Leaps & Lies

Chapter Fourteen

S ince her first steps into Brighton Harbor Dance, dance has always been Vivian’s. It has belonged to her in a way that very little else in her life has. She has always had something that the other dancers—with their countless leotards in every color and seemingly infinite supply of shoes—lacked.

Vivian’s always had a lack of respect for moderation.

She doesn’t do anything by halves, wouldn’t know how to if she tried. It’s impossible not to want and try with every molecule of her body. Every point of her foot uses her complete range of motion. Every leap gets the fullest extension and then a little more. Utilizing every ounce of her energy, body, and ability is the only way she knows how to dance. It’s the only way worth dancing. Since the evenings after school she spent helping Ms. Lorraine with data entry and cleaning the studio in order to pay for her classes, she’s always given everything. It’s bittersweet to think that dedication has brought her all the way to Ellapond. To Ms. Renee, Scarlett, Kelsey, and Alex. To Julian. To the dull throb in her shoulder and the sharp stabbing in her heart. To these overwhelming emotions of anxiety and frustration.

In her—admittedly brief—dance career, Vivian has never suffered an injury severe enough to push her onto the sidelines. She’s danced on rolled ankles, bruised toes, and other minor injuries. Even when she broke her finger after closing a car door on it, Ms. Lorraine just eyed her finger skeptically and asked if the splint could be color-coordinated with her skirt. Vivian’s never been forced to stop dancing before, and the stakes have never been this high before.

What are all the lies, work, and time for if her career is over before it began? From her lies to Ms. Renee, Maureen, and everyone at Ellapond, her move to Bristol, her tolerance of Kelsey, her patience with Alex’s sweaty hands . . .

She’s put in so much work only to have her dream crash and burn before it even gained traction.

Scarlett:

Alex told me what happened. How are you feeling?

Scarlett:

It’s okay if you’re mad at him but he feels really bad.

Scarlett:

Smoothies later? I’ll pick you up so you don’t have to drive with a sling.

The chattering of her phone vibrating against the uneven multipurpose wooden table—her coffee table, bookcase, dining table, and nightstand—pulls Vivian from her wallowing. When the buzzing persists, she answers the incoming call without bothering to glance at the screen.

“Thanks for the offer, Scarlett, but I’m not really in the mood. I’m exhausted. Tell Alex—”

“Tell Timmer what?” a deeper voice asks.

“Hello?” she asks in a wobbly voice. Vivian pulls the phone away from her face to see that the incoming number isn’t saved as a contact.

Then Julian’s smooth voice melts through the air into her waiting ears. “Hey, Sugar Plum. Come outside.”

Vivian’s heart drops into her stomach as anxiety pulses through her veins. Come outside?

“What?”

“Did you suffer a head injury besides the shoulder dislocation, or are you simply not listening to me? Come outside. I brought your car. You’ll have to drive me back though.”

He brought her car. Here. To her studio apartment that’s small enough to serve as a life-size dollhouse.

“You brought my car here? I’ll be right down to drive you back.” Maybe if she’s fast enough, she can drive him right back to Ellapond without having to give him a tour.

“Sounds good. I’m in the lobby.”

Four words shouldn’t be enough to break a heart, but the fissure in her chest stabs her all the same when they register.

He’s in the lobby.

Her apartment building on Glenmarie Street doesn’t have a lobby. She’s never made enough in her whole life to live somewhere with a lobby. But 1005 Custrel Complex—the building she ducked into last night—sure does.

“You there?” Julian’s voice lowers until he’s whispering into the phone. “There’s a lady with an orange cat on a leash eyeing me. Can you come down already?” Despite the words, his deep timbre leaves Vivian’s arms covered in goosebumps.

“Who’s eyeing you—the lady or the cat? Never mind, I’ll be right there.”

With a hoodie shoved over her head to combat the late September chill and her blonde curls crammed into a lopsided bun, Vivian takes off on foot.

To Vivian’s absolute dismay, Julian doesn’t miss a fucking thing.

When Vivian enters 1005 Custrel Complex through the front door, Julian’s eyebrows shoot up. They’re high enough to be in danger of joining his hairline soon.

“Have a nice walk?” he asks.

“Sure. It’s nice out.”

It’s not. It’s gray, windy, and on the verge of rain. The air is cool enough that Vivian was still shivering in her sweatshirt. Late September in Bristol has autumn in full force.

“Right. Well, do you have any coffee? I could really use another cup before I deal with the corps today.” He sighs as though dealing with the corps is the worst punishment Ms. Renee could inflict on him.

“Is that your punishment for breaking your principal? No coffee. I ran out. But we can stop on the way to Ellapond and get some. Where’d you park?” she says quickly.

“In the lot.”

This place has a parking lot? Damn, fancy.

“Sounds good, let’s go.” Vivian tries to herd Julian through the lobby toward the doors. Despite several weeks working together in rehearsals, they don’t often touch. Instead, she does her best to use nonverbal body language and facial expressions to indicate that it’s time to leave. He doesn’t move, and she ends up walking right into him, chest colliding with his side in a way that zings pain through her injured shoulder. She can’t help the wince and gasp that escape.

“Why aren’t you wearing your sling?”

In her rush to get Julian far, far away from anywhere she lives or pretends to live, putting on her sling hardly registered. But she can’t exactly say that, so she settles on, “I forgot it.”

It’s the wrong answer.

“You should be wearing it, Sugar Plum. Let’s go get it.” His long legs stride across the lobby before Vivian can get an excuse out. He jams the elevator button with a finger before peeking over his shoulder at where she’s still gaping at him, desperately trying to plot her way out of this.

But then the elevator dings its arrival, and he enters, politely setting a hand against the metal doors to keep them open for her.

And like an obedient, lying idiot, she follows. The elevator moves as soon as they’ve entered, presumably responding to the call of another resident—an actual resident.

Maybe they can get off on that floor and then she can pretend to have lost her keys on her walk and then . . .

“What floor, Sugar Plum?” Julian’s long fingers are hovering over the elevator buttons, poised to select one at her command.

Maybe it’s rain in the air, or maybe it’s the pain in her injured arm. Maybe it’s the way he hasn’t told Ms. Renee or anyone else about her lie. Maybe it’s temporary insanity. But Vivian’s next secret spills out. Unprompted and stark.

“I don’t live here.”

With shockingly little convincing, Julian coaxes Vivian into taking him to her real apartment. They retrieve her car from the lot, and Julian drives the brief distance to her place. He carefully follows her quiet admissions of, “Turn here,” “Make the next left,” and, “Park anywhere. There’s no lot.”

Julian circles the block twice, unable to find a spot that he deems close enough.

Similar to the prior evening, the tension in the car is sharp and unpredictable. The air is charged and heavy, mirroring the impending storm outside. As though either of them could combust at merely an eye roll or harsh word.

Finally, Vivian snaps, “I walked all the way to Custrel from here. I can walk from this block to the building. Just park already.”

Neither speaks until Julian has parked, they’ve exited the car, climbed the stairs to Apt. #4C, she’s wiggled her key in the lock just right , and she finally throws the door open carelessly. The door swings wide, thumping into the wall next to the fridge when she spits out a tired, “Happy?”

Vivian doesn’t watch Julian assess her studio. She doesn’t need to see his critical eyes study the low, uneven table that functions as her coffee table, bookcase, dining table, and nightstand. It’s mostly neat, but there’s scattered ribbons, glue, and sewing supplies from her last pointe shoe surgery session. She doesn’t want to know what he thinks of the lumpy green monstrosity that serves as her bed, couch, and chair. She doesn’t want to watch him realize that despite her exquisite turns, she’s merely another girl, clinging desperately to a childhood dream. That the day they first met—when she tumbled out of the back seat of her car after the driver’s door handle snapped off—wasn’t merely an “off” day. Vivian doesn’t want to watch Julian pass judgment on her, not again.

“Sit down.” He gestures to the pea-green futon, as though he’s the host rather than her, before pulling her coffee table away from the couch. He settles himself on the floor, directly in front of her feet.

All at once, tears sting at her eyes, and a fierce tickle itches in her nose. Her throat feels thick and itchy. She’s not going to cry. Not after yesterday. Not again .

Julian King is sitting on the floor of her studio apartment. All six feet of powerful, lean limbs sitting at her feet in front of her ugly futon. A magnificent zealot kneeling in supplication before an unworthy god. It’s unimaginable, and yet, when she skates cautious fingers along his jawline, his stubble is blunt beneath her fingers.

“Please. You don’t need to sit there.”

“Stop. We need to talk, and I’ll feel better if I’m not towering over you.”

We need to talk.

He’s not her boyfriend. Julian’s not even her friend. At best, they’re colleagues working toward a common goal. At worst, she’s merely a work project to him. A task to complete and check off before moving on.

Principal dancer: trained??

The four words shouldn’t inspire instantaneous anxiety, yet Vivian can’t help the way her heart rate ramps up upon hearing them. The tears from moments ago are now threatening to fall, and he hasn’t said anything of substance yet.

“Fine. Let’s talk.”