Maybe, I tell myself,I don't really feel this deeply about her.Maybe it's because she's the forbidden fruit that she seems so appealing. Maybe I'm not going to get my heart broken by this woman for the second time.
I'm a dreamer, but even I'm not that foolish.
Because every night, I wait for her to slip into my room. To slip into my bed. To give me something besides the small smile she gives everyone. Yet there's nothing from her.
So every night, as my door is left unlocked just in case, I do the only thing I can to keep my mind occupied. I work on my show. Tweaking lyrics, layering orchestrations, rewriting scenes. I'm not sleeping, and eating has become perfunctory. I need to keep moving. Keep busy.
Anything to keep from thinking about her. But that's easier said than done when I spend most of the day in her proximity. I'm so glad this show isn't music-heavy. She's got to learn the ensemble bits of course, but Lise only has a few songs to sing.
And when I return to my room, the book for my show has taken on a life of its own. A story of betrayal. Because of not being honest with herself about who she really is, Dawn ends up betraying Oliver, the man in love with her. The man she claims to love.
Art imitating life much?
Although it's not like we're at the love stage, because how could we be? I don't even know her. Hell,shedoesn't know herself. Not yet.
Even if she doesn't see herself clearly, I see her. I see that small spark of light, growing brighter every day as she lets go of the weight of the expectations that have defined her whole life. And the last thing she needs is me, pressing down upon her, pinning her to the ground when she's just figuring out how to fly.
I can let her be. It's not like I have a choice—I'm not one of those dicks who would keep hounding her after she said she wasn't ready. I only wish she'd thought about this before we slept together again. It took me years to get over her before. Now I have new memories, new sensations burning into my brain. I need to let her go.
I get up and lock my door.
Chapter 29: Leslie
Ican't believe my life right now. Who would've thought that letting go of my dream and my expectations to be the best would have resulted in actual happiness?
With Malachi's help, I've realized that the philosophy of “whatever it takes” costs a lot more than it's worth. So what if I'm not a principal ballerina? I'm still performing. I'm doing what I love and hearing that applause at the end of the show.
I came into this thinking I'd lost. Yet with The Edison, I've found so much more. There's a level of acceptance here that I've never felt, not even in New York City. Levi was right—we are all the misfit toys, but together, we make the most awesome set. I'm learning and growing, and I don't feel like I'm pounding on that same brick wall until my knuckles are bloody and it still won't let me pass. No, now that I've begun to accept myself, doors are starting to open.
And then there's Josh.
I'm sure it's my imagination that things are a little strained since we slept together. The timing on it was just the worst possible. I'm so exhausted, physically and mentally, from the rehearsals that once I get to my room, I've got nothing left for him. I get out of the shower, and most nights fall asleep still in my robe, not possessing the energy to even get dressed, let alone walk down the hall to hang out with him.
As soon as this show is done, we'll have plenty of time. Forever, maybe even. I can imagine telling people at The Edison how we met when we were sixteen. Fast friends and first loves, reunited back in the theater.
If you'd asked me six months ago, I would never have been able to predict this happy ending for myself.
However, there's one thing left I need to do before I can really start moving on. I dread this, which is why I've put it off so long. I take my lunch break and decide that this is the day to do it. I walk to one of the garden benches for some privacy and take out my phone.
Time to call my sister.
"Hey, Mer, how's things?"
"Busy." I should be used to my sister's clipped tone. We're not close. We haven't ever really been. We were always too different.
"Yeah, here too. I don't know if Mom or Dad told you, but I'm working with a musical theater now. It's north of the city in this quaint little town called Hicklam. I sort of love it." It's true.
"That's nice. So are you done with ballet?"
"I guess. Although I'm inAn American in Paris, so that's all ballet. But in terms of a company, yes. That chapter's closed." I run my fingers over the wrought-iron scrollwork on the end of the bench. I never thought I'd be able to say that without it hurting, but it doesn't.
"I never thought I'd see the day. Ballet was all you cared about." Her tone carries years of hurt.
"It's not all I cared about." I'm lying. I would have sold everything I had for a chance to succeed. You could say I did sell my self-worth for a chance. I realize how disordered that way of thinking was. "I care about you."
With the background noise, it's hard to tell, but I'm pretty sure she "hmphs" at me.
"What are you doing?" I ask. "It sounds like you're in a wind tunnel."
