TWENTY-SEVEN
Willow
“…Gustave Fontaine.”
At the very mention of his name, I felt all the blood in my body drain and all the air leave my lungs.
It had been over six grueling months of recovery. I’d given him everything, all of me, but he had fucked me, literally and figuratively, shattering my heart, ego, and soul into a million pieces. Still holding Ryan’s hand, I looked for a place to hide. But it was too late. Ryan’s mother ushered him into the room and his eagle-like eyes made contact with mine. All eyes were on the dashing impresario with the shiny black cane as they headed our way.
“Ryan, can we leave?” I spit out the words.
“Willow, what’s the matter?”
“I just want to leave.”
“Do you feel sick?”
“Yes.” Sick to my stomach. I felt like I might puke.
“Okay. Just let me say goodbye to my mother and a quick hello to her guest and we can split.”
Too late. Oh God, no! There was no avoiding him. No escape. Every nerve in my body on edge and my stomach a giant knot, I kept my head down as Ryan planted his hand on my lower back and ushered me toward the man I dreaded seeing again. His mother was beaming.
“Ryan, darling, I’d like you to meet, Gustave Fontaine. He’s the artistic director of the ballet company for which I’m hosting a fundraiser tomorrow night at Lincoln Center.”
“Nice to meet you.” Ryan shook Gustave’s hand as his mother’s focus shifted to me.
“And this is my son’s new girlfriend…Willow.”
Gustave’s hand took mine and lifted it to his smirking lips. My spine tensed like a tightrope as they touched down on my flesh.
“How sublime to see you, my petite oiseau.” Pronounced wha-zoh, the word was French for bird. It was Gustave’s pet name for me because when I leaped it was like I was flying.
His eyes narrowing, Ryan cocked his head. I could feel tension radiating off his body. “You two know each other?”
Gustave fired him a dirty look. “Miss Rose was one of the lead dancers of my ballet company. A rising star.”
“Miss Rose?” The expression on Ryan’s face told me he was putting two and two together. “And the name of your company would be…”
Oh, God!
“The Royal Latvia Ballet.”
Ryan’s jaw dropped to the floor, but before he could utter a word, his tipsy mother chimed in.
“Ah! Willow Rose! Of course! I knew you looked familiar. Darling, I’m sure I’ve seen you dance in Europe.”
“I-I don’t perform anymore,” I stuttered, Gustave’s presence suffocating me.
“It is such a pity. I have been trying to woo her back.” He eyed me lasciviously, leering at the ballerina neckline of my little black dress.
Beads of sweat were clustering behind my knees and nausea was rising in my chest like a tempest. Gustave was getting to me. Already casting a wicked spell. I needed to get to a bathroom quickly.
“Excuse me, but I need to use the restroom.” I was thankful that only words spilled out of my mouth.
“Willow, there’s one down the hall.” Ryan’s concerned voice drifted into my ears as I dashed out of the packed living room, hoping to find a bathroom quickly in this sprawling apartment. Thankfully, I came upon one just in time. I raced inside and falling to my knees, I lifted up the toilet seat. Holding back both my long braid and Ryan’s dangling pendant necklace, I wretched until there was nothing more I could throw up. My knees weak, I stood up and staggered to the sink, glimpsing myself in the mirror. I looked wretched, nothing like the glamorous woman who had arrived here only minutes ago. Turning on the faucet, I rinsed my mouth and then splashed cold water on my face, not caring if I washed off my makeup. How many times had he done this to me? That was his power. His invincible super power. To make me fall apart. Make me undone. Haphazardly twisting my braid into a bun, I made my way to the door on my Jell-O-like legs. Cranking it open, I got another surprise.
Mira Abramovitch. Or should I say Abramobitch, which is what the other dancers called her. My archrival. The girl who coveted every part I got and did her best to sabotage me. We’d competed against each other since we were in pre-school. Or more precisely, she’d competed against me. With the support of her wealthy, power-driven mother, who was set on her daughter becoming the world’s foremost ballerina.
I literally froze, ready to puke again.
She was skinnier, blonder, and more intimidating than ever. Her platinum hair was tied back in a tight chignon and glittering diamonds dotted her ears. Her bony hands were splayed on her hips, which jutted from her body-hugging fuchsia dress. Every muscle and bone protruded. It was no secret in the ballet world that she was a major bulimic. Rumor had it she used laxatives to purge and could stick a finger down her throat deeper than a dick.
If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. Her predatory cat-green eyes met mine. A slow poisonous smile snaked across her face as she gave me the once over.
“Hello, cow.”
Cow? Yes, recovered from my breakdown, I was at last back to a healthy weight, thanks to my therapy, nurturing father, and Ryan. But by most standards, I was still as thin as a rail.
“Moooooo!” she snickered.
Anger rising in me like bile, I tried to brush past her, but she blocked the door with her outstretched sinewy arms. I was too weak to jostle her.
“Hey, bovine, you look like you’re ready for the slaughter house,” she snipped.
“Please…I need to go,” I rasped, my throat raw from vomiting.
“No bitch,” she barked back. “You need to know I’m Gustave’s girl now. He’s cast me in the lead of The Firebird. I’ll be performing it tomorrow night.”
The part I always wanted to play. The role I was born to play. The role for which I’d endured tendinitis, shin splints, blisters, sprains, and sleepless nights. And last but not least, Gustave’s wrath and passion. In one desperate heartbeat, I yearned to be a ballerina again. Gustave’s ballerina. Gustave’s puppet. Gustave’s Firebird.
Another wave of nausea rolled through my chest as Mira continued to block the doorway.
“And by the way, I fuck him now. He’s amazing.”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t stop myself. On my next breath, a stream of vomit flew out of my mouth, landing all over Mira.
“Oh my fucking God!” she screeched, looking down at the damage I’d done. My puke was all over her bony chest and the bodice of her dress.
Still shrieking and cursing, she let go of the doorframe and dashed to the sink. Seeing my window of opportunity, I fled.