It was going to be a fucking disaster.
Laney knew that something was wrong, but she’d married me so I could have this chance. How the hell could I tell her the truth?
Like storm clouds on the horizon, pressure dropping like a stone, something was going to break.
We were opening the first weekend of December, and I guessed that the show would close by New Year. After that, I didn’t know what I was going to do.
“What’s wrong?” Laney asked for the hundredth time.
“Noth—”
“Nothing, right? You’re fine. You’re okay. There’s no problem. That’s what you always say these days. I don’t know why I bother asking.”
She scoffed loudly and walked into the kitchen. Almost immediately, I heard the sound of the coffee machine.
I slumped back on the couch and closed my eyes. The constant small arguments were wearing. Sometimes I really felt married. Except my wife didn’t sleep with me. Well, from what other guys said, that wasn’t unusual either.
I was 23 and hadn’t been laid since . . . not since Yveta.
My mood darkened even more. The police hadn’t been able to find her. I don’t know how hard they’d tried, or even whether they’d tried at all. Not knowing was like a constant dull ache. I could ignore it most of the time, but every now and then . . .
I felt the couch dip next to me and I cracked an eye to find Laney holding a cup of coffee for me.
“Peace offering,” she said simply.
I nodded and took the cup.
“You can talk to me, you know. You can tell me anything, Ash. Something is bothering you. I wish you’d just tell me. I hate guessing. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Laney, please . . .”
“No, Ash. Not this time. You’re going to tell me what’s got you all wound up.” Her lips pressed together in a thin line. “Is it me?”
I sighed and looked down. “No, it’s not you.”
“Then what? Please don’t make me ask twenty questions.”
I put the coffee down on the table.
“It’s the show,” I said at last. “It’s bad.”
Laney frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Bad as in shit. Bad as in boring. Bad as in no one in their right minds would want to see it. If it lasts a month, I’ll be amazed. All the dancers know it. But since Rosa quit, there’s been no one to stand up to Dalano. We’ve all tried to say something but he just says if we don’t like it, we can leave.” I grimaced. “None of us can afford to do that.”
“This is what you’ve been worrying about?”
Laney’s voice sounded almost relieved, which really made me pissed.
“Yes!” I yelled. “This is what I’ve been worrying about! You’ve sacrificed everything for me, for a shitty show that won’t last a month. So forgive me if I’m a bit fucking upset about it!”
“Don’t yell at me!” she shouted, her face turning red and her eyes flashing.
Silenced rushed between us and I swear I could hear her heart beating.
She glared, her gray eyes darkening dangerously, and I was sure she was going to slap me. My muscles tensed, but then she laughed.
“At least you’re not saying ‘fine’ anymore,” she smiled, prodding my chest with her finger.
“I totally get why you didn’t want to say anything to me, and I’m sorry this show hasn’t worked out for you, but I’m not a shrinking violet—I can take the truth.”
“I don’t know about any shrinking flowers, but you are quite short.”
“Watch it, mister!”
I grabbed her hand as she tried to prod me again.
“I’m sorry,” I said seriously. “You are strong. I know this.”
She smiled at me, her eyes sparkling. I had a sudden urge to kiss her and my gaze dropped to her lips.
She cleared her throat and moved away, her cheeks pink.
“So, you know it’s Thanksgiving this weekend, right?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah, I think I’ve noticed.”
Even a blind, deaf dog would have noticed that Americans were entering the holiday season. I didn’t quite understand it—it all seemed like a rehearsal for Christmas. But if it meant I got an extra couple of days off from rehearsals, that was fine by me.
“Well, I always have a family thing—it’s at my aunt’s house this year . . .”
“Laney, I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just sleep, do laundry, watch some TV.”
It was her turn to roll her eyes.
“You’re invited, you dope. Besides, my family is dying to meet you, especially my mom.”
I frowned at her, confused. “She is?”
“Of course! The mysterious Slovenian roommate.”
“What about your father?”
“He’ll be there, but he doesn’t have any say in who gets invited for Thanksgiving—the wives are in charge of that.”
I looked at her skeptically.