Unravel Read online

  “You have not had enough lovers.”

  “You’ve had enough for the both of us.”

  He tsks. “There is no such thing. How many have you had?”

  Seth has asked me this before and I refused to answer. We’ve danced alongside one another for over two years now, and we’re close, but there are some things I like to keep to myself. “That’s irrelevant.”

  “How many?” he demands.

  “Two,” I admit reluctantly.

  “You’ve really only been with two men before John?”

  “He’s the second.”

  Seth’s eyes are huge. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not a liar. Why would I lie about something like that?”

  “Mistake.” Fanning himself with the stiff cardstock, he shakes his head. “M-I-S-T-A-K-E. This is what John is to Pen-ny,” he sings.

  I jump up and snatch the invitation out of his hand. “Stop being a jerk.”

  “You still have six months before the wedding. You have time.”

  “Time to have sex with someone else? No way.”

  Seth rolls his eyes dramatically, and curls a hand around my hip. He pulls me down on top of him and grinds his pelvis against mine suggestively. “You can not go to your marriage bed with so little experience. It’s bad luck.”

  “Stop being a pervert.”

  “Let me teach you, Penny.”

  “Teach me how to suck dick? Are you going to give me a demonstration?”

  “I can suck many things.”

  I snort a laugh, then shove against his chest and spring up to my feet. “I don’t think Evan would be very happy about that.”

  Seth waggles his eyebrows at me. “He might like to watch, and we’re not exclusive. I’ve told you that.”

  Choosing not to comment on their weird relationship, I snatch up my hoodie from the chair and shrug it on.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “I wanted to show John the invitations.”

  Seth glances at his watch. “Don’t be late. I can’t dance with Carrie. She is… how do you say it?” He waves his hand through the air, trying to find the words. “She’s like a plodding, ungraceful cow.”

  I scoff. “That’s mean, and not true.”

  “The truth hurts sometimes.”

  I shake my head at him. “Be nice, Seth. Who do you think you’ll be dancing with after I’m gone?”

  “You’re not leaving,” he says firmly.

  I shrug my shoulders. Not right away, but eventually. Probably within the next year or two. Maybe three. It’s not that I want to stop, but I can’t dance forever, and I have to think about the future. The aches and pains that all dancers experience have grown from mild annoyance to constant nagging throb, and I’ve got to face facts. I’ve peaked, and at this point all I have to look forward to is gradual decline.

  After my mother’s death a little over four years ago, without her prodding, guilt trips, and tearful reminders of just how much she sacrificed to get me to this point, I’ve lost some of my drive. She would be rolling in her grave to know I never returned to New York after her funeral. I stayed in Chicago, and got hired on at a relatively small ballet company instead.

  The sad truth is, I would never be landing solo roles regularly in New York. Probably not even at one of the bigger theaters here in Chicago. In the little pond of The Garden City Ballet Company, I’m a big fish. In a bigger pond, I would be a minnow swimming in circles.

  Seth jumps up and scurries over to plant himself in the door, blocking my path. “You can’t leave.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour.” My laugh is punctuated by a sigh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

  “Not jealous. Concerned.” His palms skim down my arms, and rest on my hips. He pulls me flush against him. “Maybe a little jealous.”

  I give a playful shove against his chest and shoulder past him. “I’m not interested in being the middle of a Seth and Evan sandwich,” I say, walking away.

  “I told you, he would only watch.”

  Laughing, I pull my jacket around me tighter and head toward the back entrance. Seth is a bit of a slut, but I don’t think he likes girls, at least I’ve not seen him with one. He is a huge flirt though.

  “Don’t be late,” Seth calls out.

  I give him a dismissive wave over my shoulder. I’ve never once turned up late for a show and he knows it.

  How is this going to work, I wonder? John is a photographer and an artist. His home is also his studio where he does most of his work. It’s not really big enough for the two of us, and my cramped little apartment is hardly big enough for me. I can’t believe we haven’t talked about this more, I think to myself as I skip up the steps to his place. But we’ve both been so busy. The theater is running two different productions concurrently, plus I have my side business, and he’s working on several commissions at the moment.

  Rock music laced with heavy bass greets me when I arrive at his apartment. I’m surprised to find his door locked. I knock a few times, but get no response. It’s doubtful he can hear over that ruckus, and if he’s upstairs in his loft, he’ll never hear. I paw through my bag for my keys, smiling again as my eyes fall on the invitation tucked inside. Seeing that today in the mail made it all feel so real. We’re getting married.

  I swing the door open. The loud music assaults my ears, and my eyes are assaulted by the sight of John screwing some girl across the raised dias he uses for photo shoots. It’s not just some girl, I realize after a moment of dizzying shock. She’s the model he’s been working with for weeks now. Cara Ambrosia, which is such an utterly ridiculous name. She pronounces it Car-ah too.

  Obviously it’s not her real name, I don’t think. She has a fake name, and fake boobs. No, after watching them go at it a moment, I think they’re real. Fake breasts don’t bounce like that, do they? I’m really the last one that would know. I have practically none to speak of. Car-ah has honey colored skin, lush dark hair, breasts, and hips. I must look like a short, pale child in relation to her, although I’m actually a few years older I bet.

  Neither Car-ah nor John notice me standing there. They are both too caught up in the moment to pay me any mind. He’s grunting and swaying over her, and her long, shapely legs are wrapped around him. My god. This image is going to be burned into my brain forever, isn’t it?

  Do I scream and yell? Rush over and fling the wedding invitation and my engagement ring at them, then topple the fill lights on stands around the perimeter in a rage? I may be able to pull off high drama on stage, but real life is another story.

  Whatever I’m going to do, I better make up my mind quick because I recognize the strained expression on John’s face. He’s almost finished.

  I slap the invitation down on the table near the door, and tug off my ring to lay on top. Will he notice it before or after Car-ah leaves? Feeling strange and outside my own body, I close the door behind me, and scurry away.

  When I arrive back at the theater, I’m still in shock. I lock the door to my dressing room and collapse in my chair. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I try to will the tears to come. I need to get this emotional crying spell over and out of the way. It has to happen now before tonight’s performance.

  But loss doesn’t work that way, at least not for me. When is it going to hit me? Ten minutes from now? Tomorrow morning in the shower. Not on stage tonight. I won’t let that happen.

  Weirdly blank and numb, I hop up and grab the rest of the wedding invitations. I dump them in the trash, then I go to retrieve my costume. As I undress, I avoid my reflection in the mirror. I already know what I look like, translucently pale skin marked with blue veins, slender and square hips. There is no real shape to me.

  Is it any wonder John strayed? I am plain, with no womanly curves to speak of. Not to mention all of my weird squeamishness about sex. Car-ah was probably up for anything. I bet she’s fun and spontaneous. My guess is she doesn’t make John wear a condom, and pull out, on top o
f the fact that I’m on birth control. I already know they do it with the lights on. In fact they were under the blaze of photography lamps when I walked in on them.

  I pull on my red and gold costume, and take a moment to admire the intricate stitching, the tiny beaded accents. The structured shape of it gives me the illusion of a figure. When I spin and twirl, the multiple layers in various shades of red fan out like petals of a beautiful rose.

  After a moment of quiet reflection, I realize the tears are still a ways off, so I sink down in my chair and carefully apply my stage makeup. Heavy kohl eyeliner, fake eyelashes, dramatic eyeshadow and vivid red lipstick. Up close the effect is garish, but from a distance I appear lovely and sensual.

  This is who John fell for. Penelope, the ballet dancer. Not Penny the anxiety riddled, frigid woman. I can’t fault him for the confusion, but why did he ask me to marry him? Once he uncovered my strangeness, why get down on one knee and propose?

  Maybe it was just sex with Car-ah. That sort of thing happens, doesn’t it? People get caught up in the moment, overcome with lust and desire. That kind of thing doesn’t happen to me specifically, because there is something wrong with me. There is a part of me missing.

  I don’t blame John for needing more, but he should’ve told me. Letting me find out like that was cruel and uncalled for. Perhaps I was the one being cruel for getting involved with him in the first place. Every single time we had sex, it was a chore for me. I hid it from him the best I could, but he must have known.

  There is a quick, loud knock on my door, and I jump up to go answer it. I bet it’s Seth. I hope it’s him. I’m overcome with the urgent need to confess my humiliation to my closest friend. I want to feel his consoling arms around me, even though I’m sure he’ll say - I told you so. He’s dear enough I bet he’ll wait to chastise me until the initial shock and first torrent of tears have passed.

  It’s not Seth at the door. It’s Andrea Donovan, the owner of the theater. I get a whiff of her familiar scent, talc and lilacs. Her white hair is held back in a severe chignon. We are nearly the same height, but for some reason she seems so much taller. I plant a smile on my face and invite her in.

  “Actually I have someone I’d like you to meet,” she says. “Do you have time?”

  I’m not really in the mood to meet anyone. I’d prefer to sulk alone in my dressing room, but I can’t very well say no to Andrea.

  Chapter 2

  Liam

  I stare out the window, at the unimpressive view of crumbling infrastructure across the busy street. When Andrea Donovan first approached me with this opportunity, part of me wanted to balk, but I admired her a great deal when I was younger, back when her name was Andrea Taylor. I was barely more than a boy when I saw her dance the lead role in Paquita.

  Since my retirement from stage, I’ve gotten much better offers from far larger ballet companies, but I’ve always enjoyed a challenge. Turning things around and saving the GCB from financial ruin and eventual closure is going to be a challenge, no doubt about that.

  For starters, the location is terrible. From what I’m told, this part of the city was less decrepit and overrun with crime when the theater was first built. It’s my opinion that Andrea would be better off moving the company elsewhere, but her late husband built this place for her more than twenty five years ago. She’s as much attached to the building itself as the staff and dancers who perform within.

  In either case, I’ve already agreed to help her, and the thought of having complete creative control is going to my head a bit. Andrea has nothing to lose, and I need to occupy myself. It’s been three years since my last performance, and I still feel out of place in the ‘real’ world. For a bit I returned to where I grew up, but I’d been away so many years it doesn’t really feel like home anymore. I’ve moved around some, choreographing single productions at various locations, trying to find a new home, but so far nothing has felt right.

  When Andrea returns with the lithe and poised Penelope Abbott, I’m surprised to see her already in costume and full makeup. Tonight’s show is hours away yet. The purple cardigan belted around her waist clashes dramatically with the red skirt that swishes just beneath her hips. Even under the heavy makeup, her delicate features are a sight to behold. Her flaxen hair is arranged in a tight bun. I’m curious to find out what she looks like with her hair loose, and without all the stage getup. In fact, I’m a bit disappointed. I’d hoped to get a glimpse of the real Penelope Abbott this afternoon.

  I rise to standing, and thrust my hand in her direction. “I saw you perform last week, Penelope. You’re very talented.”

  Her striking grey eyes bore into me like daggers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looks furious. Maybe a bit familiar too?

  Andrea clears her throat. “I’m sure you’re aware of who this is,” she says pointedly, giving Penelope a gentle nudge in my direction. “This is Li-”

  “I know who he is.” She fixes a saccharin smile on her lips and glares up at me through long, faux eyelashes. Her hand is warm and limp against mine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thibault.”

  “Just Liam is fine. I’m excited to work together, Penelope.” Or I had been. English may not be my native tongue, but the sarcasm and contempt in her voice translates to any language. I would almost think I’ve done something to upset her, but I haven’t stepped foot in this city for more than a decade.

  “And you can call me Penny.” She withdraws her hand from mine, and wipes it along the side of her sweater. “It was nice meeting you, but I really need to prepare for tonight’s show.”

  Penny turns on her heel, and walks away through the door she just entered.

  Andrea’s eyes are wide behind her half-moon glasses. Her mouth hangs open as she watches Penny sashay up the hall. “Liam, I’m so sorry. She’s not normally like that. I mean, she can be a bit… intense, but she’s usually very sweet.”

  I wave my hand and give her a tight smile. “I’ve worked with temperamental dancers before. I used to be a bit of a temperamental ass myself at times.”

  Andrea chuckles. “Still, that was uncalled for. I’ll have a word with her.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Actually, it’s probably best to just leave it alone.”

  Andrea is just closing the door, when it bursts open again. Seth Stavros fills the doorway. He sets his devouring gaze on me, and stammers a bit. Andrea makes hasty introductions between us, and Seth bypasses my outstretched hand to envelope me in a tight embrace.

  I much preferred his partner’s icey indifference to this. I give his shoulder a dismissive pat, and pry myself out of his arms.

  Unlike his female counterpart, Andrea practically has to kick him out of her office. “I’m not going to lie to you. He is usually like that.” Andrea says with a small eye roll. “But the two of them work well together.”

  I nod. I noticed the same thing when I watched them perform last week.

  I notice it again that evening, sitting dead center, halfway back in the small theater. The majority of the seats are empty, with patrons scattered haphazardly. It’s a pitiful turnout, and I’m starting to wonder how Andrea can even afford to keep the lights on in this place.

  The first time I watched Seth and Penny perform, I would’ve sworn they were lovers, but after meeting him this afternoon, I’m fairly confident that first impression was false. I choose not to think too carefully on why I find that a relief.

  Penny might be talented and beautiful, but she is far too young for me, close to fifteen years my junior if I had to guess. Not that it matters one way or the other. From our encounter this afternoon, she seems to despise me for some reason, and I don’t mix business and pleasure. Ever. I made that mistake once and suffered dearly for it.

  Seth and Penny are close though, that is clearly evident. They anticipate one another’s movements, and dance together fluidly, but something is off, something different tonight than the previous time I watched them, and I can’t quite put my finger on
it at first.

  Penny moves a bit… robotically. Maybe she’s having a bad day, or maybe she’s not up to pouring her heart and soul out for the thirty or so stragglers who have showed up this evening.

  The choreography is bold, but choppy. It’s an original piece that has been condensed and abbreviated to work with the constraints of such a small cast. The theater employs less than fifteen full time dancers at the moment, and they pull in students from time to time for some of the larger productions. There is no scenery to speak of and they are dancing to canned music.

  What a mess.

  I really do enjoy a challenge, but this may be beyond even me, although I have friends. I can call in favors, and I’m already tossing some thoughts around for what I’d like to do as the handful of dancers bow to the smattering of applause at the end of the show.

  Penny and Seth walk off stage together. Their performance is over, but their steps are still in sync. His hand rest on the small of her back, and she is molded against him, not leaning on him exactly, but almost. Is it any wonder I thought they might be together?

  The house lights go up, and there is the quiet shuffle of people coming to their feet, gathering their belongings. There is also a short, muffled sob that issues from up front somewhere.

  Penny.

  I know this, although I can’t say how. She barely spoke more than two sentences to me earlier, and that low, mournful sound could’ve come from anyone, but for some reason I know it’s her.

  I jump up to my feet, overcome with the urge to go to her, comfort her somehow? I’m not sure where that thought came from, and it’s utterly preposterous. I don’t even know that girl. She has Seth and other’s to turn to, but maybe she’s hurt?

  I meet up with Andrea backstage, who waves her hand dismissively when I ask about her female principal. “She’s not injured. I think it’s… you know.”

  She doesn’t elaborate further, and I don’t pry. I do know. The drama and theatrics have a way of bleeding off the edges of the stage in places like this, and Andrea is smart not to involve herself in it. Let them work it out amongst themselves, that’s always been my motto as well.