And then it does.
Someone knocks on the window from outside on the sidewalk. The front door handle jiggles. My heart leaps in my throat as the students stop dancing and look at me.
My name is called loudly from outside, and I realize someone is using a bullhorn to call out to me.
“Ms. Barclay. What are your thoughts on your father’s first day at trial? Why weren’t you in attendance in the courtroom? Is it true you’re estranged from your father?”
More taps on the window. The kids huddle together. Quickly ushering them to the back of the room and away from the windows, my mind plays out a scenario where the glass shatters and paparazzi burst inside and harass me until the police come and get rid of them.
Sven’s voice is loud on the phone as he calls for backup. I’m not sure if he called the cops again or someone else; I just hope they show up quickly.
“It’s okay, everyone. I’m so sorry about this.”
One of my students looks at me suspiciously. “Are you in trouble, Ms. Barclay? Did you do something wrong?”
I shake my head, but an explanation won’t come. Noise from outside seeps into the studio and it sounds like madness. Sven calls my name, and I look just as he opens the door and parents start flooding in, with a cacophony of cameras clicking and people calling my name behind them. I try my best to apologize as they collect their children and hurry away.
The paparazzi come right to the door, blocking the last of the parents from leaving as they shove their cameras inside in a hail-Mary attempt at getting a photo of me. Sven pushes them back, his big body like a mountain driving them back so the parents and children can slip outside. Some of the parents complain loudly to each other, and more than one mentions that they’ll be speaking to the studio owners about the incident.
Sven pulls the door closed after the last student leaves. “Lock the door!”
I rush to turn the lock just as sirens fill the air.
My legs go weak, and I slump to the floor with my back against the door. I take one last look at the roses before pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes to hold back my tears.
30
PIPER-LILY
It’s a Saturday,and Nate’s been tucked away in his home office for most of the morning. He came out briefly to refill his coffee but that was hours ago. Even though it’s the weekend, we don’t have anything public scheduled for today. I’m enjoying the calm. For the past few weeks, it seems like each day has been filled with Nate’s events and places to be.
The busyness has been a blessing. My father was convicted and sentenced to prison weeks ago, but I’ve barely paid attention to the headlines. Neither my mother nor I have spoken to him since he was carted off in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. The press has mostly stopped hounding me, but my bodyguard still keeps watch over things anyway. He says you never know when the paparazzi find a reason to come rushing back. With everything going on, it’s shocking to realize how many months have passed since I moved in with Nate.
I’d hoped the dance studio might reach out and welcome me back now that the media circus has dieddown. It was an unrealistic hope, however, and I’m trying to let go of my dream even though it hurts. Most days, I have to force myself not to dwell on it. Nate knows how bruised my heart is, and I suspect that’s part of the reason he’s keeping us so busy.
He’s been solid through all of this.
Our social calendar is packed lately, and I’m not sure if he’s amping up appearances to help my image, or to keep my mind off my imploded life, or both. Cleo texted me this morning asking about that double date she’s been bugging me for, but I haven’t responded yet. I’m sure Nate has something planned this evening, and even if I could risk introducing her to him and possibly blowing my cover, I’m not sure he’d even agree to go in the first place.
It's been difficult keeping the truth of my arrangement with Nate from my best friend, so I’m glad she’s been pulling long hours at the internship she got at a fashion magazine. Between that and her classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology, she’s been just as busy as I have, so we’ve both had to content ourselves with brief coffee dates and short phone calls.
Needing something to do, I rummage through the kitchen to look for the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. I find everything and begin to assemble the batter, mixing it by hand because I need the physical outlet, and doing it slowly so it eats up more time.
Nate comes in, a paper in one hand and a presumably empty coffee cup in the other. He puts it under the coffeemaker without taking his eyes off the paper.
“I’ll start somefor you,” I say.
He jumps, apparently unaware that I was standing here.
“What?”
“I used the last of the grounds,” I tell him. “I’ll add some.”
“No, that’s okay. What are you doing?”
He scans the ingredients I’ve stashed messily over the counter, along with the spatters of flour and broken eggshells.
“Making cookies. Do you like chocolate chip?”
