.”
“And you always say that too. While you smoke. You broke up with Olivier three months ago. If you’re ready to date again, it’s okay.” She could call me on my BS, since I haven’t dated anyone in forever.
She tenses—Alisha and I get along great and we’ve been confiding more and more in one another, but we both seem to have walls we like to keep around ourselves. So, I don’t push her when she doesn’t answer.
I tilt my head to the side. “Even if Igor doesn’t suddenly decide we have to slave every night…which could very well be the case, how would we even have the time to do that?”
“Oh come on, let’s try it out. You need to come with me. I can’t go by myself.”
“Where is it?”
“I googled the address, it’s in the La Place de la République area. And it’s tomorrow evening. Even if the rehearsal lasts forever…we could do it.”
“We’ll see. Do you know why Igor called for an early meeting?”
“Nope. To torture us, which is really his aim in life, I think.” She puffs her smoke in the other direction. “I’m so sorry. Don’t want to blow it in your face.”
The chatter around us suddenly stops and we both turn around. Igor Baraski—our dear director—strides our way. He’s still good-looking for his age, pretty much looks the same as when he was dancing as principal in the Opéra de Paris, but man he’s an asshole, worse than any professors I’ve had at the School of Performing Arts. And even though I perfected the art of not showing I care, his remarks on how much I suck are still hard to swallow.
He crosses the courtyard without saying hello and enters the main building without looking at anyone. He marches in followed by Audrey—the secretary of the school. She used to be a dancer too before an injury, and she decided she wanted to focus on helping new companies take off. She and Igor used to dance together at th
e Opéra de Paris. They brush each other and Audrey glances at him with the ghost of a smile, the kind of smile that says she knows something we don’t. She looks happy, almost bursting with joy—the rumors about them being together don’t sound as crazy anymore.
She hurries next to him and he slows down his pace. He leans in toward her and says something that has her tilting her head, and the connection between them is sizzling.
Did I look like that yesterday?
Alisha nudges me and I whip around her way, as if I was doing a pirouette. Staring at Audrey isn’t what I’m supposed to do. I’m not supposed to check if I looked as happy yesterday. I’m supposed to forget about yesterday. A small group enters the building. Some yawn, others chitchat about the performance they saw last night at the Opéra de Paris.
Alisha dumps her cigarette in the flowerpot everyone uses as an ashtray but seems to think better of it and carries it down to the trash. “Master Igor is here. Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
She links her arm with mine and together we enter the building, following the crowd into the main meeting room on the right. The company has twenty dancers and everyone is here. You’d better have a good excuse if you’re ever going to not be in the building when Igor calls for a meeting.
Everybody finds a seat. Chairs screech. The whispers get louder. Igor’s talking to Audrey and when she laughs, his eyes widen, his lips form a hint of a smile and he almost looks happy. But then his facial expression turns to stone and the permanent frown we’ve come to love and fear replaces the tiny smile.
He clears his throat. “I know you’re all wondering why you’re here early this morning.”
“Because you like to see us suffer…” Tom, one of the principals, mutters.
But the way Igor snaps his head toward him and raises his eyebrows slowly, almost menacingly, shuts us all up. He waits for one more second, clears his throat again. It’s like a redo—something he says we can never have when we’re on stage. “The City of Lights Company has been having some financial issues.”
Everyone startles. And someone curses in the back.
Love in B Minor Page 4