THIRTY-SIX
Ryan
The dinner reception was taking place in the Promenade, the sprawling five-story mezzanine area of the theater overlooking the plaza’s lit up fountains. The space looked spectacular. With her impeccable taste, my mother had transformed it into an homage to Stravinsky’s ballet with candlelit tables draped in crimson velvet and adorned by centerpieces of tall vases holding exotic arrangements of long-stemmed red roses and gilded feathers. Classical music was piping into the hall.
My mother’s elegantly dressed guests, who all seemed to know each other, were buzzing about the ballet as they made their way to their assigned tables.
“Wasn’t she magnificent as The Firebird?” I overheard one matron gush.
“Absolutely divine,” replied her friend.
“And what about him? Wasn’t the chemistry between them so beyond?”
My blood was still simmering as I aimlessly wandered through the crowd. I had no idea where I was sitting or if I even had a seat.
Many of the ballet dancers, now out of their costumes, began to infiltrate the crowd. In the distance, I saw my mother, already holding a glass of champagne, mingling with both patrons and dancers. She was in her element. From the corner of my eye, I spotted my father already seated all by himself at their table in his wheelchair. He was nursing his favorite drink—an expensive Scotch—and he looked lonely. I actually felt sorry for him.
I wondered if there would be a seat for me at their table since I’d never RSVP’d to the event. And I wondered if that’s where Gustave Fontaine would be sitting. With his prima ballerina…Willow. My chest tightened as my eyes darted from corner to corner in search of them. A torrent of emotions whirled around inside me. The truth is I was unsure how I would react when I encountered them. Accolades might get buried in a burst of rage.
A vaguely familiar voice broke into my mental turmoil.
“Well, well, well. We meet again.”
I spun around. It was Mira, on crutches. My eyes traveled down her seductively clad lithe body, landing on her bandaged ankle.
“Hi,” I stammered. “Sorry about your foot.” Man, was I. If Mira hadn’t sprained her ankle, Willow would have never danced the role of The Firebird. And I wouldn’t be here feeling as fucked up as I did.
She scoffed at me. “It’ll heal, and when it does, your little girlfriend can say goodbye to her dreams. She’s not Gustave’s type. And never has been. She’s too short and fat. The talentless little shrew doesn’t have what it takes. She’s a fucking pigeon, not a firebird.”
Her scathing insults went in one ear and out the other as I spotted the twosome making their way into the crowd. A photographer was following them, snapping his camera. They were arm in arm, and Willow, now wearing a sexy, strapless red cocktail dress and spiky red heels, was beaming. It was like the chandelier above was shining only on her. On them. A hoard of guests mobbed them, but I was in no mood to fight my way through the crowd to congratulate her. And truthfully, congratulating her was the last thing I wanted to do. Gustave, in his black tie attire and holding his cane, looked smug as Willow dangled on his other arm like a dazzling jewel. While she lit up the room, he dominated it. The connective tissue in my body sparked like a broken power wire. I was burning up. Glowing green in this sea of red. I heard Mira snort as she hobbled away.
More aimless wandering. I wanted nothing more than to get the fuck out of here. Then another familiar voice, this time welcomed, sang in my ear.
“Yo, dude.”
I spun around. Duffy!
As he gave me a man pat on my back, relief flooded me. “Hey, man, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were still on your honeymoon.”
“Came back last night. Covering the event for A&S. Danielle Sanders, our regular dance editor, came down with a bug.”
“Is Sam with you?”
“No. She’s home. She wasn’t feeling well.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I think it’s just jet lag. Maybe a touch of pregnancy fatigue.”
We chatted a bit about their honeymoon in Tahiti and then I changed the subject. “What did you think of the ballet?”
“Honestly? I don’t know shit about ballet, but I thought it was fan-fucking-tastic. Your girl was amazing.”
My heart stuttered. “I don’t think Willow’s my girl anymore.”
Duffy cocked his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“I think I’ve lost her to that asshole with a brick for a dick.”
Duffy followed my gaze over to Gustave and Willow, both still the center of attention.
“That pompous, arrogant pansy?”
“You know him?”
“I wanted to interview him for the magazine, but he wouldn’t give me the time of day. Said he would only talk to the New York Times or the New Yorker.”
Gustave was all about control. Control gave him power. I could see it here in this space. I could see it on the stage. I could see it at my parents’ cocktail party. And there was no doubt in my mind he exerted control in the bedroom. The thought of him banging Willow and making her his submissive sent a rush of nausea to my chest.
“They look good together,” I mumbled.
“Anyone would look good with Willow. She’s a fucking knockout.”
“She’s not even looking for me.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know you’re here. Did you tell her you would be?”
Duffy made a good point. I’d never called or texted her to let her know I was attending the gala. Though it surprised me that she didn’t see me sitting in the front row, maybe, blinded by the lights, she couldn’t. Or…maybe she only had eyes for him.
And then as I glared at them, my eyes widened and my spine stiffened. “Fuck. He put his arm around her.”
Duffster gave me a jab. “What the fuck are you doing standing here talking to me?”
“What should I do?”
“It’s simple. Claim her.”
It never ceased to amaze me how Duffy had become a regular dispenser of love advice to the forlorn.
“Go, pal, and while you’re at it, give me something to write about.”
Without thinking twice, I hurried off in Gustave and Willow’s direction, taking giant steps and elbowing my way through the crowd.
Along the way, I bumped into my mother.
“Ryan, darling,” she said after draining her champagne, “I’ve been looking all over for you. We may have found a seat for you at Table 8.”
“No need, Mother. I won’t be staying.”
Confused, she stared at me with her glazed eyes. God knows how many glasses of champagne she’d consumed. Without saying another word, I continued on my warpath. The closer I got to Willow and Gustave, and the closer they got to each other, the more my rage and jealousy fueled me.
The crowd thickened with women trying to get a photo taken with the two stars or their programs signed. Occasionally, I muttered, “excuse me.”
Finally, when I was a few feet away from them, my eyes made contact with Willow’s. She gasped.
“Oh my God, Ryan, what are you doing here?”
With force, I grabbed her elbow and wrenched her away from Gustave. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. We need to talk.”
Gustave’s face contorted with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? She’s with me.”
“Not any more, ballerina boy.” Then, on my next heated breath, I fisted my right hand and sent it straight to his nose. He groaned. Staggering on his feet, he cursed under his breath as he wiped away the blood that poured from his nostrils.
Without another word or looking back, I marched Willow out of the theater. I didn’t give a flying fuck if people were looking at us. Maybe I’d given Duffy something to write about.