“Wow.” Collin massaged his temples. “Wow,” he said again. “That’s it? No discussion? No compromise? Laney has spoken, so that’s it?”
“I can’t compromise on this,” I whispered. “And I can’t marry you.”
He stood slowly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I could have had anyone,” he said, his voice tight. “But I wanted you. And even when you told me that you were . . . what you are . . . I didn’t care. I would have gotten you the best doctors, the best therapists . . .”
“I don’t need a nurse,” I said softly.
“You might! One day you might!” he shouted, his voice rising again.
“Collin,” I sighed, my voice cracking. “All you see when you look at me is someone you want to make well. I’ll never be well: this is as good as it gets.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I do. I do know that. I can’t be with someone who wants to change me.”
“I don’t want to change you! I just want you to be . . .”
“Better.”
I finished the sentence for him.
He closed his eyes, his head hanging, and my heart jolted at the pain and defeat I saw when he opened his eyes again.
He walked around the table and hovered, as if he was going to lean down and kiss me on the cheek. He caught himself at the last moment and stood upright.
“Bye, Laney. Look after yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly, my voice hoarse.
He nodded and a moment later, he was gone.
I leaned back in my seat and let hot tears spill from my eyes.
Collin was a good man and I hated hurting him.
“Laney, are you okay?”
Ash’s soft voice broke into my unhappy thoughts.
“No.”
He sat down opposite me in the seat Collin had just left, then reached across and held my hand, not speaking.
I felt the warmth from his fingers press against the palm of my hand until our fingers were twined together and his thumb stroked across my skin.
“Did you hear?” I asked, a sickening numb feeling creeping through me.
“Yes,” he said simply, his dark eyes giving nothing away.
“Did I do the right thing?”
The pressure on my fingers increased.
“A bird in a cage is safe from the eagle, but she cannot fly very far.”
I gave an unattractive snort. “Is that a Slovenian saying?”
Ash smiled at me. “No, it’s an Alja? saying.”
“I don’t think it will catch on.”
“No? I liked it.”
“Me, too,” I sighed, my sadness taking over again.
Then I started to cry in earnest: for me, for Collin, for ten years of friendship lost. Ash moved closer, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against his firm chest, rocking us gently.
We stayed like that for a long time.
When I thought about it later, Collin never once said that he loved me. And really, that said it all.
Ash
LIES ON LIES on top of more lies, and it was hard keeping track of them all. Laney and I pretended that we were friends and then had to act married the one time that she met the other dancers.
At the theater, I had to answer questions about her, about us, when there was no ‘us’. We were friends and I respected her: the way she dealt with her illness was humbling to see. But it wasn’t just that: she worked hard at her job and was unfailingly loyal to the people she loved.
I pretended that my green card would arrive any day, when the truth was I didn’t know for sure if it would happen.
The prick was out of the picture, but Laney didn’t seem any happier, and I wondered if she regretted breaking up with him and the fake marriage to me.
The police had no news about the Bratva, and all their promises about justice seemed hollow. Nobody would tell me if they’d identified the girl they’d found. I saw her dead eyes in my nightmares each night, and the numbness spread through me.
There was still no news about Yveta or Gary, and I’d been told that the Las Vegas police hadn’t been able to find the place that Marta described. Another dead end, a fog of defeat.
Rosa, the choreographer was frustrated, pulling me aside and saying that my work lacked passion. I was losing the one thing that I’d thought would always anchor me. Rehearsals were going to shit, and not just because of me, but I couldn’t talk to Laney about it, not after everything she’d given up already. So when she asked me, I was always okay.
Dancing and the time I spent in the theater shouldn’t feel fucked up. But then Rosa quit after several loud arguments with the producer. Dalano’s ideas were stale and old-fashioned, and I don’t think he’d had a new idea since 42nd Street. Mark, the director, was Dalano’s boyfriend, so he did whatever he was told. After Rosa left, every bit of originality and creativity was stripped out of the show. I didn’t need passion now: all Mark wanted was cardboard cutouts of the dancer he’d been thirty years ago.
The show was due to open the first week of December and we were getting called into costume fittings. I stared at the gold lamé pants, tail-coat and matching top hat and groaned.