Endless Love

by Nelle L’Amour

  My nerves calmed with the pitter-patter of my pointe shoes as I glided across the wood floor, working my feet and arms. Every step was like a word, communicating my feelings and emotions. Transforming me into the magical bird, who was both a curse and a blessing. Much like Gustave.

  As I performed the intricate dance, I felt Gustave’s presence. His hawk-eyes scrutinizing me, his ubiquitous cane tapping against the floor like a metronome. The cane that would come crashing down on the barre if I failed him, filling my eyes with tears of disappointment and frustration.

  “You need to shimmer more,” I heard him bark in my head as I threw my head back and smoothed my imaginary feathers.

  “Work harder.”

  “Faster!”

  “More emotion!”

  Oh, how I wanted to please him! Such burning desire! As the electrifying music played, every move fell gracefully into place. My arms fluttered like a bird’s wings, and with every leap, I felt like I was flying. I lost sense of time and space. Right now, I was The Firebird. I owned The Firebird and it owned me.

  Suddenly, a husky familiar voice broke into my mindset.

  “Willow?”

  Coming down from a sauté, I landed on my feet and pirouetted around. It was my father, wearing his pajamas and a robe.

  “Pop!” My voice registered shock and surprise. As much as I loved him, he was the last person I wanted to see right now. Though he didn’t know the extent of the damage, he knew that ballet had been a destructive force in my life. He didn’t make it a secret that he never wanted me to return to that world.

  “What are you doing down here?” I asked, my heartbeat slowing down.

  “I heard some music playing. I thought maybe I’d left the TV on. What are you doing down here?”

  “Dancing. I couldn’t sleep.” I kept things as simple as possible, not wanting to create a conversation that would stress him out or raise eyebrows.

  To my relief, my father didn’t question me further. “It’s late, pumpkin. You should go back to bed.”

  I twitched a small smile to placate him. “Okay, Pop. I’ll be right up.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Night, Pop.”

  And with that, he lumbered out of the studio. The music still playing, I could hear him thudding up the stairs. He still wasn’t in good shape and that worried me.

  A few minutes later, I was back in my room. Untying them, I slipped off my pointe shoes and next peeled off my damp tights and leotard. I put them all back neatly in my ballet bag and then put on my PJs. Hopping into bed, I removed the tape from my toes and massaged my aching feet. My eyes jumped from a photo of six-year-old me performing in a lilac tutu to the cover of Ryan’s book.

  Undying Love… Was ballet my undying love? Dancing had awoken me. I felt more alive than I had in months. Enervated. Yet, at the same time, I felt more conflicted. My chest constricted as a torrent of emotions whooshed around inside me. My eyes stayed on Ryan Madewell’s beautiful face. My heart was torn. I wasn’t sure if I belonged to him, but I knew I belonged to dance. Was I ready to return? Should I? Would Gustave take me back? And if he did, would that be the best decision of my life or the biggest mistake?

  Overcome with anxiety, I clutched my little plush monkey, Baboo, and gazed at the ceiling. Thank goodness, I was seeing Dr. Goodman on Monday. Maybe he could help me figure things out. With so many unanswered questions bombarding my mind, it was a miracle sleep claimed me. I was dancing in my dreams.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Willow

  Pop wasn’t feeling well the next morning and I urged him to stay in bed. Trudging down to the basement last night and then back up two flights of stairs to our apartment must have taken a toll on him. I felt guilty that I’d woken him up. Despite a protest, he agreed to rest upstairs while I minded the store with the help of his loyal crew.

  As always, Saturday business was brisk. People came in early to pick up lox and bagels for Sunday morning brunch, and throughout the day, families frequented the restaurant for our special weekend lunch. I was playing hostess, taking care of the long line of regulars waiting to get seated.

  Despite how busy I was, I couldn’t get last night out of my mind. My encounter with Gustave haunted me as much as my need to dance. I couldn’t get The Firebird music out of my head. It was in my bloodstream, in my bones, and in every cell of my being. And in my heart and in my soul. Breathing and reliving it. While I plastered a smile on my face as I greeted customers, inside my guts were twisting. And that wasn’t the only thing that had my stomach in knots.

  It was late afternoon, and I hadn’t heard from Ryan. Admittedly, last night ended badly. To be honest, it was a disaster. I owed him an explanation. I had to let him know how my unexpected encounter with Gustave affected me and assure him that there was nothing between us. That my heart belonged only to one man—to him. Ryan Madewell. With business calming down a little until the dinner crowd came in, I decided to call him. No answer. It went straight to his voicemail. Rather than leaving a message, I ended the call and texted him instead.

  Are you okay? I need to see you. xo

  As I typed the letters, a chill swept over me. Maybe he didn’t want to see me anymore. That whatever we had was over. Then, my back to the front door, a familiar tap, tap, tap, tap resounded in my ears, each tap getting closer and louder.

  “Oiseau…”

  Almost dropping my cell phone, I whipped around. Gustave! My mouth formed an “O” and my eyes widened. He was wearing pleated black wool slacks, a tight black pullover, and expensive black leather loafers with no socks—his uniform. The one he always wore at practices and rehearsals. The manic look in his eyes frightened me and I inwardly shuddered.

  “G-Gustave. What are you doing here?”

  Without warning, he pulled me into him, squeezing my shoulders. His hot breath licked my cheeks like flames. “I need you back…”

  “Gustave, let go of me.” He tightened his grip, relentless desire darkening his eyes.

  “I need you to dance.”

  Oh, God. He wanted me back. My heart hammering, I turned my face away from him. With a pinch of my jaw, he jerked my head forward.

  “P-please, Gustave. I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’m ready. I need more time.”

  His fiery gaze burnt a hole in mine, holding me captive. “There is no time. I need you to dance for me…tonight at Lincoln Center.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mira sprained her ankle during the rehearsal. She can’t perform.”

  “W-what about Frederica or Odette?”

  “Frederica is playing the part of the lead princess.” Then, he snorted. “And Odette dances like a pathetic sparrow.”

  My emotions in a whirlwind, I didn’t know what to say. I chewed my lip. I was torn, fractured. Part of me wanted to scream out yes while the other part of me wanted to run as far away as possible. The push and pull was excruciating.

  He gripped me tighter; his gaze grew fiercer. “Only you, my petite oiseau, can dance the part. Only you can be The Firebird.”

  He impatiently tapped his cane, the taps synchronizing with my rapid heartbeats. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. I stood as still as a statue, paralyzed, afraid to move or say a word. My heartbeat accelerated as he moved in closer to me, his lips a breath away.

  “Willow, you must do it for me. The company is facing bankruptcy. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in funding are contingent on tonight’s performance. It’s the only thing that will save us. I shall not leave until you say yes.”

  And then, he began to nibble my neck. His wet kisses sent a shiver down my spine.

  My muscles clenching, I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please, Gustave. Don’t taunt me like this.”

  He ignored my plea. He flicked the area behind my ear before sucking the lobe.

  “You belong on the stage, my oiseau, not here.”

  “Please, Gustave. Let me think about it.” Maybe I could reason with him, though a
ny form of rational thinking was flying out the door. Fiddling with the ballet slipper charm around my neck, I felt myself giving in to the magical power Gustave had over me. Submitting to him. What I’d always done.

  “There is no time to think about it.” Anger rose in his voice. “I am giving you the opportunity of a lifetime. To dance in front of New York’s elite. Tomorrow morning, you will wake up and you will be a star. My star. Pack your bag and grab a gown. My driver is waiting for us.”

  I didn’t move.

  He leaned into me. “Will this convince you?”

  I quickly jerked my head away, avoiding a kiss. “Don’t do that, Gustave.” I swallowed a deep breath. I’d made up my mind.

  He eyed me lustfully. “I shall not take no for an answer.”

  “I will dance tonight. Not for you, but for the company.”

  Five minutes later, I met Gustave back in the restaurant, my dance bag with my necessities slung over my shoulder and a garment bag with a cocktail dress and heels folded over my arm. With a victorious smirk, he snatched my free arm, hooking his through mine, and whisked me to the front door. On the way out, I told my father’s staff that I’d be back later, not telling them where I was going or what I was doing. They looked at me quizzically as I asked them to tell my father that I’d call him later. I didn’t want my father to know what I was up to. It would upset him. Worse, kill him.

  A shudder shimmied through me. I was having second thoughts, but I told myself it was just a one-night thing. A good thing. Fingers crossed I could help save The Royal Latvia Ballet from going under. Save the careers of the dancers who had become my family. Well, except for one. Fucking Mira.

  With these positive thoughts in my head, Gustave swung open the front door. I stopped dead in my tracks. A gorgeous man, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, stood before me.

  “Ryan!” I gasped, my eyes wide.

  His eyes, as wide as mine, ping-ponged from me to Gustave and then back me. “Willow, where the hell are you going?”

  “I-I’m…”

  Gustave finished my sentence. “She’s going with me.”

  “What!?” A cloud of shock, rage, and confusion fell over Ryan. With my heart in my throat, I watched as Gustave shoved him out of the way.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!” Ryan snapped.

  “Then get lost, peon. Willow’s going where she belongs. On the stage.”

  “What!?” Ryan repeated.

  My heart stuttering, I filled him in. “Ryan, Gustave has an emergency. His lead dancer injured herself, and he needs me to fill in at tonight’s performance of The Firebird at Lincoln Center.”

  As Ryan processed my words, Gustave, to my horror, whacked Ryan’s shin with his cane.

  “Jesus Christ,” he cried out in pain.

  “Oh my God, Ryan! Are you okay?”

  Grimacing, he bent down to rub his sore leg, but before I could join him, Gustave grabbed my elbow.

  “Gustave, what are you doing?”

  “Let’s go. We cannot waste time.”

  On my next heartbeat, he hauled me away to the waiting limousine and shoved me inside. Looking out the tinted window, I watched as Ryan hobbled to the car, trying desperately to yank open the locked passenger door. Tears burned my eyes as a sharp pang of guilt shot through me.

  “Fuck,” Ryan shouted, still clinging to the door as we pulled off the curb. “Open up, Willow. Don’t go.”

  It was too late. On my next painful breath, the limo sped off and we were heading uptown.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Willow

  Everything happened so quickly. It was like life had whooshed by. One minute I was playing the role of the hostess at my father’s deli, the next I was about to play the role of The Firebird at Lincoln Center.

  While I’d never been backstage at Lincoln Center, the renowned arts complex where every dancer dreamed of performing, it was not much different than the others I’d hung out in. In the hallways, already costumed and made-up dancers were stretching and practicing their moves. Many stopped when they saw me and ran up to me to give me a hug. I was overwhelmed by their warm reception, several saying how much they missed me and how good it was to have me back. Gustave, however, didn’t give me any time to enjoy my welcome back.

  “Allez!” he snapped at my fellow dancers as he whisked me away. “There is no time. The performance starts in less than one hour.”

  At his command, the dancers scuttled off like mice. A few moments later, I was seated in the dressing room in front of a wall-length lit up mirror. Scattered across the long counter were tubs of eyeshadow, blush, and powder, tubes of lipstick and mascara, hairbrushes, lash curlers, bobby pins, and elastics. The remains of the other dancers who were here before me. Not many outsiders knew that ballerinas did their own hair and makeup. Even the greatest ones. It was our job to make ourselves beautiful.

  I stared at my makeupless face in the mirror, meeting the reflection of Gustave, who was standing behind me.

  “Oiseau, I want you to shimmer tonight,” he purred. “Make sure you put glitter on your eyes and dust your skin with the sparkling powder.”

  Gustave knew exactly how he wanted his ballerinas to look. Perfect for him. He then raked his fingers though my unruly hair.

  “And make sure you gather this despicable mess into a tidy bun. Not a hair out of place.” Gustave was obsessed with hair. Or rather the absence of it—except for a solid little knot at the top of our heads or at the nape of our necks.

  “You must hurry. The performance starts in forty-five minutes. Now, I shall leave you alone and get myself ready.”

  My brows shot up as I processed his words. “You’re performing?” He’d choreographed The Firebird and rehearsed it with me countless times, but I’d never gotten to perform the ballet on stage with him. That fateful night in Vienna—the night I collapsed—had made that dream an impossibility.

  A slow, smug smile met my surprised look in the mirror. “Yes, my petite oiseau. Tonight I am playing the part of Prince Ivan and at last you shall be my Firebird.”

  A shiver skittered through me. Every nerve in my body buzzed with trepidation.

  “Don’t we need to rehearse?”

  “There is no time. I believe in you, my oiseau. Trust yourself to light up the stage and trust me to make you shine. I shall be your magic feather.”

  Again, he met my gaze in the mirror. His one of smoldering self-assuredness, mine one of crippling anxiety. A smirk crossed his lips.

  “Just look beautiful for me, my oiseau.” And with that he was gone.

  My heart hammering, I began to put on my makeup, the familiar ritual coming back to me quickly. It was actually calming because I had to focus on getting every detail right. Finally, after applying the fire-red lipstick, I worked on my hair, pulling it back into a tight chignon that hit the nape of my neck with the help of a hair elastic and several bobby pins. I smoothed the top of my scalp, making sure every hair was in place. Then, I stared at my reflection.

  I literally gasped. I almost didn’t recognize myself with my glitter-lined, long-lashed eyes, full bright-red lips, and my hair tightly pulled back off my face. Still gazing into the mirror, I heard the dressing room door open … then a tap, tap, tap, tap. Gustave? Was he here to check on me? Craning my head to see who it was, I was in for a surprise.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my spot, you bitch?”

  Mira! Wearing some kind of fur coat, she hobbled in my direction with the help of crutches. Her right foot was taped up with an Ace Bandage.

  “How’s your foot?” I stammered.

  “Why would you give a shit? Answer my question. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m filling in for you. Gustave asked me to dance the part of The Firebird.”

  The expression on her face turned livid. “What!? That’s impossible!”

  “Think again, my lovely.” Another voice. Gustave! Loping my way, he was dressed in his costume—a pair of beige tights that exposed
every bulging muscle of his powerful legs and that huge package between his thighs…a sparkly belted tunic that opened at the neckline to reveal his sculpted chest… and on his feet, a pair of soft leathery boots that were made for dancing. In a word, he looked formidable. Every bit the part of Prince Ivan.

  “You look beautiful, my oiseau.”

  Mira’s jaw dropped to the floor with disgust. “You call that fat ugly bitch beautiful?”

  Gustave furrowed his thick brows. “My princess, watch your mouth. In fact, I’m going to ask you to leave. Madame Kapinski will be here any minute to help Willow change into her costume.”

  “Her costume? That’s my costume!! It was custom made for me. It’ll never fit the fat pig!”

  My mother had always told me, “Sticks and stones will break your bones, but names will never harm you.” Usually my nemesis’s insults stung despite my mom’s words of wisdom, but somehow at this moment my mother’s bold, courageous soul came alive in me. I stood up and squarely faced Mira.

  “Mira, I’m sure it’ll fit just fine.” I held my head up high, narrowing my eyes at her. “It’s my turn. Now, please get out of here.”

  Rage washed over her face. “Gustave, how can you let her talk to me like that?”

  Gustave grew angry. “Mira, if you don’t leave, I’m afraid I shall have to call security to escort you out.”

  She scrunched up her face. “Fine. But trust me, Gustave, you’re going to be sorry.”

  “Is that a threat, Mira?”

  “It’s just a statement.” Pivoting on her crutches, she glared at me, venom pouring from her eyes. “And you, fat cow, break a leg. And I really mean it.”

  A few minutes later, I was alone with Madame Kapinski. She was the company’s longtime wardrobe mistress. She was of French-Russian descent and in her late fifties. We all adored her, including me. She was like a mother to all of us. I was overjoyed to see her and the feeling was mutual. We exchanged hugs.