His expression instantaneously turns hopeful. “And now?” he asks.
You sigh and look down at your hands.
“Guess I should take that as a no,” he says, looking away from you.
Taking Crispin’s hand in yours, you respond as honestly as you can. “It’s not a no, Crispin. It’s a not yet. Not here. We’re just starting to figure this out again. Don’t you think we should give it some time?”
Crispin gazes at the dance floor, packed with writhing bodies, and seems to think for a long while before answering. Finally, he straightens up and looks at you. “I know what I want, Honey. I don’t need to give it any more time. I’ve worked hard for this, and I’ve done much of it for you. But if you’re waiting for me to prove myself . . .”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It’s okay,” Crispin tells you. He quickly swallows the remaining water in his glass. “It really is. I get it.” He pulls out his wallet and tosses two crisp hundred dollar bills on the table. “I think it’s best we call it a night, isn’t it?” His words are clipped and cool.
“Crispin . . .” You put your hand on his arm but he pulls away as if burnt.
“Really, it’s fine.” He moves aside, ever the gentleman, so that you can exit the booth first.
As you leave, he walks a couple of strides ahead of you, never taking your hand. Back at the hotel, he wishes you goodnight outside of your door and plants a quick, cold kiss on your cheek, never once making eye contact before he is gone into the Las Vegas night.
You lie awake that night, wondering whether the damage you’ve caused can be repaired.
The glaring desert sun gleams through the tour bus windshield as you settle in for the long ride to your next stop in New York City. The bustle of getting the tour back on the road has distracted you from thoughts of Crispin, but now that you are back on the bus you find yourself replaying Crispin’s proposal in your mind, remembering the devastated look on his face when you failed to say yes, the coldness in his eyes when he left you last night.
Sasha pulls you from your reverie. “What has you so quiet, Henrietta?” he asks as he pilots the bus onto the long stretch of highway that unfurls in an endless black ribbon before you.
“I’m just thinking,” you answer evasively.
“You don’t have that silly notebook in your hand so I know it ain’t song lyrics you’re thinking about. You know you’re going to tell me sooner or later so it might as well be now.”
“It’s about Crispin,” you begin.
“Of course it is,” Sasha mutters under his breath.
“Do you want me to tell you or not?”
“Sorry,” Sasha apologizes, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Knee-jerk reaction. Please proceed. I won’t say another word.”
You look over to gauge whether he seems sarcastic or serious, but his profile appears totally benign. “So, this is crazy and you cannot overreact. I know you will but I’m going to tell you anyway.”
Sasha remains silent, true to his word.
“Last night, at the club, totally out of the blue, Crispin dropped to one knee and proposed to me.”
You wait for Sasha to react but he remains stoic. A few moments pass before you ask, “Did you hear me?”
“I did hear you, yes. I’m just waiting for the rest of the story. I haven’t noticed a ring on your finger so either he’s a cheap bastard or you said no. Am I right?”
“Well, he’s not a cheap bastard,” you answer.
“That’s my girl!” Sasha holds up his hand for a high-five, which you do not return.
“I’m not celebrating it.”
“Well I will celebrate silently with myself then.” He does a little wiggling dance in his seat while keeping his eyes on the road.
“That’s kind of mean, Sasha. He was pretty upset.”
“Well, what did he expect, blindsiding you like that when the two of you just got back on track two seconds ago?”
“I think he expected me to say yes,” you answer simply.
“Sounds like you’re feeling a little guilty,” Sasha says, reading you precisely, as he often does. “You shouldn’t.”
“I don’t know what to feel,” you fold your arms across your chest and direct the suddenly too-chilly air conditioning vent away from you. “It was a sweet gesture. Totally spontaneous and genuine. But it was so strange. The minute he asked me I felt like all of the air was sucked out of the room. My heart was beating a mile a minute and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I actually thought I was going to pass out.”
“Mmm hmm. Classic panic attack,” Sasha diagnoses.
“No, I’ve never had a panic attack,” you argue.
“Well, you have now,” Sasha tells you with certainty. “It happens when your body is trying to tell you to take a minute. It’s good you listened.”
“I didn’t have much choice.”
“So how did you leave things with Crispin?”
“When I didn’t say yes, he pretty much wouldn’t even look at me. It was awkward.”
Sasha is quiet for a long moment.
“What?” you ask him.
“I’m just listening. And noticing you said you didn’t say yes, right? Does that mean you didn’t say no?”
“I didn’t say yes. But no. I didn’t say no.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess that’s better than the alternative.” He reaches over and takes your hand, giving it a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, he’ll get over it. Rejection stings. Or lack of acceptance in this case. And I know it hurts to have to do it. But you did do the right thing, Henrietta. One hundred percent.”
“Thanks, Sasha. You always know what to say.”
“That’s why you keep me around, right?”
“Right,” you tell him. “That and a million other reasons.”
The sudden inspiration for a song strikes you. You gently pull your hand away from Sasha’s, extract your notebook from the glove compartment, and feel instantly calmer as you begin to write.
By day three of your journey across the country, the raw pain of your goodbye with Crispin has faded to a dull ache. You try not to think about the look on his face, the coldness in his eyes when he said goodbye. Unsure even where he went after you parted ways, you’ve texted him several times, but so far he hasn’t returned a single text. Maybe you’ll call him when you get to New York, but you don’t want to have an unpredictable conversation in the confines of the tour bus within earshot of Sasha.
You pull into New York on a gloomy morning. What little sunlight the clouds don’t obscure, the skyscrapers kill completely. It feels like Gotham, and a sense of foreboding washes over you. As you unplug your phone from the dashboard charger, you notice a series of texts from Crispin lighting up the screen:
WTF?
Have you looked at TMZ?
Brilliant it’s all over Twitter too
Hello?
Your stomach clenches as you read the texts.
“Shit,” you say. You’re not sure whether to answer the texts or look at TMZ or Twitter.
“What?” Sasha asks, blaring his horn as a yellow cab cuts him off. “This city has the worst drivers!”
“Hold on,” you answer, typing a quick reply to Crispin.
Just seeing this. What is it?
You don’t even want to know
“Great,” you mutter, then type “TMZ” into the Internet search bar. The second the screen comes up you gasp. Sasha swerves the bus, almost careening into a bicyclist weaving illegally in and out of traffic.
“Jesus, Henry. You almost made me commit manslaughter! What the hell is going on?”
“This.” You hold the phone up so Sasha can see the screen.
“I can’t look at that! Do you see the chaos I’m attempting to navigate?” Sasha slams on the brakes and you hear something slide off the counter in the little kitchen area. “Just tell me!”
You stare at the photos for a moment longer, and feel a fresh sear of pain through you
r heart. Though the quality of the photo is less than stellar, the photographer managed to catch you at the moment you pulled Crispin up from bended knee. The look on his face is complete devastation.
“It’s a TMZ story,” you tell Sasha. “Their top news story, to be exact. Listen to this.” You quote the headline that glows in bold, red lettering just under a photo of you and Crispin that night at the club. HONEY SAYS NO! CRISPIN HERSHEY HUMILIATED IN PUBLIC. IS THEIR ROMANCE OFF AGAIN? CLICK FOR EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS!
“Ouch,” Sasha says.
“Yeah,” you agree. “Let me reply to Crispin.”
Just saw the TMZ story. Total BS. I am so sorry.
The bubble filled with a series of dots hovers at the bottom of the screen as Crispin responds.
Not total BS. Guess I’m the idiot for thinking that was a good idea
You’re not an idiot. Please don’t worry about this. It’s just one story
It’s not just one story. Google our names. See what happens
Your stomach drops afresh. You know you shouldn’t, but you Google your names anyway. The results fill the entire first page, all variations on the same theme: HONEY NO-BLE. WHY THERE WON’T BE WEDDING BELLS FOR HONEY AND CRISPIN. COLD-AS-ICE HONEY NOBLE REFUSES CRISPIN’S SWEET PROPOSAL. WHAT HAPPENS NOW? FRESH OUT OF REHAB, CRISPIN POPS THE QUESTION. WILL HONEY’S REFUSAL SEND HIM BACK OFF THE DEEP END? And worst of all, CRISPIN ON A CRAZY BENDER PROPOSES TO HONEY IN VEGAS. HONEY REPLIES WITH A RESOUNDING, “NO WAY!”
You feel terrible that the press is spinning the story the way they are, but you aren’t surprised. “What a disaster,” you say.
“They say all PR is good PR,” Sasha waxes sagely.
“I’m not sure that’s the case this time,” you tell him.
A new text pops up on the screen:
Did you look?
Yes
And?
What can I say? I feel awful
Not as awful as I feel, I’d wager
Crispin . . .
Don’t worry. It’s all good. I’ve had worse things said about me than that I’m an unlovable addict loser
That’s not what they’re saying
That’s just what I’m feeling, I guess
I’m really sorry
No, don’t apologize. All you were was honest
Where are you?
Flew to London for a couple of days. Checking in with the family. They will be delighted with my news I’m sure
I’m glad you’re with them. You’re relieved that he has a support network around him.
Not exactly what I was hoping to have to deal with while there
I know
Do you?
Crispin, what do you want me to say? I’ve said I’m sorry over and over
The screen sits stagnant, without a response for several minutes. At last, the text appears
There’s was just one word I wanted you to say
A new text bubble appears a moment later
But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, could you?
Another stab of pain slices you to your core. You know there’s no good answer, and nothing you can do to make this better.
After several more minutes, Crispin sends another text:
So I guess there’s really nothing more to say. I’m going to check out for a while. Take a break. From everything
You mean take a break from me?
I mean from everything. I need some time. You can give me that much, can you not?
If that’s what you want
It’s what I need
OK then. Be safe
You too. Enjoy the rest of your tour
The rest of your tour? The tour isn’t over for months. You sit back and gaze at the ceiling, letting this sink in. You feel the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes.
“So?” Sasha asks, sensing your mood.
“I think Crispin just broke up with me.”
“Again?”
You look over at Sasha, who has a tiny smirk on his face.
“Seriously?” you ask him, though suddenly you feel laughter bubbling up through your tears. “You really are a heartless bastard.”
“But I’m your heartless bastard.” The sky brightens with the artificial glow of the towering billboards of Times Square. “And we’re not in Vegas anymore, Dorothy.” Sasha pulls the bus around the corner and slides it into the inconspicuous lot behind your hotel. “Now that we are officially in NYC,” he says, flipping his sunglasses up onto his head, “we are going to have some fun!”
You glance at the screen of your phone, slide it into your pocket, and feel your mood brighten as you step out of the bus into the sultry New York air.
* * *
After you settle into your suite, Freddie calls a car to take you to visit the venue in which you’ll be performing that night. After a quick sound check, you walk offstage to head to the dressing room area.
As you do, you hear low music coming from the wings. It’s somber and beautiful and evolves from a slow, haunting melody to a faster, upbeat tempo. You walk around to the back of the stage to find the source. There you see Serge, your backup dancer, straddling a cello, sawing the bow slowly back and forth. He appears completely lost in the melody, his eyes closed, hair swinging in front of his face as his head sways to the rhythm, muscular thighs grasping the instrument from either side. You lean back against the wall to watch him. Something about the passion in his playing is riveting. The tendons in his hand stand out as he fingers the strings, every muscle in his shoulders and arms defined as he plays.
Before long, a small audience of stage crew and facility staff have assembled and watch in awe as Serge plays faster and faster, broken bow strings now whipping wildly back and forth as he saws the bow across the cello in an ever-increasing rhythm. The music is like nothing you’ve ever heard. It builds to a fevered crescendo and ends abruptly as Serge swings the bow in final arc and opens his eyes.
The little crowd breaks into spontaneous applause. Serge glances shyly around and blushes handsomely, pushing his hair back from his face. “Thank you,” he says, then rises from the chair, gives a little bow, and gently places the cello back into its case.
As the crowd disperses, you walk closer to examine the broken bow strings. “Serge, that was unbelievable,” you tell him. “I had no idea you were a musician.” Though now that you’ve seen him play, the little you know about Serge suddenly seems to make sense.
“Yes, well.” He shrugs, then sheepishly addresses a staff member standing politely off to the side. “I will bring your cellist a new bow.”
“Eh,” the staff member replies, “we got a million of ’em.”
“I am always doing that,” Serge tells you. “Breaking the bowstrings.”
“What was that song you were playing?”
“It is nothing,” Serge shrugs. “Just fooling around. A little of this, a little of that.”
“It was a lot of amazing. Have you ever thought of playing professionally?”
“Yes,” he tells you, “I have thought of it. I have even tried it, for a time. The pay is not so good. And the music—it will put you to sleep. I am not a traditionalist. But”—he leans back, stretching—“nobody wants a rock-and-roll cellist. Thank goodness I am a very good dancer. So, I can play my music for myself, and I can dance for my pay. It all works out.”
“I guess,” you tell him. But you wonder. “Are you sure there’s not an audience for a rock-and-roll cellist? You certainly attracted an audience just now.”
“Yes, they were bored,” he says.
“They weren’t bored, Serge.” You place a hand lightly on his shoulder, the muscle still warm and bulging from his playing. “They were entranced.”
Serge looks up at you and smiles, one errant lock of hair falling across his eyes. You’ve never noticed before how beautiful his eyes are, deep-set, outlined by thick, black lashes, and a startling shade of dove grey against his porcelain skin. “Thank you for the compliment,” he says.
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“You’re welcome.” You reluctantly begin to head back to the dressing room. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“I will see you, Sladkaya.”
“What?”
“Sladkaya. It is Russian for Honey,” Serge explains, taking the word “Honey” slowly. “It is not easy for me to pronounce your name—for some reason it does not exactly roll off the tongue.”
“Oh.” In all this time Serge has been on the tour, you’ve never had a real conversation with him. He’s instantly warm and endearing. “I’m not sure I can pronounce that, but that’s sweet.”
“Yes, it also means sweet. Very good,” he winks.
You walk through the door to the backstage hall, surprised at just how sweet Serge seems to be.
Margot awaits in the dressing room, makeup at the ready.
“Are you feeling well?” she asks as you take a seat in the makeup chair.
“Yes, why?”
“You look a little flushed.”
“Do I? I’m fine,” you laugh.
“Not to worry, nothing my magic can’t take care of.” She begins to wipe foundation across the bridge of your nose, and you sit back, close your eyes, and allow yourself to dream.
That night, you think you see something extra in Serge’s eyes. He seems to hold your gaze a little longer, to squeeze your hand a little tighter than the choreography calls for, but you could be imagining things.
You decide to throw an impromptu NYC opening night party in your suite after the show. The rush of adrenaline still hums through your body as your cast and crew stream into your suite and you pop open a bottle of champagne. Everyone’s in a fantastic mood and even Freddie, normally not a night owl, has decided to join you.
Sasha has the music blaring and the lights dimmed. You join a circle of dancers showing off their moves and are slightly disappointed that Serge isn’t among them. When the song ends, you leave the circle to look for Serge amid the bodies. An assortment of crew members lounge on various pieces of furniture, a bottle of beer or glass of champagne in their hands. You don’t see Serge among them, either. Finally you spot him on the balcony, talking with one of the crew members.
“May I join you?” The unusually warm spring day has cooled to a perfect temperature and a subtle breeze brushes past the maze of skyscrapers and finds its way to you.
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