Dance, Sugarplum

15. Lyla

CHAPTER 15

LYLA

ACT 2

I woke up late the following morning. I know I’ve overslept without looking at a clock just from the angle of the sun. I don’t stress for once. It feels good not to have to sneak and pretend, leave the theater and come back in like I’m actually arriving. I’m no longer roommates with the rats or the ghosts, and now that I’m safe and far away in the sky, I feel like I’m in a whole other realm.

What an embarrassing facade it all was, and I’m exceedingly grateful none of the other ballerinas caught me sleeping on the pads. My cheeks burn just at the thought of that level of humiliation, especially after they figured out I was sleeping in my car.

It’s snowing again, or it never stopped. I climb out of bed and look out the window, trying to see if any of the snow accumulated on the sidewalks, but I’m too high up, and all I can see are large drifts of it, uninterrupted, sitting on the tops of buildings. I sigh at how dreamy the picture looks.

Taking a quick inventory of the room, I find that while it’s sparsely decorated, it lacks nothing that I might need, and everything here is my size. The costumer would have my measurements, so it’s not like he had to do anything too crazy to make this happen, but just how long was he planning to bring me here and why? I still don’t know that, and I find that unsettling enough to put a kink in my otherwise dream morning.

I’m still sore from last night. Having sex for the first time was intense, confusing, not my choice, and I’m left feeling profoundly raw at the lack of intimacy. Then Mikhail’s nightmare left me feeling even more scrubbed out. I head into the bathroom where I showered last night, and rather than take another, I opt for a bath. I check the cabinets and grab Epsom salt to soothe the sore flesh between my legs.

After weeks and weeks of cleaning myself over the sink at the gas station, a jetted Jacuzzi tub is my personal miracle. I start the water, making it unbearably hot, pour in a cup of the salt, then step away to undress myself. I look my body over in the mirror as I do. It’s hard to see what about me appeals to him, but I suppose I feel fortunate that it does.

Climbing into the tub, I sink my full body up to my chin. I’ve never been in a tub quite this large, and I moan outright as I turn on the jets and the scalding hot water kneads my muscles. I wash my hair all over again, using up all my shampoo. I want to smell like me again. Clean.

I detangle my hair with my fingers while humming a song. I know I shouldn’t be this happy. Whenever I’m happy, something bad strikes, but I need to enjoy it now. Even if all I have is a screaming-hot jetted tub—okay, this is cool.

When I get out, I hit the dresser instead of the closet, which has way more options than I need right now. Choosing a pair of sweats and a baggy T-shirt, I get dressed and leave the bedroom.

His closed door sits slightly down the hall from my own, but I can’t imagine he’s still in there. Mikhail doesn’t strike me as the type to sleep in, and I always see him at the theater early. Memories of his screams last night raise the fine hairs on my arm, and I have to forcibly pull myself away from the scene.

The stairs lead back the way I came last night. I head down, thinking of something less awkward to say when we see each other. The joking thing really didn’t work for me, and I don’t know if he heard any of my gratitude. Did he leave before I said anything, or did my emotional crap drive him away?

I should be okay with the silence. That’s likely what he wants of me too. I’ve been alone long enough to be okay with that, but when Mikhail is around, I’m a ball of nerves. I want to talk to him.

I step out onto the landing, finding that the foyer is actually round with lots of hallways leading off. The large living area with the floor-to-ceiling windows looks a lot different in the daytime. It’s still just as white but less stark somehow, almost comfortable, just seriously missing any personal touches.

“Hello?” I whisper at first. “Hello?” I repeat louder when I don’t hear anything back.

I circle the living room, looking for him. There are more hallways leading off and down in different directions. You could get seriously lost in this place. I follow one of them down a dark wood-paneled hallway. Finding a set of stairs, I take it to the bottom, where he has a security office. Several cameras are aimed around the apartment, and a view of the foyer sits central. Though it doesn’t show all the rooms, it’s enough to make me think he’s really not home.

It was silly to think we would drive to the theater together, but how else does he expect me to get there? The image of Mikhail driving my piece of shit car here is almost enough to make me laugh. That certainly didn’t happen.

Rubbing the space between my brows, I think about how to make the trip from here to the theater in time. It’s not exactly close. I don’t even know what time it is now, but I refuse to freak out. Worse things have happened to me, after all.

I decide to find the kitchen and look for coffee before I make any decisions. I find the right room as I step through a wide arch, and once again, I gasp. This is seriously beautiful.

He’s got a thing for white, and the kitchen is no exception. The stainless steel appliances lining the room shine without a single fingerprint on them. I walk into the room slowly, taking it all in. Much to my surprise, there’s a plate on the counter with a note on top. My heart races, thinking about his other notes.

Maybe he noticed I’m practicing. Maybe he knows I’m getting better, and he’s proud.

I wish I’d held on to the old ones, but Carter hated them and made a show of throwing each one in the fireplace.

Eduard knows you won’t be at the theater today.

Eat. Rest.

M.

Confused, I turn the paper over, expecting him to have said something more, but nothing else is written. From the man who once compared my body to music itself, this particular note falls flat. I smash the feeling and swallow it, resolving to cover it up with the breakfast he left for me.

I don’t want to sit around focusing on the past today. While I hate to miss rehearsal, I was just given a chance to rest and eat. Two things I desperately need, and I’m not too proud to ignore the opportunity.

Under the note sits a parcel wrapped in white paper. A delicate circular label with a drawing of a lavender flower that I immediately recognize sticks on the butcher paper. The same bakery the ballerinas always eat from—the ones they keep leaving out…

I unwrap the paper, and it’s the same sandwich I’ve eaten all week. My stomach growls, and I want to dig in, but my mind is working fast.

I step back. I was far too hungry to question the food. Hell, I was okay with stealing it. But I suddenly realize I wasn’t stealing it at all. He was feeding me.

I’m divided in my feelings. Part of me is grateful that he helped me when I really needed it, and part of me is profoundly nervous. This mixed with the clothes seems like a little too much. It feels too good to be true, but is any of it real? Ultimately, the answers don’t matter because I’m not wasting food and didn’t kick up a fuss when he brought me here.

I feel heavy after my food and all these strange revelations, and I end up taking a long nap on one of the couches in the living area.

I don’t like that I’m so obedient, especially when I’m concerned he’s stocked his home for me like a pet. Still, eating and resting are all I do. There’s no sign of Mikhail or anyone else, but food appears on the counter every few hours.

I wonder if this apartment is just as haunted as the theater. Salmon arrives for lunch, and a protein shake appears in the afternoon. I finish them and put the dishes in the sink, and like magic, they’re cleaned sometime between meals.

The novelty wears off when it’s after eight. Dinner waits for me, but there is still no Mikhail. I eat alone, my stomach bulging. After months of eating scraps, today was an experience. I don’t wait around for him. It’s obvious he wants to feed me, but I’m not good enough to be around.

I go to sleep in a mood, and I wake up cursing when the same happens. Crossing the hall, I knock on his door, but there’s no answer. I set an alarm the night before so I have time to figure out my way to the theater, but Mikhail leaves the same note over my breakfast.

“Fuck you!” I tell the food, but I eat it anyway.

It’s delicious, and I hate Mikhail for that, for making everything here so lovely and comfortable but denying me what I want most. After taking my fucking virginity, you wouldn’t think something like a little time would be too much to ask for. But I’m an idiot who always seems to forget that expectation breeds disappointment.

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I agreed to come here, but this wasn’t it. When I think about it, I didn’t exactly agree to anything. Mikhail demanded I follow, and I was dumb enough to comply.

I think I hate the man, both for ignoring me and keeping me from the theater.

On day three, I try the lock just to be sure, and of course it’s open. I want to kick myself. This is not an abduction. I go down the elevator. The lobby is just as lovely as it was when I arrived. After greeting the doorman, I walk over to the exit to look outside. It’s snowy again, the frost on the window telling me it’s bitterly cold.

“Miss, I believe you’re supposed to be resting.”

My brow scrunches as I look back toward the man I’ve never seen before.

“What?” I’m not sick. I’m actually the healthiest I’ve been in the past two years.

“Mr. Ivanov wants to ensure you get the rest you need.”

I nod, but I wave him away. I’m okay. “I’m much better now, thanks.”

I move to the door, and he moves too. He raises his hands as if talking me off the ledge. “Miss, I need you to step away and go rest.”

A heavy moment stretches between us, and a creepy feeling blows behind my ear, but I end up agreeing.

“Uh, okay,” I tell him as I step away from the door.

I decide to try the common areas. I don’t want to be locked up for another second, but my desire to explore the building diminishes as a paranoid suspicion creeps over me. I feel like more than one person is watching me as I walk around. I head back up, wondering if that unlocked door meant anything at all.

The afternoon protein shake is gone in two swallows, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m bored.

I don’t want to poke around the building where strangers are watching me, and after finding the security office, I’m sure Mikhail could watch me if he was so inclined, but one thing the past few days have taught me is that he’s not. Maybe I’m counting on him being able to see me. Perhaps I’m angry that he’s left me here after all this time ignoring me.

Walking through the house, I try every door. I throw open the unlocked ones, leaving them for him to find. If he wants to leave me alone so badly, maybe he should see what that looks like.

I’ve opened about fifteen doors and failed to open about twelve when I come upon one that couldn’t be farther from the room he placed me in. I turn the knob, and it fails to twist like it’s locked, but the door itself pushes open as if the last person to close it didn’t make sure that the latch lined up. The door pushes open, and my mouth drops.

It’s all here.

The mirrored wall, the barre, and even a beautiful piano in the corner. I make a beeline for my room, rushing to throw my clothes away and changing into my leotard and tights. I grab my pointes and make a run back to the room, only lacing them up once I’m inside. It’s almost like I’m scared to blink, and it’s gone. I cue some music on my phone and start to dance, finally free.

The choreography isn’t as challenging when I’m not so hungry. I know there’s room for improvement, but damn if it doesn’t feel nice to throw myself into the rhythm and move my body without the fear I might fall. I’m stronger, and at that moment, I feel unbeatable.

I dance across the room with a passion I forgot existed. I leave everything people have to say about me outside of this building. I forget my own expectations and give in to the magic I’ve always felt while dancing. I’m free, alive?—

“What are you doing?”

I gasp, my pirouette ending so abruptly I almost fall and twist my ankle. Mikhail doesn’t seem to care as his eyes laser focus on me. Anger rolls off him as he balls his hands into fists, the air around us thickening.

“I—”

“Leave.” The words scraped his throat and cut me up.

I know it hurts him to speak. It must be especially bad after that nightmare the other night. This is the most he has ever said to me, and he’s causing himself pain to chase me away.

That stings.

I open and close my mouth, feet rooted to the spot as I try to force my body to respond to my brain.

“LEAVE!” This time, he shouts.

I gasp as his voice cracks and breaks, failing in his throat. Everything comes tumbling down on me. All that I built in the past few days was on his foundation. I have done nothing, repaired nothing. I have nothing.

Before I can run away, the tears come.

Why am I such a miserable fool?