He blinks and doesn’t move. It’s an arrogant blink.
I continue. “Because of the highly developed supplementary motor cortex part of my brain, which handles the coordination of the muscles in my limbs, and because the shortest distance between two objects is a straight line, the kinetic energy that will be transferred from my fist to your face imparts undissipated shock energy—you’re a trained dancer, surely you understand kinematic chains?”
Blank stare.
“No? Would you like me to explain it? Because when I’m done explaining why I’ll be punching you with more than just the velocity and force of my fist, I am going to actually do it, because I’m already sick of looking at your shitty arrogant face and I am really really pissed that you just treated my girl that way, you unclassy moronic dickhead.”
One more blink, and he steps back, his shoulders slump. He holds his hands up in surrender. I remain in the same stance.
“Sorry, O. Just pissed that you didn’t want to see me, whatever.”
She nods at him, then reaches for me. I lower my fist. “Would you like me to have my driver drop you off at home?” I offer.
He shakes his head and walks off. “Fuck you, nerd.”
“Guess not,” I say. I salute the limo driver. “Enjoy the rest of your night, sir.”
She doesn’t say anything until we get into the elevator. “Three things: I am so sorry that happened. I’m so embarrassed that he was acting like that—he’s never been like that before. And what you did was so badass, I apologize for ever making fun of you and my brother.”
“For everything, or just the way we decided to protect you?”
“Just that. I have no regrets about making fun of you for everything else.”
“That’s three? Those are the three things you’re apologizing for?”
“Yes. Those are the three.”
“Okay. Three things,” I say. “You don’t have to apologize for that happening, and you definitely shouldn’t be embarrassed about his behavior.”
“I just—I don’t want you to think I was obsessed with such a gross asshat. I’d never go out with someone who says ‘Yo, O.’” She shudders.
“It doesn’t reflect badly on you, only on him. I mean, it reflects really badly on him. What a gross asshat.”
“So gross! What’s the third thing?”
“The third thing is that I was counting on him getting bored of my nerd speech and leaving, because the truth is, without training and practice, it’s pretty much impossible to do martial arts moves with an understanding of physics alone.”
“Well, you sure fooled me.”
We’re in our pajamas in bed, after another impossibly expensive room service order, because as always we barely ate the gala food. I’m messaging Sanjay, and she’s reading a dancer’s blog on her iPad, and I would be happy finishing off every day like this for the rest of my life. When she puts down her iPad, I let Sanjay know that I’m done for the night and put my laptop on the floor. When I turn to her, you’d think from the expression on her face that I just lassoed the moon and handed it to her on a silver platter.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Pleasure. Hey, who is KennedyOnPointe, anyway? Is she a friend of yours?”
Her eyes go wide. “Why?”
“She keeps mentioning and messaging me on Instagram. I think she wants me to repost pictures of her. She’s in your corps, right?”
“Yes. But no, she’s not a friend of mine.”
“I’ll block her then.”
She is trying not to smile. “You don’t have to block her.”
“I’m going to block her. She’s annoying.”
She is no longer trying not to smile. “Yes. She is.”
“Last thing I need is another annoying ballerina in my life.”
She wrinkles her brow and leans in a little closer. “Do you need a Pepper Potts, though?”
“A what?...Oh. Did you talk to Montana?”
“In the ladies. She’s a wee bit nuts, would you say?”
“A wee bit. She wasn’t when I met her.”
“I believe that. I am curious, though, why she thinks of you as Tony Stark? Is it because you both went to MIT?”
“I don’t think she thought of me as Tony Stark so much as Iron Man.”
“And why would she think of you as Iron Man?”
Our eyes flick down towards my cock, simultaneously and ever so quickly. “I have no idea why she would think such a thing.” I make my voice deep and gruff. “Because I’m Batman.”
She laughs and rests her chin on my chest, her arm under the pillows that are under my head, hand resting on my abs. She’s still wearing the diamond bracelet I gave her, and it’s cold against my skin but I would buy her enough to cover her entire arm if she asked me to.
“Batman was an orphan,” she says carefully.
“No. Bruce Wayne was orphaned.”
She sighs. Superhero movies were a source of conflict growing up because they were often the ones her brother and I would watch when she wanted to watch dance competition shows. She always got out-voted when I was there, even though she didn’t think I deserved a vote.
“You want to know more about my Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because after all that time you spent at our house, I never met her. I waved to her once or twice when she picked you up. Same with your Dad. I’m not saying you should resent them, but it seems like you don’t, and I’m just curious about them.”
I never say much when asked about my parents. There’s not that much to say. They didn’t abuse me, they did neglect me to a degree, but it was never all that bad. “They were married to their work, and they were married to each other, and they had me even though they weren’t excited about being parents. They owe so much to your parents, your family, and they know it. They saved a ton of money on nannies and babysitters because I got to stay at your place when they weren’t around.”
“Do you get along with them?”
“Yes. We aren’t close, but I respect them. To answer your question from a few days ago, I wouldn’t say that I formed my foundation for or because of my mother, but I did put her on the board because she’s a very bright woman with great investor instincts, a solid basic understanding of high tech, but despite how hard she works, she’s on fewer boards than my Dad, she doesn’t get as much publicity.
She’s a very honest, straightforward person, and a couple of years ago I offered to buy them a new house. She said they’re hardly ever home so what’s the point. I asked her if there was anything I could give her that would make her happy. Most mothers would say grandchildren. She said she just wanted me to remember her, if any business opportunities come up. So…”
“And you’ve really never been mad at them?”
“I don’t understand the point of being mad at someone for being who they are. People change when they want to. My parents never wanted to be better parents. But they were never terrible parents. They provided for me. That was their definition of good enough.”
And now I’m ready to ask Olivia the thing that I’m dying to know. “Do you ever want kids?”
“Yes.”
I’m surprised by her quick response.
“Eventually. Obviously, I can’t do it while I’m working my way up the ranks. I’ve always used two forms of birth control because of this.”
I nod. “So your goal is to become a principal dancer first?”
“My goal is to dance the lead in Giselle. It usually goes to principal dancers, yes. Once I’ve nailed Giselle, I think I’ll be ready to retire. I’m not the most ambitious dancer in the world, believe it or not. I just want to be the best that I can be, and I think that will be expressed in that particular role.”
“That’s very interesting. What is it about that role?”
“It’s just a freaking awesome ballet on so many levels, especially because there’s a supernatural element, but I think the character of G
iselle just epitomizes so much about the life of a dancer, and love in general. Do you know the story?”
I love seeing her so enthusiastic. “Tell me.”
“It’s simple, of course, it’s about a peasant girl who’s been courted by a game-keeper named Hilarion, but she falls in love with a duke named Albrecht when he’s pretending to be a peasant, and then she finds out that he’s already betrothed to a princess, and she dies of a broken heart.”
“Oh my.”
“And then there’s this band of undead virgins called the Wilis, who dance in the forest from midnight until four am, and any man who’s in that part of the forest then will die of exhaustion after being magically compelled to dance with them. Because that’s the Wilis fate—to lure young men to their doom. They raise Giselle from the dead and she’s commanded under a spell by the queen of the Wilis to lure Albrecht to his death, after she’s had this really sweet reunion with him and seen him grieving for her at her grave. Giselle is powerless to disobey, so she dances seductively, enticing him to come to her, and he can’t resist her. They dance together, beautifully and furiously, as Albrecht’s energy is exhausted, and Giselle keeps begging the queen for mercy on him. They dance an amazing pas de deux until the sun begins to rise. At four am, the Wilis return to their graves, and Albrecht’s life is saved, although he mourns for Giselle forever.”
“Albrecht doesn’t die?”
“Well, it depends on the interpretation, but he dies a metaphorical death, for sure, whether he lives to marry the princess or not. And what’s great about the character of Giselle is that she is this joyful, passionate young woman who loves to dance but she has a weak heart. Literally. In death she finds forgiveness and strength, and learns that even though the duke deceived her, his love was real.”
“I see. So it’s a poignant ending.”
“Most of the popular ballets are tragedies.”
“Do you see yourself as having a weak heart?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll see. You don’t really know until your heart is broken. Right?”
I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss it. She hides her eyes from me, and I suspect they’re damp. She’s the only person who could break my heart, I just don’t know if I’ve given her the power yet. How does one do that, exactly? When you understand the concept of gravity, what does it take to get you to step off the edge?
I wait for her to speak, because I don’t think anything I could say right now would be the right thing.
I know what Giselle means. I get it. Women make men do a dance, and men are afraid it will kill them. We fall in love, we feel like we have to hide who we really are to get them to fall in love with us, they find out we’re a lie and it kills them, but it makes them stronger and they save us even though we can never truly be with them.
Art. It hides the truth in beauty and feelings. That’s a noble thing.
Math and science still make more sense to me, though. This plus this equals that. Add this to that and you’ll get this.
Olivia plus John equals…
“But, yeah. Once I’ve danced Giselle, I can retire, get fat and crank out a little monster or two…Do you? Want kids?”
“Yes.”
“You do?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know. Do I? I am. Sorry. It’s just hard for me to picture you driving a minivan and changing diapers.”
“Would I have to do both at the same time?”
“Well, obviously Richard would be driving while you change diapers in the back of the minivan.”
“Works for me.”
She is quiet for a while, before saying, so quietly that I barely hear her: “Would you wait?”
For you? “Yes.”
My chest is wet where her cheek is pressed against it. She sniffs. I run my hand over her hair.
“What’s your middle name?”
“Anthony.”
“John Anthony Brandt.”
“My mother’s father’s name. Italian-American.”
“That’s where you get the dark hair?” She runs her hand over my chest hair. I feel it everywhere.
“Yes.”
“And the fiery temper.”
“Haha.”
“Haha. What’s my middle name?”
“Your middle name is Tamsin, after your grandmother. It’s a diminutive of Thomasina.”
She smiles and kisses me sweetly and swirls the tip of her index finger around on my chest.
“Do you ever feel lonely?”
And there it is. My trigger question, the one that usually sends me running for the exit. But not now. Because it’s Olivia, and because it doesn’t feel like a leading question. She actually wants to know.
“You mean because I’m so much smarter than most people?”
“Hah. No. That’s not what I mean.”
“I don’t get lonely because I’m always busy,” I say. “I’ve never felt isolated, because my thoughts always keep me company. That sounds cheesy and defensive when I say it out loud.”
“No. I’m sure that’s true.”
“I think that I would have felt very lonely growing up if it weren’t for your family.”
“I’m glad we were there for you.”
“Do you get lonely?”
She is unusually quiet for a few moments. I can see something shifting inside her. “I didn’t used to. I mean. A little bit when I first moved to Pittsburgh, and when I first moved to San Francisco. But I was so excited, it didn’t really matter.”
“And now?” My body tenses up, in anticipation of her answer, just as her body relaxes because she’s finally letting it out.
“Now I feel lonely because of you.” She isn’t being mean, or sardonic, or accusatory. She isn’t crying. It’s just an honest acknowledgment of something that she’s coming to terms with.
A thousand words flash across the monitor in my mind, so many things that I know I could say that would make her feel better in this moment. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it, and she knows it. “I’m sorry,” I say, tilting down to kiss the top of her head.
She presses her face into my chest, not quite kissing it.
Hours later, I wake up and we’re still in the same position. Her cheek is flat against my chest, my arms are around her, my head is raised up on three pillows. My foot’s asleep and my neck is sore, but I won’t move until she does.
18
Olivia
Oh shit, you’re going to murder me, aren’t you?”
I’m half-joking, but the other half of me is convinced that the international man of mystery formerly known as Johnny B. Nerdballs is capable of anything: swoony one-liners, life-changing orgasms, impromptu Asian promenade slow-dancing, advanced Manhattan gala tux-wearing skills, effortless model ex-girlfriend crazy-making abilities, choreographer douchebag-withering sidewalk bravado, and sure possibly why not even murder of his best friend’s sister. I knew this was too good to be true.
After spending hours on his own at the hotel room in downtown Cleveland, he has picked me up at my parents’ house, taken me to lunch, and then driven us, in this rented sedan, to an empty parking lot behind an abandoned warehouse instead of returning us to my parents’ place.
He’s being weird.
He was super weird at the airport in NYC, insisting that I go ahead and go through security to get settled in the first class lounge first, while he finished his call to Sanjay. Okay, it wasn’t super weird, maybe it was considerate. But it felt weird.
“I’m not going to, but you might.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to give you a driving lesson.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s ridiculous that you don’t know how to drive. It’s a basic skill in this country and you should have a drivers license.”
“You can’t let an unlicensed driver drive a rented car!”
“That’s right. I’m breaking all the rules for you. Don’t hit anything.”
>
He parks, removes his seatbelt, and gets out of the car. I am paralyzed.
He opens the passenger door, but I am still staring ahead, still paralyzed.
“It would be better if you get in the driver’s seat.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to drive.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Really?”
“I don’t have to know how to drive.”
“You don’t want to know how to drive?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“So you’re scared. You didn’t have time to take drivers ed when you were in school because you spent all your free time at ballet class and you had no problem making your parents and brother drive you everywhere, and after that you were so busy being a professional dancer you didn’t have time to learn, and you probably just had guys driving you everywhere, and now you’re twenty-three and you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared. I live in San Francisco. I walk and I Bart and I Lyft.”
“What if you one day live in an area that requires a car, like Palo Alto?”
“Are you asking me to fake move-in with you?”
“Nope.”
“I’m not going to drive.”
We both have our arms crossed over our chests, but he’s grinning and I’m pouting.
“What are you going to do if there’s a zombie apocalypse? Dance your way to safety?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. That’s a pretty sweet image.
“What if there’s a big earthquake, a tsunami warning, a hurricane headed for San Francisco, and mandatory evacuations?”
“I’ll call you and ask you to pick me up because even if I could drive, I don’t have a car and neither does Callie.”
“I would buy you a car.”
“A fake car?”
“A Batmobile. Or a Prius. Probably a Prius.”
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