Reasonable Doubt 3

by Whitney Gracia Williams

  Harass (v.):

  Systematic and/or continual unwanted and annoying pestering, which often includes threats and demands.

  Andrew

  The prosecutor shook my hand over coffee and tea the next night, batting her light brown eyes.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to stay for a few weeks, Andrew,” she said. “This is going to be a real help in this case.”

  “I’m sure…” I stood up and walked over to the window, looking at the snow covered streets below.

  “Your old partner has definitely hired the best lawyers money can buy, and has paid fines and suffered penalties for years, but I think we can finally send him to prison with the new evidence that we have. That, and your testimony, of course.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m not sure how you would feel about this, but…” Her voice trailed off, and seconds later she was by my side. “Would you like to catch up on all we’ve missed since you’ve been gone?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She rubbed my shoulder. “You left New York and you never looked back. You didn’t call anyone or keep in touch…We were such good friends and you—”

  “Okay.” I cut her off and grabbed her hand, moving it away. “First of all, no, I do not want to catch up on shit. I don’t give a damn about what I’ve missed.” I looked her up and down. “But from the look of things, it hasn’t been much. Second of all, yes, we were friends. Past tense. You didn’t call or keep in touch with me when everyone in this city was dragging my name through the mud, did you?”

  Her cheeks reddened.

  “You didn’t even call to ask me if the rumors were fucking true.” I pointed to the door. “So, please don’t think that just because I’ve agreed to help put an asshole where he belongs, that you and I are, or will ever be friends.”

  “I’m so sorry…”

  “It’s six years too late for that.” I turned around. “I’ll be in court when I’m needed. You can leave now.”

  I waited until I heard the sound of the door close and called the town-car driver. “What time do I need to leave for the gala if I want to be there once it starts?”

  “Now, sir.”

  I hung up and slipped into my coat, taking the penthouse’s private elevator to the lobby. Rushing through the hotel’s exit doors, I spotted the car across the street and headed over.

  “We should be there in about thirty minutes, Mr. Hamilton.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Are you meeting a date at this event tonight?”

  “No,” I said. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because if you were, I was going to suggest that we stop at the floral stand that’s three blocks down.”

  “We can stop.” I looked out the window as he pulled off.

  I’d thought about telling Aubrey that I was in town, or “good luck” for her performance tonight, but I didn’t see a point. Besides, last night, in a moment of weakness, I sent her a rather vague email and her rare response didn’t encourage further conversation.

  Subject: Happiness.

  Are you happy with your current life away from GBH? Are you pursuing your ballet dreams finally?

  —Andrew

  Subject: Re: Happiness.

  Please stop emailing me and delete my number.

  Thank you.

  —Aubrey

  “Mr. Hamilton?” The driver held the door open. “We’ve arrived…Do you plan on getting out of the car?”

  “Thank you.” I grabbed the bouquet of roses and lilies off the seat and gave him a tip, telling him that I needed him to stay close, that I may be bringing someone else back with me.

  The line to enter the venue was wrapped around the block, so I skipped everyone and walked straight through the front door.

  “Excuse me, sir?” An usher immediately stepped in front of me. “There’s a line outside for a reason.”

  “I don’t like to wait.”

  “None of us do sir,” he said, crossing his arms, “but that’s gala policy unless you already have a ticket. Do you have a ticket?”

  “I don’t like those either.”

  He unclipped a radio from his belt buckle. “Sir, please don’t make me call security. You have to purchase a ticket just like everyone else, and you have to stand in line just like everyone else. Now, I’m going to kindly ask you to—”

  He stopped mid-sentence once I handed him a clip of hundred dollar bills. “Did you say your ticket was in the front row, sir?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what my ticket says.”

  He smiled and led me down the hall, into a colossal room that featured floor to ceiling windows, glimmering chandeliers, and freshly polished marble floors. Hundreds of tables were dressed in white table cloths—stamped with lavish gold and silver centerpieces, and the letters “NYCB” were etched onto every dinner menu and program.

  There was no formal stage in this room, only a slightly elevated platform that stood in the center—in perfect view for all the dinner tables.

  “Will this seat be okay for you, sir?” The usher waved his hand over a seat that was directly in front of the platform.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Dinner will be served in about an hour, the sponsors of the NYCB will be honored shortly after, and then the short tributes and the dance portion of the gala will begin.”

  I thanked him again as I took my seat. If I had known the exact order of the program beforehand, I would’ve shown up much later.

  Picking up the brochure in front of me, I flipped through the pages—stopping when I saw Aubrey’s face.

  Her picture was taken mid-laugh, as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked directly into the camera. According to the picture, her hair was much shorter now—it barely touched her shoulders, and her eyes looked more hopeful and happy than I’d ever seen them.

  I stared at the picture long and hard, noting all her new changes.

  The lights in the room flickered, and a soft applause arose as a woman dressed in all-white stepped onto the platform.

  “We will begin now,” she said. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen for attending the Annual New York City Ballet Company Gala. It is with great honor and pride that we present tonight’s artists—principle dancers, soloists, and corps members. As you know, due to quite a few unfortunate circumstances, we had to replace nearly ninety percent of our group over the past few months, but as always, the show must go on. And, I truly believe that this is the best class we’ve had in a very long time.”

  The audience clapped.

  “Our company will be performing several productions this year, but the ones that will be presented this winter are The Firebird, Jewels, and our company favorite, Swan Lake.”

  More applause.

  “Tonight, our corps will introduce themselves to you personally and perform small tributes as a thank you for your continued support of the arts. And as always, when it comes to the art of dance, please do not applaud until after the last note has played. Thank you.” She walked away and the lights transformed from a stark white to an airy blue, then they dissolved into heavy hues of purple and pink.

  One by one, the dancers came out—reciting a short monologue and dancing to a short piece of piano music. While most of the performers were entertaining, a few of them made me wonder if they’d simply awoken this morning and decided try ballet for the first time.

  In between the sets, I could hear a few murmurs from the crowd: “Are they sure this is their best cohort?” “Maybe they should’ve canceled the season after that accident…” “Hopefully, they’ll be having nonstop rehearsals until the season actually begins…”

  A man next to me was whispering about how he missed “the good old days of the company” when Aubrey stepped onto the floor.

  She was wearing a thin black top and a pink tutu, and her lips were coated in a deep dark red.

  “Good evening, New York City,” she said. “My name is Aubrey Everhart, and…”

  She was sayin
g something else, something that made the audience clap loudly, but I could only focus on how good she looked. I’d never admit it to anyone, but I’d kept that photo frame of us on my nightstand ever since she left—looking at her pretty face at night whenever I had a bad day.

  Tonight she wasn’t “pretty,” though. She was a fucking vision.

  Her mouth stopped moving amidst another round of applause from the audience, and the soft sounds of a piano and harp slowly filled the room.

  Aubrey shut her eyes and started her routine, dancing as if she was the only person here.

  There was an immediate change in the gala’s atmosphere. Everyone watching her was fully engaged—captivated, by her every move.

  Out of nowhere, a male dancer joined her, picking her up and holding her high above his head—spinning her around as the music became harsher. After he set her down, the two of them completed steps together—smiling at each other and exchanging glances that made it clear that they knew each other a little too well.

  The second the music stopped, the male dancer pulled her into his arms and kissed her lips.

  What the fuck…

  The crowd stood to its feet and clapped for the first time all night, but I remained seated, completely taken aback by what the fuck I just saw.

  “Maybe I won’t have to cancel my season tickets after all, eh?” The man next to me winked. “Bravissimo!”

  I narrowed my eyes at Aubrey and her partner, seething as he wrapped an arm around her waist and strummed his fingers against her skin. He whispered into her ear and she blushed, making my blood pressure soar to an all-time high.

  “Well, what a response!” The director took the floor. “Thank you, Miss Everhart and Mr. Williams. I want you all to know that those two will be headlining next month’s Silver Moon Gala as well…” She continued talking, saying more about the program, but her words were soundless to me.

  I was confused by what I just saw—not sure if Aubrey’s mouth had actually been on someone else.

  More dancers took the floor, more applause, more speeches, and my thoughts remained the same. It wasn’t until the patrons took the floor, that I realized that the showcase part of this evening was over.

  “Are you interested in donating to the NYCB?” A ballerina, still dressed in her white performance outfit, stepped in front of me. “Would you like to make a contribution?”

  “My contribution was the ticket I bought for tonight.” I stood up, leaving the flower bouquet behind, and walked off in search of Aubrey.

  It didn’t take long to find her.

  Dressed in a rather revealing silver dress, she was in a corner laughing with her male dancer friend, batting her eyes as he handed her a drink.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Yes?” I kept my eyes on Aubrey.

  “Um, if you stay for the after-portion of the event, you have to donate…It’s part of the rules. It was written in bold so—”

  “Here.” I handed her whatever bills were left in my wallet.

  She disappeared.

  Aubrey’s friend kissed her forehead and stepped away, giving me the perfect opportunity to approach, but she was swarmed by a group of other ballerinas.

  Friends, it seemed.

  I waited for their conversation to end, until she told them she’d join them later, and then I made my move.

  As she turned around, I placed my hand on her shoulder--feeling a jolt shoot through my veins. “Good evening, Aubrey…”

  She dropped her glass to the floor and slowly turned around.

  “Andrew?” She stepped back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Neither of us said anything further, and that familiar tension that had always existed between us began to thicken with every second that passed.

  She looked even more beautiful up close, and I was tempted to push her against the wall and reconnect, but I held back.

  “Can I speak with you?” I asked.

  She looked me up and down.

  “Aubrey…” I looked into her eyes. “Can I speak with you?”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “I said no.” She crossed her arms. “As in, no you may not speak with me, and you can go back to wherever the hell you came from.”

  She walked away and headed to the dance floor.

  I sighed and went after her, clasping her hand and spinning her around. “It’ll only take five minutes.”

  “That’s five more than I’m willing to give you.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Are you dying?” Her face turned red. “Is it a life or death matter?”

  “Does it really have to be?” My hand caressed her cheek, temporarily silencing her. “You look fucking beautiful tonight…”

  “Thank you. My boyfriend thinks so, too.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Yes. You know, that person who doesn’t treat you like shit just because he likes you and you like him back? Interesting concept, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t get a chance to respond to that.

  The orchestra struck a sudden loud chord that reverberated through the room, and a voice came over the speakers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” it said. “The Benjamin Wright Orchestra will now play their rendition of one of Tchaikovsky’s most revered pieces. The tempo of this song has a similar pacing for what some of you may know as the waltz. Please join us on the floor for this classic homage…”

  I grabbed her hand and entwined it with mine, securing my free hand around her waist.

  “What are you doing?” She hissed and tried to pull away. “I’m not dancing with you.”

  I tightened my grip around her. “Yes you are.”

  “Please don’t make me scream, Andrew…”

  “What makes you think I wouldn’t love to hear that?”

  She tried to move away from me, but I held her still.

  “Five minutes,” I said.

  “Three,” she countered.

  “Fine.” I loosened my grip and swayed her to the music. “Are you aware that your boyfriend is a male ballerina?”

  “The correct term,” she said, rolling her eyes, “is a danseur.”

  “He’s a fucking ballerina…” I dipped her to the floor. “Is this what you’ve been doing for the past few months?”

  “Living out my dream free from a certain asshole?”

  “I expect more from you if you’re going to date someone else.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you expect.” She hissed. “He’s everything you’ll never be…”

  “Because he kisses you in public?”

  “It’s more than that…But that’s on the never-ending list of things he has on you.”

  “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.