My gasp was so sharp and audible that he immediately rolled his eyes.
“Come on, Charles. Did you really think they wouldn’t need time? You could have kept trying, but instead you went into professional victim mode and shut them out entirely. It’s the same shit you did with me, babe. You got all jealous and crazy, dramatizing everything that happened between us, and would wind yourself up until it was WWIII. And because you were so fucking much, I’d get drawn in and end up acting crazy right along with you.”
Brick by brick the foundation I’d started building for myself was coming undone. The stabilizing layer that let me walk around without feeling on the verge of a tumble was going all to pieces. Had I shut people out? Had I failed to give them chances? Had I fought hard enough?
Was I the one with the problem? The toxic one?
Everyone but my immediate circle seemed to think so. Even former coworkers who’d claimed to like me.
“I’m going to give you a piece of advice,” Landon said, pointing at me with the envelope as he headed for the door. “First—be glad we’re done. I feel free now that I know what it’s like to move on without having to make due with the bullshit I had. And second?” Landon paused, frowning a frown of the truly concerned. “Don’t ruin Luis the way you did me. He’s actually a decent person.”
And with that said, Landon was gone.
No violent screaming.
No fighting.
No insults or slut shaming.
Just cold hard facts.
I sat down in the middle of the studio, stared at the floor, and watched as the sun rays receded and the room darkened around me.
North Shore, ch 22
Chapter 22
Luis
I jogged up the subway stairs at 167th street like someone was gunning for me. Arms loose at my sides and trying to appear calm while looking around so much people probably thought I was paranoid.On the entire ride up to the Bronx, I’d worked hard to convince myself that everything was going to be fine. I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Most people who knew my name by heart were cashiers, the guy who sold pastelitos through a store window by Grand Concourse, and the people who lived in my building. Who was to say Bronson and his boys would even be out and about? If I had to guess, I was willing to bet they would still be loitering at Cadet’s. Trying to pretend they were somebody due to the proximity to real talent.
For the most part, it panned out. As I walked up the hill towards my old block, I was just as invisible as every other average joe. Sure, a few people looked at me. A couple of teenage girls even hollered a “god bless you, papi” at me from the corner, but no Bronson. No homophobes. No boogeymen.
Somewhere between Domino’s and my favorite Chinese restaurant, I realized that by speed walking straight to my parents’ house, I was still holding back. I wasn’t facing my real fears—which were mostly confined to returning to the boxing club that had let a bunch of phobes chase me out.
I paused by the park, right across the street from the building I’d grown up in, and stared at it. Technically, I had time. If I really wanted to, I could kill twenty minutes to swing by Cadet’s just to rub it in all their faces that I hadn’t let them run me out. I wasn’t quitting my dream because they couldn’t handle sharing space with a guy who loved every gender. That I was gonna be better than everyone with a fly-ass boyfriend and a part-time job as a dancer.
It was so delicious in theory, but… it was just a theory. An idea.
One that could go wrong.
I’d promised Charles I would be careful, not go straight into the hornet’s nest to start a bunch of shit. If he’d decided to pick today to go confront Landon, I’d have taken his temperature. I’d have told him that wasting his time trying to prove anything to someone so toxic made no sense. On the same note, going to Cadet’s made no sense. Especially when I hadn’t faced my fear to save face at the club. I’d come for my family.
The tightness in my chest loosened, and I jogged across the street.
Fuck Cadet’s.
“Hey papi,” a singsong voice called. “Where you going?”
I came to such an abrupt stop that my body rocked forward. Of course, Bronson would come out of nowhere and find me as soon as I’d decided to avoid him. Life was just ridiculous sometimes.
Sighing, I stopped walking by the gate surrounding the building. He was leaning against the Welcome to Butler Houses sign, wearing his usual try-hard outfit of every name brand known to man complete with a Supreme hat. In fact, he kind of reminded me of Landon.
“You still trying to pick up fourteen-year-olds who walk by?”
Bronson’s nostrils flared. “You really want to come straight out with bullshit as soon as you see me?”
I shrugged. “Seemed like the right call.”
“Because you must have no fucking common sense.”
Yeah, that was an understatement. I wished I was one of those people who spent time preparing a speech for their enemies, one to unleash in case I ever came face-to-face with them again, but I wasn’t. When I was done with someone, I was done. I acted like they didn’t exist and avoided the confrontation unless it really mattered.
“Can I help you with something? I’m trying to see my mom.”
“You should have let her keep coming to you.” Bronson pushed away from the sign and crossed the few steps so he was in my face. His eyes did a circuit of me as he sneered, like my existence sickened him. “I can’t believe you showed your face.”
I lifted my chin, waiting for him to do something, but I never got the vibe that he was going to try. Usually in a fight, I could sense the energy in my opponent, and I could identify the twitches and tells that immediately proceeded the swing. But Bronson? He wasn’t squaring up or even thinking about it as far as I could tell. He was all talk.
As usual.
Apparently, he could only beat up a queer dude if he had backup from his friends.
Sucking my teeth, I glanced at my mother’s building again. “You know son, I don’t have much time to waste on you today, but let me tell you one thing—you’re exactly the scumbag everyone always said you were. And I never should have defended you.”
“Defended me?” Bronson scoffed. “You think I need you to fight my battles?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, jackass.” On a whim, I raised my hand and pointed at his chest. Still cautious, still waiting for a sign that he was gonna swing, but picking up on nothing. “When we were kids, you always used to get your ass kicked because you talked so much mess. Remember? It’s why you started hanging out at Cadet’s. You thought you’d somehow learn to fight just by watching other people do it.”
“That’s bullshit,” he snapped. “And I don’t know why you’re acting like you know so well.”
“Because despite your revisionist history bullshit, we do.” I scoffed, and hoped I was exuding the exact same disgust he was showing me. “Whenever someone messed with you, I was there. All through high school and junior high. It wasn’t until I got a little older, and I realized how hateful you were, did I take a step back. The only time we hung out was so I could make sure you weren’t doing something stupid, and you used to straight up thank me for it. You said I was like your brother.”
Bronson’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked over my shoulder and pretended to be bored. “You done with your bitch ass reminiscing?”
“Almost.” I stepped to the side so he was forced to look at me. “I’ll just put it to you like this, bro. If you’d turn on someone you considered a brother just because I’m bi, something I hid so well you never knew in all those years, I guarantee you’d never make it outside of this micro world you made for yourself in the Bronx. You’re too fragile to handle differences unless they’re the ones you approve of, so you’ll never amount to shit.”
Bronson pushed his shoulders back, but he was stock still. “And you think you’re gonna amount to something? Stripping and fucking guys?”
�
�Yeah, pretty much. I’ll strip my way to owning my own gym, and fuck my hot boyfriend every night when I come up.” I shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”
“Sounds fucking disgusting.”
“Mmm. Well, I’m personally disgusted by the fact that you’re still leaning against that same sign scoping girls the age you were about a decade ago, but that’s just me.” I stepped around him like he meant nothing. Because he was nothing. And he wasn’t gonna do nothing. “Have a nice life, motherfucker.”
I kept my body loose and ready the entire time I walked away, but he didn’t follow. He didn’t even call after me. I had the feeling he was watching me walk away, but a glance over my shoulder showed he was back to looking down the block.
Maybe my words hadn’t mattered to him, shit maybe I didn’t matter that much to him now that our initial beef had grown cold, but the fact that I’d gotten to tell him how I felt… that mattered to me.
As soon as I was in the building, I pulled out my phone before inevitably losing service in the elevator. I shot Charles a text telling him I was in an even better mood than I’d been in before but even after I was on my mother’s floor, he didn’t respond.
--
Charles
In the past, my anger had usually been directed at other people.
My parents, Landon, random assholes who pissed me off and made me feel small at one of my many jobs. Sure, I’d hated on myself and felt hopeless, but I’d never felt the same level of vision darkening rage about my own actions.
Now, I did.
After spending a hours falling into a deeper and deeper pit of despair, a text from Luis had woken me from the fog. He was at his mother’s house, and he was happy. He was looking forward to seeing me soon.
A follow-up text showed a selfie of him and his mom. The message said she was excited to meet me. That she heard I had hair just as curly as hers.
They looked so happy. So excited. yaayAnd here I was in a tailspin over Landon.
The contrast of him and me, in that specific moment, had only sent me in another tailspin.
How the hell had I ever thought I could have a normal relationship? Who had lied to me and told me I could manage stress? Why had I ever made promises to take on something as huge as a performance at Highline Fucking Ballroom when, in the deepest part of my gut, I’d always expected something to go wrong. And I’d known that if something did go wrong, I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.
My usual self-loathing escalated until I wanted to punish myself. It got even worse when I looked at the clock, over and over again, only to see that my struggle to calm down was getting slower. It was only getting later.
I was never going to make to Chelsea on time.
A sob tore out of me. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to muffle it, to stop myself from falling further to pieces, but I couldn’t do it. Thinking about being late, of letting Luis down, only forced me to realize how badly this would damage our relationship. It would be over. And it was inevitable now.
I was already late.
I was a wreck. There was no way I could dance in this condition.
My phone chimed with another text message. I ignored it, and focused on unwinding from the knot I’d curled into while calling myself every name in the book. While telling myself that Landon, and all of his friends, were right.
“Get up,” I whispered, trying to make my body obey. “You can do this.”
A shudder ran through me, but I forced myself to sit up. The sudden movement caused my head to swim. I’d been down there for hours. Crying, hating myself, and causing my head to pound so badly I practically had to squint to see straight.
It didn’t help, so I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. Breathing naturally wasn’t possible when I was on the verge of coming out of my skin, so I sucked in deep breaths and pushed them out. I tried to find a calm place, something peaceful or happy, and could only think of Luis. Not just of his mouth or hands, or the way he made me feel, but the things we’d talked about. The life we’d planned. That future that seemed so out of reach and impossible late at night when it was just me and my fears, but looked reachable in the light of day when he was at my side.
It’s reachable, I told myself. If you get up. If you don’t let him and yourself down.
If you don’t shut him out again.
“Fuck!”
My voice was monstrously loud in the silent apartment.
I sucked in another deep breath.
I could do this for him. I could show up, even if I didn’t get to dance. And it wouldn’t just be for him—it would be for me. To prove Landon couldn’t control my actions. He couldn’t mindfuck me and shut me down.
I could do this. I could get up.
My body felt heavy and exhausted once I got to my feet, but the simple act of pulling myself together even that much freed some of the weight from my shoulders. I took another deep breath, a slower one, and felt my heartbeat begin to slow. So, I did it again. And again. And went back to picture a studio that half belonged to me while the other belonged to Luis. I pictured us doing burlesque on the side. I pictured us moving in together.
I thought about an entire life that didn’t include someone who appeared to get genuine joy out of sucking me dry. Someone who loved me as much as I loved him, with an apartment we shared, and a business of my own.
I can do this.
One exhale later, and my phone was in my hand. I cringed at the dozens of messages from Luis, and balked at responding. What did I even say at this point? How could I explain without freaking him out before his performance? A performance Gabe might have to stand in for if I was fucking late.
The self-loathing swelled inside of me again, but I punched it down. If I was going to get out of Staten Island and away from this damn apartment that had become my cave, I couldn’t think about Landon. I couldn’t think about lateness or how this was going to go wrong. I just had to fucking go.
I texted Luis a quick “Don’t worry. Something just came up. Running late”, and hurried to my bedroom to get changed.
North Shore, ch 23
Twenty-three
Luis
The Highline Ballroom was packed with my parents front-and-center in the first row. So far the troupe’s sets had been met with a level of enthusiasm from the crowd I wasn’t quite accustom to, and I should have been ecstatic about my chance to walk on stage. Unfortunately, everything was wrong because Charles was a no-show.
“Where the fuck is that big-haired queen?” Marquis hissed. “You go on in ten minutes.”
“He’ll be here,” I snapped. “He’s coming from Staten Island, and the bus or ferry is probably being trash.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “He told me he’s running late.”
Marquis’ gaze was cold enough to freeze the Arctic itself, and I could read all the accusations he was throwing with his eyeballs. That he’d let Charles audition because of my recommendation, that I’d sworn he was reliable and professional, that it had nothing to do with the fact that we were together. That we could count on his first show being at our biggest gig yet because his talent was legit and he didn’t really get stage fright.
I could see how Marquis was going to put this all on me if Charles bailed. And I could see how this would then become my last night with the troupe. A cold sweat broke out behind my neck, and I could feel it trickling along my spine beneath the satiny robe custom made to look like the Dominican flag.
Jerking my attention back to what I could see of the crowd, I felt sick. No matter how many times I scanned the back entrances as if Charles would try to come through the front instead of the back, he didn’t magically appear. And no matter how many times I called him, his fucking phone went to voice mail. I tried again anyway, knowing it was probably the thirtieth time, but panic shot through me yet again when the automated message picked up.
“Fuck.”
“Luis.”
I looked wildly back at
Marquis. “What, man?”
He pursed his lips and looked around at the other dancers. Everyone was excited and happy, no backstage drama or sniping like I’d seen at so many other shows, and yet folks were still throwing side eyes at me. My energy was all wrong, and I wondered if it was throwing everyone else off too. Like my funk was dampening their hype.
“If he doesn’t show—”
“He’s gonna fucking show,” I all but snarled at Marquis. “Dude, he would never—”
“Luis, you barely know him.”
My head snapped back, and my brows crashed down, but before I could launch into a defense Marquis put a hand up.
“Just hear me out,” he said. “I like Charles, and I think he’s a beautiful dancer, but I’ve known you since you shifted from boxing to burlesque, and I’ve never met anyone with as much drive and raw talent as you. I’m not gonna fire you because of your flake boyfriend.”
Relief sang through me, but I still shook my head. “He’s not a flake. If he isn’t here, it’s because something happened.”
“Look, unless he’s dead—”
I threw up a hand to stop him talking. “Don’t even fucking play.”
Marquis huffed out a sigh and put his hands on his hips. “What I’m trying to say is that I won’t fire you,” he said sharply. “But if he fucks this up, he’s done here and I strongly consider you rethink a relationship with someone who ghosts on you on the night of one of the biggest performances of your new career. You go on in a couple of minutes, and to him you didn’t even warrant a courtesy call after that initial text.”
Those words, more than any, sank my stomach.
Part of me could imagine several scenarios that could have led to Charles bailing on me. Nerves. His own doubts eating away at him and totally killing his confidence. Illness. The commute. Even Landon. I could fill in all the blanks with a ton of details and what-if scenarios to make plausible excuses for why he wouldn’t even call me, tonight of all nights, to let me know in advance that he wasn’t coming.
North Shore Page 23