by D. C. Ruins
"I don't know," Heath muttered, cursing himself for ever bringing up the question. "She told me the other day—yesterday, I guess—that she loved me."
"Wow!" Connor said, impressed. "She said it first, huh? What'd you say?"
"Nothing," Heath replied, hating himself more and more as the conversation progressed.
Connor blinked at him. "Hold on. Beautiful girl tells you she loves you—you—and you don't say nothin' back?"
"I didn't know what to say," Heath said defensively. "I didn't want to say something I didn't mean."
"So you don't love her?" Connor asked in confusion. "If that's the case then you're giving a damn good impression of it."
"I just—I don't know what that feels like," Heath admitted. "I don't know what I feel."
"I can't tell you the answer to that," Connor said with a shrug. "Only you know that. I can just tell you what it looks like from the outside. And it looks to me like you're a drowning man." He grinned. "It's not so bad on this side, though. You'll see."
Heath snorted, but his brother's words echoed in his mind. Really strong feelings for her. Want to be around her all the time. Make sure she's okay. Can't picture life without her.
All of those things were true.
Heath wanted to laugh at himself and groan at the same time.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Drew went back to work on Wednesday, against her parents' wishes. And she went in a foul mood.
By now, all of Pittsburgh knew about her. Everyone who read the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and the Pittsburgh Tribune, that is. Which was mostly everyone. The papers had been calling her nonstop and she was more curious about how in the hell they'd gotten a hold of her cell phone number than what it was they were calling to talk to her about. She refused the calls, ignored the voicemails, refused to give any interviews. She simply wanted to be left alone. So, without her input, they ran stories summarizing both her situation's reveal at Smackdown and also her testimony at the trial two days before. She was flabbergasted at how quickly supposedly "private" information traveled and how easily it was bought. It was beyond her scope of imagination as to how, by whom and from whom the information about her was sold, and frankly, why anyone even gave two shits about her. It exhausted her to even think about it. She accepted the sensationalism for what it was and sincerely hoped the interest in her and her unfortunate circumstances would die. Quickly.
However, that was not the only thing contributing to her foul mood.
Since Monday, she hadn't seen Heath and she had barely spoken to him. Busy, he'd said, he'd been super busy lately. He hadn't mentioned what any of that busy-ness entailed but Drew assumed it had to do with him needing to pick up the pieces from the fallout at Smackdown. She also assumed that it had to do, at least a little bit, with her little confession in the courthouse a couple days ago.
Where she had initially felt brave and happy at her admission, she now felt down and a little foolish. She might have been out of the dating game for some time now but she at least recalled hearing her girlfriends and sisters tell her that the girl was never supposed to say "I love you" first, even if she really meant it, because guys tended to scare easily, and everyone knew that girls got way too emotionally overwrought too soon.
Drew had meant what she'd said to Heath. In the days following her confession and Heath's subsequent silence, she had forced herself to examine the truth of her statement. Had she just been caught up in the stress of the day? The emotion of the weekend? Did she really know what she was saying?
After a couple of sleepless nights and thinking of little else, Drew realized that yes, what she'd said to him, she'd meant. And she was still proud of herself for putting all of her emotions out on the table, the same as she'd felt when she'd first uttered the words. And at the time, she hadn't necessarily even been looking for or expecting a return statement from him immediately. It would have been nice, but that hadn't been the point of her opening her mouth in the first place. It was something that she'd needed him to know, to understand how she felt. And she regretted nothing.
However, as the hours stretched into a day and a day became days, and days began to stretch into the week, she realized that it would have been nice to hear something back from him. Telling her he loved her, too, would have been the first choice. Since he hadn't said it back, she could only assume he didn't feel that way about her. But even if he hadn't said it back to her, at least it would have been nice to feel like things hadn't changed between them, and they now obviously had. With his sudden "busy-ness" and his unavailability for her, physically and conversationally, she began to believe that she had, in fact, scared him off.
She had to laugh ruefully at herself a little bit. No, it wasn't her traumatic experience or subsequent mental fallout and issues with self-mutilation and anxiety that had scared him off. Nor her squeamishness at close physical contact or the length of time it had taken for her to become comfortable, let alone enjoy, being touched. No, it had been her honest confession that she loved him, that she was in love with him, that had sent him screaming for the hills.
Instant man-repellant, she thought wryly. She was extremely disappointed, though; Heath had stayed by her side throughout everything but this, this, had been the thing to push him away? He had helped to bring her so far, and once she'd decided to go all the way—literally and figuratively—he was just done?
She was hurt, and lonely, and utterly miserable.
To make things worse, the showcase was in just one day. She was ready, her costume was ready, she felt confident about her physical ability to pull off the performance. However, now that her head and her heart were hurting, she knew it now had the ability to become a complete clusterfuck. She had to find a way to channel her negative emotions into the passion of her dance, or else she would simply be distracted and fail despite her hard work and dedication to being successful. She hadn't even bothered rehearsing at all this week yet, so heartsick she was that she couldn't even really bring herself to care much about the performance. The rational part of her brain recognized that she was in a danger-zone that could set her up for failure.
Her first day back at work was awkward at best. She felt like everyone who came into the café was looking at her strangely now that she was, apparently, all over the news. She was no longer Joe Carnevale's youngest kid, workin' the counter at the café. She was a rape victim who had just testified at the trial of her attacker to put him away for life. She hated it, the looks, the whispers. She wanted to throw things and yell and scream at them, tell them to mind their own fucking business. But she couldn't, so she endured it all silently, steam coming out of her ears.
Her mood certainly didn't help the customer interactions. Normally, she was able to keep her feelings and emotions in check when dealing with customers, wanting to present the best front for her parents' business as possible and be friendly and inviting and warm. Today, she was cool, disinterested and at times, almost actually growly. Bunz, normally fearless when it came to demanding that her friend "miss her" with her attitude or instructing her to spill the beans, quietly kept to herself in the back. When she did speak to Drew, she was soft-spoken and kept things short, almost as though she knew the real reason for Drew's moodiness. Drew knew she was going to need to go back and apologize to Bunz later on. But she couldn't find it in herself to talk about what was happening and why she was in such a bad mood. She silently thanked God for a friend like Bunz who seemed to know instinctively not to push her, nor did she seem to take offense to Drew's shortness, as though she understood that it had nothing to do with her.
To her annoyance, the café phone had been ringing off the hook for most of the day. Every time Drew would answer, she'd hear a pause, a breath, a click, and then a dial tone. It was getting to be incredibly irritating, and each time the phone rang, her nerves coiled just a little tighter.
"Do you know who keeps calling?" Bunz asked after the lunch rush had departed. The phone had just gone off for at least the te
nth time that day. Being that it was attached to the wall directly behind the counter, Drew had been the one to answer it every time.
Drew slammed the receiver back into the cradle with more force than necessary. "Who knows. Probably another fucking reporter. It's bad enough they have my cell phone; now they're harassing me at work?"
"But they're not saying anything?" Bunz asked curiously.
"No. Just breathin' and then hangin' up."
"Probably not reporters, then," Bunz said. "Probably just some jerks pranking you."
"Either way," Drew said grumpily, "they need to knock the shit off."
The phone rang again, and Bunz made to answer it this time, but Drew lunged for it and yanked it to her ear.
"Hello!" she growled, completely ignoring the standard business greeting her parents had always asked her to use.
"Hi," a hesitant male voice said. "Is—is Bunz around?"
"Who's calling?" Drew demanded.
"I'm, uh—a friend," the man replied.
Drew's eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, but she knew it wasn't Anthony. Not to mention, it sounded like every other guy in Pittsburgh. There was nothing special or distinctive about it. Moreover, Bunz didn't really socialize with other guys outside of Anthony, and she certainly didn't have any brothers. One of the few personal details Bunz had divulged about herself was that she was an only child.
"You think I'm stupid?" Drew asked the caller evenly.
"Uh, n-no," the voice said nervously.
"Then why the hell are you callin' up here asking to speak to my friend when I know you're not friends with her?" Drew demanded.
Bunz quickly plucked the receiver from her hand and gave Drew a dark look before taking the call. "Hello?" she asked. Her face lit up with the caller apparently identified himself. "Hey—you. Yeah. Yeah, sure. Oh, yeah? Okay. Well, I'll meet up with you when I get off work. At the—okay. Yes. Perfect. All right. I won't. Okay. Okay. Bye."
Bunz calmly hung up the phone and turned when she felt the heat of Drew's stare. "Yes?"
"Well?" Drew said expectantly. "What the hell was that about?"
Bunz made a face and then laughed. "You're nosy as hell. Why don't you mind your own business?" She caught sight of Drew's annoyed expression and sighed, patting the air. "Fine. Calm yourself. I was looking into surprising Anthony with a personal trainer for his birthday. He's been really wanting to get back into shape. I gave the guy my cell and work numbers and I didn't hear my cell go off. Anyway, I'm meeting with him after work to talk about it."
Drew's eyes narrowed again. It sounded perfectly reasonable but for some reason she felt like that wasn't the whole truth. "Why did he say he was your friend?" she asked suspiciously. "Why not just say, he's with such-and-such gym?"
Bunz laughed. "I don't know, yo," she said calmly. "I couldn't tell you. Why don't you just calm down, okay?" She squeezed Drew's shoulder. "Honestly. You've got a big night in a couple days. You need to be focusing on that. Right?"
Drew thought of the showcase again and sighed. Bunz was right. "Yeah, I guess," she mumbled.
"Listen. Why don't you clear outta here an hour early, go to the Y, lock yourself in your newly refurbished, fabulous little studio and dance your ass off? Then get yourself some froyo and go home to bed."
Drew noticed that Bunz didn't say anything about seeing or calling Heath, which she usually did in moments like these. Bunz knew that Drew always either saw or spoke to Heath every day. Her heart drooped a little.
"Yeah," Drew mumbled. "I'll do that, I guess."
Several hours later, Drew stood in the tiny corner studio of the Y, stretching her legs at the barre and looking out the window dejectedly. Her mood had not improved in the slightest, not that she'd expected it to, and she had no energy at all for her rehearsal. However, Bunz's suggestion of frozen yogurt had piqued her interest, and in order to feel okay about enjoying such a treat, especially in the way she preferred to make it, she felt she'd better do some kind of physical activity.
She ran through the dance three times, and while she noted that she hit all of the correct moves on all of the correct beats, her performance was lackluster at best. She no longer felt the spark of emotion connected to the song, no longer allowed the music to take control of her body and mind. Her thoughts were not on her dance at all.
As she stood, glaring at her reflection in the mirror, panting and sweating, she made a decision. She'd allow herself one more night to mope. In the morning, she would get over the situation.
As she packed up her all of her things into her dance duffel bag, she felt a bit lighter in her decision. She'd get over it, and she'd move on, with or without Heath.
***
Even with a giant bowl of creamy, frozen yogurt, and a night spent in bed cuddling up with Rocky, her plan from the night before was a little easier said than done in the morning.
She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She knew she should take advantage of the fact that she had a day off from the café, a day to sleep in a little bit before she headed down to the Benedum for dress rehearsals that day prior to the performance in the evening. She'd slept fitfully through the night, like she had the past several nights. She had decided not to reach out to Heath, as had been her habit these days, and had gone to bed without speaking to him or texting with him all day long. She wanted to see if he would notice and reach out to her first. As she looked at her phone this morning, she saw that he hadn't.
Rocky stretched luxuriously from where he was curled up against her side, purring at the same time, before digging his paws delicately into her throat as he leaned into her face. She stared him down, her eyes narrowing, as he began his morning ritual of waking her up and enticing her to feed him by purring loudly in her ear, stepping on her hair, pressing his cold and wet nose into her face, and licking the sensitive skin of her cheeks hard, his rough tongue feeling like sandpaper against her flesh.
"You win, Rock," she mumbled, gently pushing him away as she struggled to sit up. "You win."
The cat leapt off the bed and raced out of the room down the hallway, Drew trudging behind him into the kitchen. He squeaked with excitement as she scooped up a serving of his dry food and poured it into his bowl. When he was happily immersed in his food, Drew headed back to her room and flopped face-down back into her bed. She eventually dozed off, finding herself snorting awake in a rush seemingly only a few moments later when her alarm clock went off. In actuality, she'd slept for an additional forty-five minutes. It was now nine-thirty, and she had a strict rehearsal time of eleven.
She hopped up and gathered up her costume, footwear and registration form for the showcase, feeling deeply thankful she'd showered before going to bed last night. She dressed quickly jeans, bright red leather Converse sneakers, and a black Sex Pistols T-shirt. She splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then yanked her long hair into a bun on top of her head before grabbing her bag and keys and flying out the door.
She rode the bus downtown after she stopped and grabbed a latte with a double shot of espresso to help her fully wake up. The bus dropped her off a couple blocks from the Benedum and she hoped the walk in the brisk air would help make her feel a little more alert. As she strode down the street, she recalled the last time she'd been here, she had been on her date with Heath, the night he'd taken her to go see Giselle. An even heavier sadness hung over her. He knew that tonight was her showcase; since she hadn't heard from him since the day before yesterday, she wondered if he'd forgotten. Or if he even still planned to show up. If he cared.
As she neared the corner, her body automatically turned her to the right around the corner, instead of heading straight across the street and down the block until she could cross to go to the Benedum. She always liked to walk past her dream studio space to remind herself to keep her goals in mind, to constantly work hard, and never forget what she wanted. She never walked through this area without stopping by the studio to just look a
t it and think for a while. In fact, sometimes she rode the bus to this area for that sole purpose.
She rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the studio space on the corner. There was a sign in the window, like there always was, and at first her eyes skimmed over it, taking its presence for granted like they normally did. Then she froze.
It took her several long moments to register the fact that the sign said something different than it normally did.
Sold.
She continued to stare at it, confusion creeping over her, followed by anger, and then disbelief. She stood rooted in place on the sidewalk and barely noticed when her duffel bag slid off her shoulder and thudded to the dirty pavement.
Sold.
In the instant the word clicked in her brain, and she understood that the studio was no longer hers, her heart broke.
All of her dreams, all of her goals, all of her wishes had been wrapped up in this dirty little space. All of the long years ahead she saw in her mind, walking through a roomful of blossoming ballerinas, guiding them on their form, technique, and grace, watching them grow from shy, clumsy little girls into beautiful, graceful dancers, shattered.
All of that was gone now, swept out of the little studio space before her like the dust on the floor.
The rational part of her mind told her that this wasn't the only studio space in Pittsburgh. It was one of dozens. She could easily find another location; there was no need to give up on anything at the moment. But the emotional part of her brain refused to hear the logic; this space was the first space she'd looked at that had struck her with inspiration for dance again. After her attack, she'd stopped caring about almost everything in her life, dance included. When she and her family had first come to Pittsburgh, and she'd come to the downtown area, her old love of dance had stirred immediately when she'd passed this place. She had halted in her tracks—she remembered it so clearly—and she'd gaped through the window, instantly seeing in her mind polished wooden spring floors, rounded barres spanning the length of the room, floor to ceiling mirrors. And just like that, her passion had sprung back to life and the very next day, she began her search for a job teaching dance. Then she'd started work at her parents' brand new café, and then shortly after added the bartending job to increase her money-making plan to get the studio. That studio, responsible at least in a small way for bringing her back to life, would be hers. She'd been so determined, and she'd worked so hard. She'd been so diligent about saving her money, rarely spending any money outside of what she needed for basic necessities. Every cent she saved brought her that much closer to the required down payment for the studio mortgage.