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Omission (n.):
Inadvertently leaving out a word, phrase or other language from a contract, deed, judgment or other document.
Aubrey
Subject: Brian-gate.
I’m not sure how many more times I’ll have to apologize for making your “boyfriend” dump you, but I am, in fact, sorry. Then again, maybe I should have waited until after you f**ked him so you could be more appreciative.
—Andrew
“Ugh!” I tossed my phone across the room, nearly knocking over the beautiful vase of lilies he sent me yesterday.
Ever since last week’s “Brian-gate,” I had to face him every day in some capacity. In the mornings, he personally brought me my favorite coffee, walked me to the block where my subway stop was, and apologized profusely. In his own way, of course.
I never said a word back, though. I just sipped from my cup and listened.
Taking a seat on my couch, I grabbed an ice wrap and placed it on my shoulders. I was counting down the days to opening night, wondering how much more pain my body could take.
My feet were now unrecognizable; I no longer soothed their cuts and blisters. The muscles in my arms ached relentlessly, and when I told Mr. Ashcroft that I needed a few extra minutes to stretch my right leg yesterday, he said, “Then I need to replace you with a dancer who doesn’t.”
I cringed at the memory and heard a knock at my door.
“Coming!” I walked over and opened it, tempted to slam it shut once I saw Andrew.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Practice starts in an hour. You’re going to be late.”
“I’m not due there until the afternoon session. Thank you for the reminder.”
“Can I come in until then?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Do I really need a reason?”
“I just want to talk to you for a few minutes, Aubrey.”
“We can do that over the phone.”
“You blocked my f**king number.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’ve tried that already today. Twice.”
“Have you tried email?”
“Aubrey, please…” He actually looked sincere.
“Fine.” I held the door open. “But you have to leave in five minutes so I can take a nap.”
He stepped inside and looked around, running his hands over the artwork in the halls.
Looking slightly impressed, he rubbed his chin. “Are your parents paying for this?”
“No, I haven’t spoken to them since I left.” I admitted. “A retired dancer from the company rents out all her condos to the newest cohorts.”
“Is it expensive?”
