Emilio nodded. “Didn’t she tell you? Every dancer sits down with our company director for The Talk at some point. That’s where he tells us that no one dances forever and that it might be time to start thinking about transitioning. To teaching or choreography or whatever.”
Nick thought about the night they’d gone to dinner, when Sara had talked about retirement ages for dancers and how she could see the end coming.
And how much that scared her.
He hadn’t taken her seriously. She was so young and vibrant and talented that he couldn’t believe she was approaching the end of her career. But she had been serious.
His response? To dismiss her concerns, and then attack her relationship with her boyfriend.
Nice.
“So what will she do?”
“I don’t know. She thought she had at least a year before she really had to worry about this, but now…I don’t know.”
Nick nodded. Then he unlocked Sara’s door to let Emilio and Jeanette into the apartment.
Her friends sounded worried, which made him worry even more. Starting tomorrow he was going to check on Sara whether she liked it or not. At the very least, he could make sure she was eating.
And when she was ready to talk to someone, he’d be there for her.
Chapter Eight
As the days passed, Nick started to wonder if that time would ever come.
At first he put Sara’s withdrawal down to pain and trauma. He thought she’d have more energy once she could use her crutches, but that day came and went without seeming to make any difference.
He brought her food every day and she thanked him politely, but she continued to shut him out. Of course, if Sara didn’t want to talk to him there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
A few weeks after the fall, Nick stopped by after work with a salad from Sara’s favorite Greek restaurant. He let himself in, hoping to find her in the living room, but she was still in bed. She was wearing her pajamas, and she looked exactly the way she had that morning when he’d stopped by with coffee.
“Sara?”
Her eyes opened. “Oh. Hi, Nick.”
“What did you do today?” he asked, coming over to the bed and handing her the salad.
“Thanks. Not much, actually. I felt tired.”
He didn’t usually stay while she ate dinner, since she’d made it clear she preferred it that way. But now he pulled up a chair and looked at her. Really looked at her.
She looked terrible.
She’d been wearing those same rumpled pajamas for a few days now. He’d suggested washing them yesterday, but he hadn’t pushed the point.
It might be time to push the point.
She looked pale and listless, which was such a contrast to the woman he’d met a few weeks ago that it was hard to believe she was the same person.
He remembered the way she’d looked that first day, the energy that had sparked from her eyes and flown from her very fingertips. He remembered when she’d danced for him in the street, all power and grace and beauty and life.
She was a pale shadow of that woman now, and knowing that he had caused the injury that had done this made him sick to his stomach.
“Emilio said you got the okay to start physical therapy.”
She’d been staring at the TV, which was showing an old sitcom. Now she turned her head to look at him. “What? Oh…yes. I’ll probably start going next week.”
“But you don’t have to wait for that, right? Emilio said there are exercises you can do at home. Have you been doing those?”
“It’s nice to know Emilio’s being so informative.” It was the first hint of temper she’d shown in days, and it was almost a relief to see it.
“Are you doing the exercises?”
Her eyes slid away from his. “Sure.”
He opened his mouth to tell her she was lying, but the sound of the downstairs buzzer stopped him.
He went to the door and spoke into the intercom. Emilio and a few other friends were outside the building, wanting to come up and visit with Sara.
He buzzed them in and then went back to Sara’s room. “Some of your friends are coming up. You might want to get dressed.”
Her head snapped up. “Why didn’t you ask me first? I don’t want to see anyone right now.”
“Too late. They’re on their way. Do you want me to get you some clothes?”
Sara leaned back against her pillows again and shook her head. “If they want to see me, they can see me in here.”
He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Instead, he nodded. “Fine.”
A minute later he was opening the door for her friends. Emilio was the last one inside, and he looked a question at Nick.
Nick just shook his head. Sara wasn’t any better.
But for the rest of the night he would do his best not to think about her. He was going to visit his brother, who was the only person in his life right now who seemed to benefit from his presence.
* * *
“I can’t reach her,” he muttered to himself an hour later, as the two of them were playing chess. He’d captured Kevin’s queen and was holding the piece in his hand, letting it roll back and forth across his palm.
“Can’t reach who? Your candidate?”
Had he spoken out loud? “I was actually thinking about Sara, but I’m not having much luck with Keisha, either.”
“She still won’t listen to you?”
“Which one? Not that it matters. Neither one of them listens to me.”
“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough,” Kevin said, moving a bishop to threaten his rook. “Is it because of me? Am I distracting you?”
“Of course not. You’re my brother.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to be my keeper,” he said with a grin. “Are you sure you want me staying with you when I get out of here next week?”
“Hell, yes. It’ll be nice to have someone around who actually pays attention when I talk.”
“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough,” Kevin said again.
“Believe me, I’m trying. Why wouldn’t I be trying?”
“Because you’re afraid of getting too invested.”
Nick paused with his hand on his knight. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Nick. You think I don’t know why you have this whole gunslinger approach to your work? Every client you’ve ever worked with has offered you a permanent spot on their staff, and you’ve turned them all down.”
“I like variety.”
“You’re afraid of getting too invested.”
Nick moved his knight. “Check, and mate in three moves.” He sat back in his chair. “I get invested in every campaign I work on.”
Kevin studied the board. “No, you don’t. You work hard on every campaign, but that’s not the same thing. You work hard because you like to win.”
“Sure I do. Who doesn’t? But that’s also why people hire me. Political consultants who don’t care about winning don’t land a lot of jobs in Washington.”
Kevin moved his king out of danger. “You need to care about something more than winning.”
Nick advanced a pawn to threaten his bishop. “Yeah? What should I care about?”
Kevin took the pawn. “Building something.”
Nick moved his knight again. “Check. I’ve built a career. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.”
After Kevin moved his king, Nick slid his rook the length of the board. “Checkmate.”
Kevin tipped his king over.
They were silent a minute before Kevin spoke again. “Look, I’m not trying to piss you off here.”
“You used to care about winning, too. I understand that you’ve changed your philosophy of life, and that’s fine. But don’t push your ethics onto me.”
“I don’t have to. You already have ethics. You only work with politicians you think are decent and principled. Right?”
“Right.”
“Except for this Paxton guy.”
“Paxton’s got principles. He might be a little slicker than some of the other clients I’ve worked with, but he knows what it takes to win. I think he’s got a real shot at the White House.”
“What about Keisha Watkins?”
“Keisha Watkins has no shot at the White House.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. But she’s the kind of candidate you got into politics to help.”
Nick sighed. “Yeah, I know. She also refuses to listen to my advice, and she’s probably going to lose in the primary despite the fact that she’s running against a guy who’s admitted to multiple extra-marital affairs and whose own daughter says doesn’t deserve to be elected into public office.”
“Plus he’s an idiot.”
“There’s that, too.”
“Keisha Watkins isn’t an idiot.”
“No, she’s not. She’s smart, dedicated, and she has more integrity in her little finger than her opponent has in his entire body. The truth is, I like her. That doesn’t change the fact that I can’t help her if she won’t let me.”
“You like Sara, too.”
Nick stared at him. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just saying that there are two women in your life right now that you like. That makes you a lucky man in my book, and they deserve the best from you. But you’re not giving them what they need.”
“And what do you think they need?”
“The truth. And you’re not giving it to them because you’re afraid of getting too invested.”
“You think I’m lying to Keisha and Sara?”
“No. But I don’t think you’re going out on a limb to tell them what you really think, either. To say nothing of what you feel.”
“Going out on a limb? What the hell does—”
Kevin held up his hands. “In the end, it all comes down to two things. Knowing what’s important, and speaking the truth. When you’re at your best, you do both of those things better than anyone I know. And it’s a rare ability. Take from that what you will, grasshopper.”
It was hard to stay pissed at his brother. “Two months of twelve step crap and you think you’re Yoda.”
“I was actually going for Mr. Miyagi. You know, from The Karate Kid?”
“Master Po in Kung Fu was the one who used the term ‘grasshopper’.”
“Is it important that I know that?”
“Vital.”
* * *
He didn’t realize that his brother’s words had sunk into his subconscious until late the next afternoon. He’d spent a long day with Jerry Brookfield, the campaign manager, trying to plot out the next few weeks of their candidate’s schedule. He’d managed to rebook her appearance on the talk show she’d canceled, although the network was pretty pissed. Luckily the programming director, David Gardner, had been trying to talk him into doing a Saturday morning politics show for a couple of years now. In exchange for rescheduling Ms. Watkins, Nick promised to meet with him and a couple of producers about their ideas for the show.
Of course he wasn’t seriously considering it. The network wanted a one year contract with an option for a second year, and that was a lot more commitment than he was interested in at this point in his life. You could always leave a campaign, but getting out of a television contract wasn’t so easy.
Keisha came into the office for their daily strategy meeting, and when Nick mentioned the talk show a tense look crossed her face.
“Is there a problem with the date? I cleared it with both you and Jerry.”
“Yes, but...”
Nick frowned. “I thought you knew I was trying to book this.”
She smoothed her hands down her skirt, which was her tell whenever she was nervous. “I did know. I just thought you’d talk with me about it before anything was finalized.”
“Look, Ms. Watkins—why don’t we cut to the chase. Do you have a problem with talk shows? Given your particular challenges as a candidate, this type of appearance could be hugely beneficial.”
She frowned down at the conference table for a moment. Then she looked up, her expression determined. “You might be right, but I don’t think it’s in keeping with the kind of campaign I want to run.”
“You do know that almost every political candidate for the last twenty years has appeared on shows just like this one?”
“Yes, I know, but…” She smoothed her hands down her skirt again, and Nick knew that she was trying to think of an explanation. And whatever she came up with, it wouldn’t be the truth.
That’s when Kevin’s words came back to him.
He glanced at Jerry. “Would you mind giving me a moment alone with Ms. Watkins?”
“Not at all,” Jerry said immediately, clearly hoping that Nick could talk his candidate into doing something to resuscitate her flagging campaign.
When the door of the conference room closed behind him, Keisha started to speak.
“Do you mind if I go first?” Nick asked. “After I say my piece, you may not need to waste words on me.”
She chewed on her lip for a moment and then nodded. “All right.”
“Fire me.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I think you should fire me.”
“But…why?”
“Because you don’t trust me.”
She thrust her hands into the pockets of her beige linen jacket and began to pace. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”
“Then tell me the real reason you don’t want to do the talk show.”
She stopped pacing and took a deep breath. “Because I have stage fright.”
“What?”
“I suffer from stage fright. I get cold sweats and stomach cramps and my hands start to shake.”
Stage fright. Stage fright? “But you speak in public all the time.”
She smiled wryly. “Yes, and how’s that been going for me?”
“So everything I’ve been trying to help you with…the trouble you have in interviews and on camera…it’s because you have stage fright?”
“Yes.”
He sat slowly back in his chair. “But didn’t you have to do public speaking as an economic advisor?”
“Not as much as you’d think. And a lot of that was talking shop with other economists. That doesn’t scare me.”
“But knowing you had this problem didn’t stop you from running for office?”
For a second she looked absolutely miserable. “I thought because I wanted this so much, because I’ve always dreamed of serving the people of New York, that I’d be able to overcome it.”
“It would be a lot easier to overcome if you’d see a therapist. There are people who specialize in this kind of thing, Ms. Watkins.”
“I wish you’d call me Keisha. And I suppose there are. But I’m sure that would get out, somehow.”
“Your opponent’s daughter has leaked the fact that her father has had at least two extramarital affairs, since confirmed by the women themselves, who haven’t been stingy with the details. Do you really think seeing a therapist is more embarrassing than that?”
“It seems like an admission of weakness.”
“It is a weakness, Keisha. For someone running for office, it’s a big honking weakness. So how do you want to deal with it? Head-on? Or by pretending the problem doesn’t exist? That’s a coward’s way of dealing with things, and you’re not a coward.”
Keisha sat down at the head of the conference table. “You’re not pulling any punches.”
“That’s because I’m…” he paused, hearing Kevin’s word in his head. Then he went ahead and said it. “That’s because I’m invested in this campaign. You’re a smart woman with a lot of good ideas, and Congress could use you. But you’ll never get there if you don’t let me—and everyone else on your campaign—help you get elected. Either trust us, or fire us. But don’t keep fighting us every step of the way.”
“That’s certainl
y blunt.” She rested her forearms on the table and folded her hands together, looking down for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Do you think you could find a qualified therapist who might be able to help me?”
“Of course. I’ll have some names for you by tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“Can I go ahead with the talk show booking?”
She chewed on her lip a moment before answering. “Yes. Although two weeks isn’t much time to conquer a lifelong neurosis.”
“If we have to, we can always say you’re ill and cancel. But I don’t think we’ll have to.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I usually am, Keisha. That’s why you should listen to me more than once a week.”
She gave him the first real smile he’d seen from her in days. “You’re a little bit cocky, aren’t you?”
“Just a little. But only because I really do know what I’m doing.”
It was a breakthrough, and his good mood lasted all the way until dinnertime, when he let himself into Sara’s apartment with a cup of gazpacho and a strawberry walnut salad.
* * *
Sara heard the sound of her front door, which could mean only one thing.
Nick.
He came like clockwork, morning and night. In her life, which had become foggy and indistinct, he was like the beam of a lighthouse: predictable and immutable. The one constant in her oddly formless existence.
She didn’t have the energy to turn him away, but she wished he’d stop coming. She could feel him worrying about her, just like Emilio and Jeanette and everyone else. They wanted her to do things: eat, exercise, think about the future.
None of which she wanted to do.
She knew she was behaving childishly, even self-destructively, but she couldn’t seem to care. She resented anyone who did care, because their worry felt like a demand, like a low, insistent buzz in her ear.
She wondered if this was how her mother had felt after the divorce.
She’d always been so determined not to be like her mother. Maybe that was childish, too. Maybe real adults didn’t shape their lives in relation to their parents, whether in an effort to become them or their exact opposite. But she’d always tried to be as different from her mother as it was possible to be.
Her mother had had a talent once. A gift. She’d been an Olympic-class swimmer, an athlete who could have won medals and set world records.
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