I don’t even want to think about two days without Blitz.
On Saturday morning, I get up and throw myself into housecleaning with Mom. Dad and Andy take off for soccer practice. I’m relieved to be away from his constant supervision, as I’m afraid I’m wearing my obsession on my sleeve.
While Mom and I pick up knickknacks to dust beneath, I wish I could tell her what was happening. Ask her advice.
But it’s not possible. I cannot cause her pain, can’t get between her and my father again. She made her choice to stick by him even as he became this paranoid, punishing, unforgiving man.
The idea that I’m interested in a man like Blitz would no doubt cost me my freedom. She’d tell my father, and that would be it. No more ballet. No more Gabriella.
Not worth it.
I live and relive the kiss in the storage room like it’s a favorite song I can play on infinite repeat. I’m still not sure how all this has happened. Why did he pick me out of all the girls in San Antonio?
Shortly after lunch, Mindy shows up to hang out. My father approves of our taking the short walk to the park two blocks down. I know he’ll pass by every half hour or so to make sure we aren’t talking to any boys, but that’s fine. It’s not like Blitz is going to show up, and I’m definitely not interested in anyone else.
When we’re far enough away to talk, she asks me, “So what’s happening with Blitz? I’ve been dying to know.”
“He kissed me!” I say. I can’t help it. I have to tell somebody.
“Oh my God!” she exclaims, then claps her hand over her mouth. “Now tell me every detail!”
I describe as best I can the encounter in the recital hall and then in the storage room, including his graceful exit.
“This is so romantic!” Mindy says. “My best friend is having a fling with a reality show star!”
“An ex-reality show star,” I say.
“But isn’t getting his show back the whole reason he’s doing all this charity stuff?” Mindy asks.
“He is?” I ask.
“That’s why he’s at Dreamcatcher.” Mindy pulls out her phone. “He’s organized a fund-raiser and kissed a pig at a rodeo and —”
“He WHAT?” I try to picture Blitz and a pig and it so does not fit.
“Yeah, he went to some rodeo last weekend and kissed a pig. If they got so-and-so much money for some charity, he would do it in the arena.”
“Show me.”
Mindy taps on the screen. “Here’s the video.”
I look around, making sure my dad isn’t taking a stroll right about now. I have to be visible when he walks by, but hidden enough that he can’t see what we’re doing.
I look around. “Let’s sit on that bench,” I say. Our backs will be to the sidewalk.
We head there and Mindy hands the phone over. The still shot is of Blitz in a cowboy hat and jeans. My pulse speeds up at the sight of him. He looks so different but still perfect.
Blitz stands on a stage with an announcer. It’s not the big San Antonio rodeo, which isn’t until February. It looks pretty small and informal. A teenager brings out a pig with a ribbon on its collar. Blitz gets down on his hands and knees to plant one on its pink snout.
I laugh. He’s trying so hard. He’ll do anything.
“If he gets his show back, he’ll leave for LA again,” I say, eyes still on the video.
“You’ll just have to marry him and go!” Mindy says.
She’s so crazy. And impractical. That’s not how these things work. Even if I was his soul mate, he’d have to go back to his job. And his contestants. Women willing to strip naked for him in front of everyone.
His wife is supposed to come from Dance Blitz. It’s part of the show.
The video ends and another one automatically begins. It’s not a news station, but a celebrity gossip site.
A woman sits with a video in the background, like a newscaster. She says, “And Blitz Craven continues his wild nights deep in the heart of Texas. The dancing Romeo, who was recently the subject of a Twitter scandal when he posted a naked woman in his bed, is back in the saddle with socialite Avery Hines, daughter of tech mogul Michael Hines.”
The video behind her shows Blitz, in jeans and a black jacket, escorting a woman in a slinky red dress to an open limo. His arm is on her back.
My stomach drops. “When was this?” I ask.
“Maybe that was last week,” Mindy says. “Before he even met you.”
But the woman goes on.
“The King of Dance has been seen with several prominent Texas women since he kissed a pig at a small local rodeo last weekend.” Behind her flash several images of Blitz in various places around San Antonio, a different woman on his arm each time.
So he has been seeing other women all week. And unlike me, brushing off his kisses for days, these women probably do all the things he wants.
“You think any of those were last night?” I can barely ask the question, my mouth has gone so dry. “Do you think he went out with someone after he kissed me yesterday?” The words are physically painful, like barbs in my throat.
“No way,” Mindy says. “You said the owner warned him away from you, right? That’s probably what made him see other people. And now that he knows how he feels about you, he won’t. There wasn’t a date on that footage. It could have been a few days ago.”
But I’m not sure about that. I close the video and look on her phone for Twitter. When I open the app, I type in #BurnBlitzBurn.
Page after page of Tweets appear. I read a few out loud to Mindy.
“Looks like the alphahole dancer is making moves on Texas women. Maybe one of them will shoot him. #BurnBlitzBurn.”
“Don’t,” Mindy says. “It’ll make you crazy.”
I find another one.
“Somebody tell the new girls to take his phone away before bedtime. #BurnBlitzBurn.”
“Stop,” Mindy says.
But I can’t quit reading them, pausing on keywords. Jerk. Horrible. Worst kind of man. Shoot his balls off.
One of the Tweets has another hashtag. #BlitzSightingTexas. I click on it and another set of messages fall in a line.
“Spotted on the Riverwalk draped over some chick. Wanted to push him in. #BurnBlitzBurn #BlitzSightingTexas.”
The Tweet was last night.
Last night. The night after our kiss.
Some of the Tweets have pictures. I can’t look.
I hand the phone back to Mindy.
She tries to hug me but I resist.
“He screwed up, Livia,” she says. “He’s trying to fix it. He kissed a pig!”
“He hasn’t changed,” I say, my voice dull. I feel numb now. “He’s just a flirt. He probably kissed ten women yesterday.”
And I was the stupidest one, I think silently. I want to cry. He probably calls all of them Princess. What a stupid name, anyway.
But the weekend will be a lot easier now. I’m not waiting for Monday anymore. I’m waiting for him to be gone.