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Aria. With a little flourish underneath.
Only the tip of the envelope flap has been secured, so a single finger inserted under it releases the seal.
I pull out a letter—same thick paper as the envelope—and two sheets of test results, which do, in fact, indicate that he has tested negative for all sexually transmitted diseases.
The letter is handwritten in the same script as my name.
Dear Aria,
I’m very sorry for making you worry about this. It was inappropriate and irresponsible. I hope this gives you some piece of mind and while I think you’re a very lovely young woman, I’m afraid this is where we part ways. Again, I’m truly sorry for not being more careful, but I’m not sorry I met you.
I wish you all the best in the future.
Ryker
Well, shit. Now I feel horrible for making him do this. I feel horrible about all of it.
A cacophony of random drums fills the co-op and I glance over my shoulder and see him drumming.
I quickly glance back at my letter—tracing each handwritten word with my eyes.
His drumming stops, then starts again, and I chance one more look at him
Oh, fuck.
He took his shirt off and now he’s got his eyes closed, getting into his music. The beat becomes rhythmic and steady.
The ballerina girl appears at my cube door, saying “Knock, knock,” as she raps her knuckles in the air. I can’t hear her over the drums, I just read her lips.
I wave her in and the door opens, the drums get louder, then she closes it behind her and it goes back down to a manageable level.
“Hey,” she says. “You’re April’s sister, right?”
“Yup, that’s me. I’m Aria.”
“Nice to meet you Aria. I’m Babette.”
Of course she is. Babette. That’s got sexy ballerina written all over it.
“So… I was just wondering if you have a thing for him?”
“Who? What?” I say.
She nods her head in Ryker’s direction. “That North guy. Because I like him and I’m pretty sure he likes me too. So… you know. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”
I squint my eyes at her. Fucking bitch. He is not into her. He’s into me.
Or is he? Is that why we must part ways? So he can date the ballerina?
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Oh, I’m just curious. You’re what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?” I lowball.
She lifts her chin up and looks down her nose at me. “Twenty-seven.”
“Ah,” I say. “So do you dance professionally?”
“Why?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m just wondering. I used to dance ballet when I was younger.” Really, I just want to be a bitch. Because I know what a defeated ballerina looks like. I took dance for ten years and almost all the girls in my classes had big dreams of dancing professionally. And every one of us—except one willowy, perfectly proportioned girl with the right genetics—was weeded out in our third or fourth year en pointe.
And this Babette here, she was one of the weeds.
I’m being mean. I know that. But she was mean first.
“I do theatre now,” she says, stiffening.
“Cool,” I say.
“Musicals,” she adds.
“I love musicals,” I say. “Let me know when you’re in one. I’d love to come support you.” I smile sweetly.
She smiles sweetly back. “I’ll do that. Did he give you a note, or something?” she asks, looking down at my letter.
I fold it up, thankful I put his test results face down on the desk, and say, “Yeah. Just a thank you. We actually had dinner earlier. With my father,” I clarify. “They do business together.”
“Oh,” she says. “So you know each other.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
She nods. Then she turns on her toes—swear to God, on her toes—and walks out.
I sigh and give up. That was mean. I’m not usually a mean person. My dad always taught my sister and me that being mean is easy. Insulting people takes far less effort than being understanding and nice. And sure, it feels good in the moment but then you feel guilty. And if you’re mean to people enough times, you become used to defending yourself with nastiness. And then one day you wake up and realize that good, sweet person you thought you were is gone.
Then he would look at us—mostly April, because she has an inherent mean streak towards people she dislikes—and say, “I know you’re not that person. And I want the world to know you the way I do.”
So… yeah. I feel awful and want to go make up for it somehow. Tell Babette nice things and maybe try to be friends.
But when I turn around she’s flicked off the lights in her cube and she’s heading out the back door.
Good going, Aria. Your father would be so proud of what you’ve turned into this past week. Seven days outside his influence and I’m everything he never wanted me to be.
