Chaos Choreography
Page 19
“And how,” I agreed. I half-turned, opening my posture as I gestured to Dominic. “Lyra, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, David. David, I’d like you to meet Lyra, my season’s dancer of choice.”
“She says that like she didn’t come in second,” said Lyra, dialing her smile back and giving Dominic an appraising look. “So you’re dating Val? You think you’re good enough for her?”
“No, but as she doesn’t seem to have realized that yet, I intend to take advantage of my time in her good graces,” said Dominic, with the sort of solemnity he usually reserved for portents of doom and complaints about how long I took in the shower.
Lyra glanced back to me. “Ooo, I like him. Spanish?”
“Italian,” said Dominic.
“I like him even more.” She whirled and gave me another quick hug. “It’s so good to see you again, Val. I know I was supposed to keep in touch better, and I’m sorry. Things got so crazy after I won our season.”
“I understand,” I said. I did, too. It was hard to remember to stay in touch when your life was blowing up around you. “I didn’t make the effort, either. Can we agree to forgive each other?”
“Already forgiven,” said Lyra, making a tossing gesture. “Anders is here, by the way. In case you wanted to see if he was willing to forgive you.”
I grimaced. “On a scale of one to never gonna happen, how much shit am I in?”
“I’d say a nine-point-five,” said a voice from behind me. I turned and found myself looking at a perfectly fastened bow tie. I tilted my head back and shifted my gaze to the big blue eyes of one Anders Clarke.
He was easily six inches taller than me, built like a runner, something he attributed to a combination of genetics and never sitting still. Dance was a world of constant motion, and Anders made the rest of us look lazy. He was a human cartoon in impeccably polished tap shoes . . . at least, he always had been before. Now, he was standing frozen, a sad look on his classically handsome face. Very classically handsome: he could have stepped straight out of a Gene Kelly movie, even down to the cut of his suit. Anders was the only human man I knew who thought of suspenders as a valid fashion choice. Somehow, for him, they were.
“Anders,” I said, starting to reach for him. That was when he finally moved.
He stepped away.
“I emailed you,” he said. “After your phone number was disconnected. I emailed eight times, and you never responded.”
“When did you start?” I asked.
He gaped at me. “When did I start? Because that totally makes up for you never answering me, or reaching out in the first place? We were partners, Val. You should’ve called.”
“I was in Manhattan for a year, and I didn’t get any email from you,” I said. “I would’ve answered.” I would have. I might not have been proactive about keeping in touch with the other dancers from my season—partially out of shame over my loss, and partially because there hadn’t been enough hours in the day—but I answered the people who bothered to contact me. Guilt and curiosity had been enough to guarantee that.
“I started the day after the show ended,” he said.
I blinked slowly. “Sweetie . . . I didn’t get any email from you. Not one single piece. What address were you using? Did you ever swing by Facebook and message me?”
“No, because you were already ignoring my email.” Now Anders was starting to look angry. Never good. He took a long time to wind down, and we were going to be called in to meet with the producers soon.
Lyra, ever the peacemaker, pulled out her phone and shoved it in front of his face. “Is this the email address you were using?” she asked.
Anders blinked several times as he refocused on the screen. His anger was like a rolling stone: it gathered speed as it moved, and it was difficult as hell to pull it back. Then he blinked again. “No,” he said, pulling out his own phone and scrolling through his address book before pushing it toward me. “This is.”
We made a weird sort of triangle, standing there holding phones out toward one another, and it made me want to get my own phone out, just to complete the formation. I resisted the urge in favor of frowning at Anders’ screen. “That’s not my email address,” I said. “That isn’t anything even like my email address. Who gave you that address?”
“Jessica,” said Anders. “You ducked out so fast after the finale that I didn’t have a chance to get it from you, and I wanted to keep in touch.”
“She says that like she didn’t come in second,” said Lyra, dialing her smile back and giving Dominic an appraising look. “So you’re dating Val? You think you’re good enough for her?”
“No, but as she doesn’t seem to have realized that yet, I intend to take advantage of my time in her good graces,” said Dominic, with the sort of solemnity he usually reserved for portents of doom and complaints about how long I took in the shower.
Lyra glanced back to me. “Ooo, I like him. Spanish?”
“Italian,” said Dominic.
“I like him even more.” She whirled and gave me another quick hug. “It’s so good to see you again, Val. I know I was supposed to keep in touch better, and I’m sorry. Things got so crazy after I won our season.”
“I understand,” I said. I did, too. It was hard to remember to stay in touch when your life was blowing up around you. “I didn’t make the effort, either. Can we agree to forgive each other?”
“Already forgiven,” said Lyra, making a tossing gesture. “Anders is here, by the way. In case you wanted to see if he was willing to forgive you.”
I grimaced. “On a scale of one to never gonna happen, how much shit am I in?”
“I’d say a nine-point-five,” said a voice from behind me. I turned and found myself looking at a perfectly fastened bow tie. I tilted my head back and shifted my gaze to the big blue eyes of one Anders Clarke.
He was easily six inches taller than me, built like a runner, something he attributed to a combination of genetics and never sitting still. Dance was a world of constant motion, and Anders made the rest of us look lazy. He was a human cartoon in impeccably polished tap shoes . . . at least, he always had been before. Now, he was standing frozen, a sad look on his classically handsome face. Very classically handsome: he could have stepped straight out of a Gene Kelly movie, even down to the cut of his suit. Anders was the only human man I knew who thought of suspenders as a valid fashion choice. Somehow, for him, they were.
“Anders,” I said, starting to reach for him. That was when he finally moved.
He stepped away.
“I emailed you,” he said. “After your phone number was disconnected. I emailed eight times, and you never responded.”
“When did you start?” I asked.
He gaped at me. “When did I start? Because that totally makes up for you never answering me, or reaching out in the first place? We were partners, Val. You should’ve called.”
“I was in Manhattan for a year, and I didn’t get any email from you,” I said. “I would’ve answered.” I would have. I might not have been proactive about keeping in touch with the other dancers from my season—partially out of shame over my loss, and partially because there hadn’t been enough hours in the day—but I answered the people who bothered to contact me. Guilt and curiosity had been enough to guarantee that.
“I started the day after the show ended,” he said.
I blinked slowly. “Sweetie . . . I didn’t get any email from you. Not one single piece. What address were you using? Did you ever swing by Facebook and message me?”
“No, because you were already ignoring my email.” Now Anders was starting to look angry. Never good. He took a long time to wind down, and we were going to be called in to meet with the producers soon.
Lyra, ever the peacemaker, pulled out her phone and shoved it in front of his face. “Is this the email address you were using?” she asked.
Anders blinked several times as he refocused on the screen. His anger was like a rolling stone: it gathered speed as it moved, and it was difficult as hell to pull it back. Then he blinked again. “No,” he said, pulling out his own phone and scrolling through his address book before pushing it toward me. “This is.”
We made a weird sort of triangle, standing there holding phones out toward one another, and it made me want to get my own phone out, just to complete the formation. I resisted the urge in favor of frowning at Anders’ screen. “That’s not my email address,” I said. “That isn’t anything even like my email address. Who gave you that address?”
“Jessica,” said Anders. “You ducked out so fast after the finale that I didn’t have a chance to get it from you, and I wanted to keep in touch.”
