“Does he make you cum?”
“He doesn’t make me cry.”
Silence.
I felt her pulling away from me, but I held her still. “Are you fucking him?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I just want to know.”
“We haven’t had a conversation in months and you think you’re entitled to know who I’m sleeping with?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily use the term entitled.”
“No.” She pressed her chest against mine. “No, I am not fucking him, but you know what? I will be soon.”
“You have no reason to if I’m here.”
She burst into laughter and stepped back. “You think I would sleep with you? Seriously?”
“Aubrey—”
“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” She cut me off. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Andrew. You’re nothing but a muse for an orgasm, a good visual for a hand-fuck, and I may miss you, but—”
“You miss me?”
“I miss the idea of you—of what you could’ve been.”
“We can’t be friends?”
“We can’t be anything.” Her lips were close to mine.
“Why am I finding that hard to believe?”
“You shouldn’t.” She glared at me. “Because in order for me to ever entertain you outside of this dance, I would have to take you back.”
“Then take me back.”
“Please!” She scoffed, looking angrier than I’d ever seen her before. “You would have to beg me to take you back, Andrew. Fucking beg me…”
“Hey Aubs.” Her ballerina boyfriend interrupted us. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” She stepped away from me and kissed his cheek. “Everything is more than okay.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“No one,” she said. “Just some guy who made a donation.”
“Thank you for your donation.” He shook my hand like a woman and turned to Aubrey. “Are you ready to go home?”
“More than ready.” She took his hand and walked away from me without glancing back.
I stood on the balcony of my hotel room, completely confused about what had happened a few hours ago. I was expecting Aubrey to leave with me, to come back to my hotel so we could fuck and catch up.
Unable to stop thinking about it, I sent her an email:
Subject: Your Address.
We need to finish our conversation. Tell me where you live so I can come over and talk.
—Andrew.
Subject: Re: Your Address.
I highly doubt you only want to talk. You just want to fuck.
Nonetheless, I’m pretty sure Brian wouldn’t appreciate you coming over tonight.
—Aubrey.
Subject: Re: Re: Your Address.
He’s more than welcome to watch. He might actually learn something.
—Andrew.
No answer.
She didn’t respond for a long time, and when she finally did, all she sent me was a text:
“Leave me alone, Andrew. Please.”
I couldn’t. I emailed her again.
Subject: Sponsor.
I bought golden level season tickets. One of the benefits is getting a tour from the cast-mate of my choice. It will definitely be you.
—Andrew.
Subject: Re: Sponsor.
Thank you for that pointless information. If you do choose me, we won’t be alone, and I’ll make sure that our tour ends in the exact time allotted.
Now, please leave me alone. I’m out with someone who admires my brain more than my pussy.
You had your chance, you fucked up, and I’m not sure why you’re in New York right now but I really don’t care.
I seriously don’t want to hear from you…Please go away.
—Aubrey
I sighed and scrolled down my contacts. I knew she was simply being difficult, and I wasn’t going to let her get the last word. I pressed call on an old number and held it up to my ear.
“Who is this?” the old voice said over the line.
“I need an address.”
“Who is this?”
“I need an address. Now.”
“Liam?” There was a smile in his voice. “Is that you?”
“It’s Andrew.” I rolled my eyes. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” There was a familiar humming sound in the background. “You know, I haven’t heard from you since the last time I saw…” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “What’s the name?”
“Aubrey Everhart.”
“Do you know what borough?”
“No,” I said. “But the address can’t be more than a few months old. She just moved here.”
He was silent for a little while, tapping and touching buttons.
“Found it,” he said. “7654 Fifth Avenue.”
Five blocks away…
I thought about whether I should wait until morning to stop by, but I was already putting on my coat.
“It was nice hearing from you again, Liam…” the old man’s voice brought me back to the present. “Good to know you’re well and…getting over what happened.”
“I’ll never get over it.” I hung up and headed outside, signaling for the town car driver to open the back door.
“Where to, Mr. Hamilton?” he asked.
“7654 Fifth Avenue.”
“Right away.”
It took less than twenty minutes to get there, and when we arrived I stared at the brownstone for a while. It looked like something I would’ve purchased years ago when I lived here, something far out of budget for a ballerina, so I figured her parents were paying the rent.
Stepping out of the car, I adjusted my coat and walked to her door—knocking five times.
“Coming!” She yelled.
The door swung open, but she wasn’t standing behind it. It was her boyfriend.
“Um…” He looked confused. “Did you leave the pizza in your car or something?”
“I’m not a fucking pizza guy. Where is Aubrey?”
“It depends. Didn’t we just see you at the gala?” He crossed his arms as Aubrey stepped into the doorway. “Who are you?”
“He’s no one, again,” she said, standing on her toes to kiss his lips.
He looked at me with his eyebrow raised as he returned her kiss.
“My cock has been in every inch of her mouth.” I gritted my teeth.
Aubrey gasped, her cheeks turning bright red. “I am so sorry, Brian… Can you give us a moment please?”
He looked between the both of us, anger creeping onto his face, but he walked away.
“What do you fucking want, Andrew?” She fumed. “What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“You and me, about us being friends again…”
“That will never fucking happen. Is that it?”
“Aubrey—”
“What brings you to New York, huh? Did you need to come back and fuck some familiar women on Date-Match? Did Durham somehow run out of pussy?”
“It’s actually starting to feel that way.”
She started to close the door, but I held it still with my hand.
“I miss you, Aubrey…” I looked directly into her eyes. “I really do, and I’m…I’m sorry for kicking you out that night.”
“You should be.” Her voice was a whisper. “And if you really miss me, you’ll leave me alone.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re bipolar. Because the second I ask one too many questions, or suggest something outside of your comfort zone, you’ll treat me like trash again and I’d rather cut my losses now.” She wiped a tear from her eyes. “I was your only friend—your only fucking friend, and you treated me worse than any of the women you met online. If anything, I’m sorry that I ever let you do that. Please leave.”
“Aubrey, listen…�
��
“Is there super glue on my floor?” She pushed me down a step. “Is that why you’re still standing there?”
“Please, just—”
“Lie about one thing, lie about it all, right?” She pushed me again. “You’re still the biggest liar between the two of us. Lying by omission is still lying.”
“Can you please calm down and let me talk about this with you inside?”
“I thought you hated rhetorical questions.” She slammed the door in my face.
A Priori Assumption (n.):
An assumption that is true without further proof or need to prove it.
Aubrey
I woke up the next morning on edge, in utter shock.
I couldn’t believe Andrew was in New York, couldn’t believe he’d admitted missing me on my front steps last night.
Seeing him again brought out every emotion in me, and even though I’d told Brian that Andrew and I were done, I’d spent the rest of our date last night thinking about him.
Him and his perfect suit. Him and his perfect lips that nearly pressed against mine as we argued. And, shamefully, him and his perfect cock that I felt hardening in his pants as he dipped me on the dance floor.
Ugh!
I got out of bed and sent Brian a text. “Today is my one on one day with Ashcroft…Wish me luck!”
His response came immediately. “Good luck, babe! Get some coffee, you’re going to need it…”
Slipping into the shower, I scolded myself. “Brian is a sweetheart and he’s good for you…He may suck at phone sex, and you may have no desire to sleep with him right now, but he treats you better than you’ve ever been treated before…”
When I was wrinkled and prune-like, I stepped out and checked the time.
4:30 a.m.
I had twenty minutes to make it to the closest subway station and avoid the ire of Ashcroft. Throwing on some old sweatpants, I grabbed my ballet bag and snatched my coat from the bannister in the hallway. I double checked my wallet to make sure I had my metro pass, and when I opened the door, I found myself face to face with a stranger and a cup of steaming hot coffee.
“Good luck at practice today,” he said, handing it over. “This was made especially for you.”
“Since when do coffee shops deliver?”
He shrugged. “They don’t.”
I stared at the cup as he walked away, noticing that my name was etched atop the whipped cream in thin caramel, and that “Good luck,” was written in cursive on the label.
It was a signature, sweet Brian move, and I immediately felt guilty for not giving him my full attention last night. As I walked to the subway, sipping what was arguably the best coffee I’d ever had, I vowed to give him my full attention from here on out.
I deleted all of Andrew’s old texts and emails, even the ones I’d fake deleted by placing them in the archive. I blocked his number, preventing his calls from ever getting through, and although I couldn’t block his emails, I changed the settings of my inbox so they would go straight to my spam folder.
When I finally arrived at practice that morning, I danced better than I’d ever danced before…
Later that night…
“How do you find the time to take the subway just to meet me at practice and walk me home?” I looked up at Brian as we crossed the street. “Where do you find the energy?”
“I make time for all the things I really like.” He kissed my forehead.
“Do you want to catch a movie this weekend? My treat? I owe you one…”
“What makes you say that?”
“I still feel bad about gala night and what that guy from my past said to you,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
“No worries. I’m sure he’s—” He stopped talking as we approached my house, pointing at the man who was leaning against the door.
Andrew.
I took a deep breath as Andrew walked down the steps.
“Good evening, Aubrey,” he said, smirking. “And your name is danseur, correct?”
“It’s Brian.”
“Close enough.”
Brian crossed his arms. “I could’ve sworn I overheard her say that she didn’t want you anymore. Why can’t you take the hint?”
“Because she says things she doesn’t mean all the time.” He looked at me, instantly setting my nerves on fire. “And I know she’s just angry with me.”
“Dude!” Brian let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m her boyfriend so clearly she’s moved on…She has a boyfriend.”
“I honestly don’t feel threatened,” he said, still looking at me. “Did you get my coffee this morning?”
What?! “That was from you?” My eyes widened. “I thought…”
“What coffee, Aubs?” Brian looked concerned. “What is he talking about?”
“Andrew…” I shook my head. “Thank you for the coffee, but that doesn’t make up for anything…”
“I never said it did.”
A cold wind brushed by and I felt myself being drawn to him, literally drawn to him, and I took a few steps forward. But then I took a few steps back.
“I’m with Brian now…” I grabbed Brian’s hand and led him up to my door, refusing to look back at a seemingly hurt Andrew.
I shut the door and peeped through my blinds, noticing that he was still standing there. Confused.
“Look, Aubs…” The sound of Brian’s voice got my attention. “I don’t think the two of us are going to work.”
“What? No, no, no. Of course, we will. This is just a minor issue.”
“I think your heart and mind are elsewhere…I think they always have been, actually.”
“Seriously?” I crossed my arms. “Because some psycho from my past shows up for one night and suddenly wants me again? That’s what makes you think that?”
“That, and the fact that some psycho sent me a text earlier today that said, “Her pussy belongs to me.” I’m just now remembering that...”
I sighed and he walked over, kissing my forehead.
“If it’s a minor issue, and he doesn’t mean anything to you anymore, we can try again in a month.”
“A month?”
He nodded. “That way I’ll know for sure, and our phone sex will be twice as amazing since we won’t have had it in so long…Then, maybe we can upgrade to actual sex.”
I said nothing, and he walked out of my place.
I peeped through the blinds again, watching him disappear into the night, and then I noticed that Andrew was still standing outside.
Livid, I stomped down the steps and headed straight toward him. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now?”
“Hate isn’t something that can be adequately measured.”
“You just ruined the one great relationship I had in this city. You just made him dump me.”
“Good,” he said. “I did you a favor.”
“Is this how you’re planning on getting me to talk to you again?”
“Part of it.”
“It’s not going to work.” I pressed my finger against his chest, emphasizing every syllable. “I told you that you would have to fucking beg me, and since I know that’s not how you operate—”
“You don’t know how I fucking operate.”
“Are you going to walk me to the subway station every morning?”
“I have a fucking car.”
“Walk me back from rehearsals?”
“Same answer.”
“Actually treat me with some goddamn respect?”
He cupped my face in his hands. “If you give me a chance to…”
I stepped back, still angry. “I’m not holding my breath.”
Omission (n.):
Inadvertently leaving out a word, phrase or other language from a contract, deed, judgment or other document.
Aubrey
Subject: Brian-gate.
I’m not sure how many more times I’ll have to apologize for making your “boyfriend” dump you, but I am, in fact,
sorry. Then again, maybe I should have waited until after you fucked him so you could be more appreciative.
—Andrew
“Ugh!” I tossed my phone across the room, nearly knocking over the beautiful vase of lilies he sent me yesterday.
Ever since last week’s “Brian-gate,” I had to face him every day in some capacity. In the mornings, he personally brought me my favorite coffee, walked me to the block where my subway stop was, and apologized profusely. In his own way, of course.
I never said a word back, though. I just sipped from my cup and listened.
Taking a seat on my couch, I grabbed an ice wrap and placed it on my shoulders. I was counting down the days to opening night, wondering how much more pain my body could take.
My feet were now unrecognizable; I no longer soothed their cuts and blisters. The muscles in my arms ached relentlessly, and when I told Mr. Ashcroft that I needed a few extra minutes to stretch my right leg yesterday, he said, “Then I need to replace you with a dancer who doesn’t.”
I cringed at the memory and heard a knock at my door.
“Coming!” I walked over and opened it, tempted to slam it shut once I saw Andrew.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Practice starts in an hour. You’re going to be late.”
“I’m not due there until the afternoon session. Thank you for the reminder.”
“Can I come in until then?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Do I really need a reason?”
“I just want to talk to you for a few minutes, Aubrey.”
“We can do that over the phone.”
“You blocked my fucking number.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’ve tried that already today. Twice.”
“Have you tried email?”
“Aubrey, please…” He actually looked sincere.
“Fine.” I held the door open. “But you have to leave in five minutes so I can take a nap.”
He stepped inside and looked around, running his hands over the artwork in the halls.
Looking slightly impressed, he rubbed his chin. “Are your parents paying for this?”
“No, I haven’t spoken to them since I left.” I admitted. “A retired dancer from the company rents out all her condos to the newest cohorts.”
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