The pleasant ache of exhaustion and a cool night breeze dance through my lungs.
I've traded in my leotard, tights, and pointe shoes for a cotton T-shirt, a pair of black shorts, and a fresh pair of running shoes. They're pretty cute with their lilac purple laces and splatters of grey, mauve, and cherry, dammit. The worst part is that I had to go buy a new pair yesterday, having woken up from a long slumber and remembering the mistake I had made.
At my side, I feel my contemporary teacher's gaze.
I agreed to go on a run with Cal.
We're going at a seven-forty pace. The numbers and graphics of my Apple Watch glow faintly at my wrist, almost melding with the rest of the city lights. A moment later, the watch goes dark.
The pavement comes fast, and glowering, I glance between it and Cal under the brim of my ball cap.
Unlike me, Cal doesn't have a fancy watch. The one that he wears on his wrist is plain with its black strap and darkened display. Otherwise, Cal wears a grey T-shirt and a pair of running shorts that stop a few inches above his knees. The motions of running make the muscles in his tall legs pronounced, flexing beneath tanned, hairy skin with every step. His running shoes, black with streaks of red, chase after my own along the pavement.
Our steps aren't matched. I have to take extra, make my legs run a little faster to keep up with Cal's long strides.
"You look angry," Cal acknowledges. The autumn breeze musses Cal's hair. His bronze eyes, staring innocently at me, could be two imposters among a city full of lights. "Are you mad at me?"
He notices how I glare at him. My mouth curves downward in a frown, and my nose scrunches up a little. Tension mixes with the cool air on my skin.
Two miles in, and I can't decide how to feel about my Monday evening with Cal.
"I'm always mad at you," I tell him. My words are breathless and casual.
About fifteen minutes ago, Cal knocked on my apartment door with a smirk. He knocked not a second past eight o'clock, one hand on his hip and the other on my door frame. Something about that pose, the pose that he stayed in as he asked where in Central Park I wanted to run, incited something in me.
"Well, I would hope that you're not mad because you're realizing that I'm faster than you. Don't feel bad, Mare. Few people can keep up with me, and you haven't run in a while anyway."
It's a nice evening for early October. Remnants of summer still linger in the air, keeping it warm enough to wear T-shirts and shorts on a run. Married couples and groups of friends meander along the tarred pathways, chattering as they go. Their laughs and murmurs complement my bickering with Cal nicely, along with the far-off sounds of Manhattan traffic.
The dying trees and foliage of the city are turned into vivid autumn golds and shadows by the city light. The hulking buildings of Billionaires' Row are never really gone, and their reflections leap into ponds and lakes. Central Park could be a board game while the skyscrapers of Manhattan are its players. Streetlamps line the tarred paths that cut through Central Park like arteries, the same pathways that I saw not so long ago from a brunch table on Fifty-Seventh Street.
I like to think that I can look up and see the stars, but everybody knows that New York City is far too bright for that.
We run along stretches of tar, cross under the shadows of bridges, pass through empty sprawls of grass. Neither Cal nor I came up with much of a route, though we both know the park paths well. Instead, we take turns veering off, choosing whichever turn is more interesting in the moment.
I give Cal a look. "You know that I'm literally running faster than you right now, right? My legs are shorter than yours, so I have to—"
"But I'm carrying more weight. Like, a lot more."
We passed the Loeb Boathouse. We arched around the fountain that Shade and I once talked by, our shoes hitting the cobblestone hard. The Bow Bridge, stretching across a particularly narrow part of The Lake, looms in the distance.
Now we approach The Lake, where reflections of the golden hotels on the Upper West Side stand perfectly still in the clear water. The trees that enclose The Lake are tall and bright with dying leaves that turn red, orange, and yellow in their deaths, branches twisting upward and outward as though reaching for an invisible moon. Our path becomes thick with fallen leaves, and our quick, rhythmic footfalls become noisy with crunching sounds.
The night takes on a whimsical quality at the sight of The Lake and the reflections that swim within it.
Cal takes my silence as indication that he's won our latest squabble.
"Are you mad because you feel like I took advantage of you in the taxi? Do you think that I manipulated you when I said that we were going running on Monday night? You were pretty tired, too tired to lash out or say no. You had lost your inhibitions, considering you agreed with no snarky remarks. You even smiled a little. Poor Mare. Taken advantage of by Cal."
I smile. It sounds like he's talking about something entirely different. But of course, Cal's idea of taking advantage of a girl involves deluding her into going running with him.
"If you recall, it was my idea to go on a run. This is only payment for those extra push-ups," I return, simpering. "Even if three-hundred-fifty push-ups is an outrageous punishment for what I did."
We don't have to talk. We could just run in silence, enjoy the autumn colors. They won't be around forever. We can enjoy the easy silence of having a companion to run with, but we don't have to talk.
It's not like we're going running again. This is the only time this will ever happen.
"Oh." Cal pretends to think. From the corner of my vision, I eye him. He has this natural ability to see right through me and strip away my stage faces. I watch how his arms swing back and forth with his steps, his broad shoulders, biceps that I couldn't wrap both my hands around, and corded forearms moving with graceful ease. It bothers me more than ever how tall he is, how the top of my head only reaches those broad shoulders.
Even as I remember how it felt nice when he perched his head on top of mine, when he rested his hands on my hips, and when he leaned into me so that I could feel the warmth radiating from his big, muscled body.
"You're having fun running with me. Even though I am faster than you, we're still good running partners. You like being outside at night too. And you can't decide whether you should be mad at me or yourself."
I huff a breath of annoyed air into the night.
We reach the edge of the bridge. It curves low and gracefully over the water like the bow of a violin. The pale balustrades are engraved with patterns of interlocking circles and flowers. Our feet pad fast along the wooden planks, leaves still crunching beneath our feet.
So maybe I'm having fun running with Cal.
He's my passageway into the night. I don't have to flinch every time somebody comes around a corner. I can just enjoy the city lights and the way that they coalesce with the park so nicely. I don't have to glance over my shoulder every five seconds. Not as long as he's at my side.
Cal might get on my nerves and under my skin, but I also feel safe with him.
As though nothing and no one could hurt me as long as he's here.
Our footfalls might not be matched, but we easily keep pace with one another. Neither of us is breathing hard. Even after a long day of ballet, my legs don't feel heavy. My lungs only ache in a pleasant, refreshing sort of way.
He's a good running partner.
"Come on," I mutter. We reach the other side of the bridge. I point to our right, where I know we'll find a pathway shadowed by dying leaves and climbing rocks. "That way. Pick up the pace, Cal."
The scratch of Julian's pen against my paper resonates throughout his office.
I finished it just after eight this morning, sacrificing my barre work for two hours in front of my laptop. On Sunday, I wrote the first thousand words of the paper throughout the afternoon between my date with Maven and my lesson with Cal, and the second half came in a blur this morning.
It has to be trash.
Humanism.
Like Julian asked me to, I took a stance on humanism and its impact in the pre-modern era. It might've been a blur, but I did try my best. I read, I took notes, I researched a little. I cited my sources.
Still, I won't bother trying to explain what the hell my paper is about.
I emailed Julian a copy of my paper this morning, but given the busy man that he is, he's only reading it now. I wait patiently, glancing at the two aggravating texts that Cal just sent me.
Since you think that you're faster than me
Then you'd race me
Cal and I went eight miles last night. We ran through the Great Lawn and all the way around the Reservoir before turning back. We were both competitive to the point of stupidity, but I could hardly stand Cal's mocking gaze. So I kept going faster. He kept running after me, never missing a step. Our last mile was sub-six-fifty.
We ended our run at the front door of the Academy, but Cal insisted on walking me to my apartment upstairs. I let him. He had this sincere look on his face, as though it made him feel good to know that I had gotten back to my apartment safely.
Still, I'm not sure what threat lies between the Academy's revolving door and my apartment.
I could just leave him on "read." But with a smirk, I let my thumbs drift to my keyboard.
Find us a race
And you're on
A "read" receipt pops up right away. A moment later, typing bubbles appear on Cal's side of the screen.
5K?
I roll my eyes. Cal would win a 5K. With his tall, masculine build, he's faster than me over shorter distances, but I can catch up in the long run.
My thumbs drift to the keyboard again.
Pathetic. Let's do ten
The text bubbles appear even faster this time.
Why not just a half?
There's one in Brooklyn next weekend
I raise my brows at that.
Half. As in . . . half-marathon.
From wherever he is, Cal sees my pause. The text bubbles don't appear on his end right away.
My lip curls.
He set me up.
Yes. Cal didn't spontaneously come up with his Brooklyn half-marathon idea just now. He didn't just happen to remember that there's a half-marathon in Brooklyn next weekend.
Races are usually on early Saturday mornings. We also have class on Saturday. He already checked to make sure that we'd be done with the half in time to get over the bridge and back to Midtown before Blonos's technique begins.
Fine
Get us the bibs, and I'll race you
My thumbs glide across my keyboard angrily.
How the hell is Cal going to get registered for a half-marathon in a week and a half? You have to sign up months and months before the race, and there's no way that people are still selling their bibs on Facebook.
Then again, Cal has his Calore charm and money.
I'm on it
Cal finishes off our text thread with a provoking thumbs-up emoji.
He's been taking the offensive lately in our little game. He danced with me on the stage of the Met after midnight without complaining. He got me to run with him last night, and now we're running a half together.
He reads my mind every chance he gets, calls me out when I lie to him.
I suppose he wants redemption after losing to me so horribly and embarrassingly at Monopoly.
"You can text your boyfriend later, Mare."
Julian's fingers are snapping in my face, and I fumble with my phone before catching it halfway in its descent to the ground.
Recovering, I slip my phone into the backpack resting at the foot of my chair.
"Did you finish grading, Julian?" I ask.
I don't bother to correct Julian's assumption about Maven.
Instead, I just shift in my chair so that I can look at my professor. He wears a smile and kind eyes along with his sweater. I try not to look too nervous as I fold my hands in my lap and cross my ankles.
I've come to be comfortable in Julian's office. I liked the cluttered, warm feeling of it, a feeling that Julian himself radiates. His books, Broadway posters, and dangerously messy desk never make for dull scenery. His lectures, always recited with zeal, make his office all the better.
Julian pushes my nine-page stapled paper across his desk and into my hands. I see red lines in every margin, circles and slash marks.
Still, my professor wears that smile of his.
In the top right-hand corner of the first page, Julian's written B- and circled it.
I can't help but replicate Julian's smile.
"You corrected like . . ."
"I held you to the same standards that I would any one of my anthropology students," Julian returns. "Excellent job. I can tell you worked hard on it. You should be proud of yourself."
My eyes skim over the red ink. I'll have to pour over it later.
A B-minus for a paper at NYU. Not bad.
"We'll start our lesson on economics in just one moment," Julian says, twisting over the edge of his chair. His head disappears beneath his desk as he grapples for something. "But for completing your first assignment, I figured that a gift was in order."
He's searching for something pretty feverishly beneath his desk.
How much crap does he have underneath there?
"Oh, Julian, you don't need to—"
Julian throws up a disembodied hand. "Pfft. Please don't worry about it. I'm a professor at NYU, I work for the Calores, and I have a handsome 401K as of the moment. It's a gift, please."
At last, Julian pulls out a violet-colored hoodie. In white text, NYU is written across its front in all-caps. There's a little graphic of the university's torch, just like the one that the Lady of Liberty carries out in New York Harbor. It looks like it's a small women's hoodie.
"Oh, Julian, I can't—"
"For fear that you would say that, Mare, I already ripped off the tags."
Julian tosses the sweatshirt on top of my paper.
"Since you're basically a student of NYU now, I figured you should have some merch. I also got you a student I.D."
My eyes bug out when Julian tosses me a purple lanyard with an I.D. holder attached to it.
This explains why Julian asked me to stand still last Thursday as he took my picture against his one wall that isn't burgeoning with books or artwork.
At the time, he wouldn't explain why he needed to take my photo with his phone.
I stare back at the photograph that turned out half-decent. I have my hair pulled back, and even after yet another day of ballet, I look awake enough. The card itself is purple, and 'NYU' and its torch are inscribed again in white at the top. "August 2019" is printed beneath my photo.
"Mareena Titanos," Julians says, saying the name that reads across the card. "I pulled some strings with somebody I know in the administrative office. They registered you as a student here. Mareena is a sophomore at NYU double-majoring in economics and politics at the College of Arts and Sciences.
"You're a New York native, though you actually grew up in a wealthy Brooklyn neighborhood. Top of your high school class, thirty-six on the ACT. I said that you were a captain of cross country running, a state champion of debate, and the pioneer of your school's Model UN.
"You held an impressive three-point-eight-two GPA during your Freshman year at NYU, and you're allegedly studying abroad for the semester in London."
Completely serious, my professor blinks at me.
"What? I had some time on my hands. Coming up with your background story was quite fun, actually. I just added two syllables onto your first name. Titanos means "of the Titans" in Greek. That's fun, right? It seemed like a bad idea to put your actual name on the card. If somebody finds out that you're not an actual student here, you and I could get into trouble."
Julian's speaking my language.
"So what do I, um, need a fake student I.D. for?" I ask. The words come disjointed and mumbled as I stare at my newfangled I.D.
As though he doesn't know why he went through the struggle of buying me a sweatshirt or making me a whole student profile, Julian shrugs.
He straight-up shrugs.
"Well, you can go to the library. Have you seen how nice our libraries are? They're absolutely fantastic. And if you ever have a day off at the Academy, you could sit in on lectures if you'd like. That I.D. there is your key to all of the university."
The sweatshirt feels soft against my fingers. University sweatshirts are expensive.
Maybe the idea of pretending to be a smart, cultured university student sounds fun, actually. I could go waltzing around campus on Sunday afternoons with my fake I.D. and NYU hoodie. I could fill my backpack with books on history and anthropology. On those rare days that I have off from dancing, I could sit at the back of a lecture hall. Maybe I could go to Julian's lectures.
That B-minus is changing something in me. Just like with ballet, I start to feel the want to do better, to be perfect. To get the A, in this case.
I find myself nodding, already slipping the lanyard around my neck.
What's the harm?
"I guess I do need to find my next book," I tell my professor with a smile.
After Julian's lesson, I meet Maven in the shadows of my brother's apartment building.
"Hey," I murmur, watching him as he descends down the cement steps that lead inside. He's backdropped by the lights of Little Italy, the electric red of restaurant signs mingling with the tail lights of taxis. He got off a taxi of his own a few blocks back, electing to walk the rest of the way.
"Hey." Maven closes the distance between us. In a quick, smooth movement, he has his hands on my hips and pulls me close.
His lips, soft and familiar, tease mine. He smiles against my mouth as I loop my arms around his shoulders and lean into him. He laughs a little when I rise up on my toes so he doesn't have to tilt his head down so much.
It's not terribly late. It's just past eight, and if this goes well, maybe we'll be out by nine.
I let him deepen our kiss, let him press me against the wall of the staircase.
His tongue finds mine, tasting either like minty gum or mouthwash.
I left my backpack in Julian's office. Sometimes I wish that I could tell him about my history lessons. Maven could talk for hours about the kind of stuff that Julian teaches me about.
But this is something that I have to do alone.
It's better that I don't talk about Julian anyway. I wouldn't want to risk letting his secret slip.
Maven and I are both dressed in muted colors. He wears a black jacket along with a pair of dark jeans and Converse. I have on a black zip-up, not unlike Cal's, along with plain leggings and boots.
The Scarlet Street Fighters have been lying low lately.
I mean, the FBI and the NYPD have been after them for the last month. Farley and Kilorn can't even step foot outside in Manhattan anymore. Maven and I talk about the Street Fighters so little that it's easy to forget what we are.
Every step has to be perfectly plotted out, planned with precision down to the very second.
Tyton said that the Scarlet Street Fighters are pulling some shit this week.
I guess that they're done planning.
Shade texted me last night, told me that I should invite my boyfriend over to his apartment for a late dinner.
Maven sighs in discontent when I pull away. "I'd rather just stay out here and kiss you, Mare."
Somehow, I don't think that there's going to be dinner.
I still let my hand drift to his. His skin feels like the cool night air.
"Me too," I tell him. It doesn't stop me from opening the door to the building or slipping inside the hallway ahead of Maven. "But I'm sure we could pick up where we left off after dinner."
There's still no dinner.
Maven chuckles, following me as we advance down the hall.
The stairs come too fast, and we climb up them in hurried steps.
I watch Maven out of the corner of my eye. He hides his emotions well, but he's nervous to meet whoever's on the other side of Shade's apartment door.
The Scarlet Street Fighters don't trust him.
Street Fighters aside, Shade doesn't like Maven at all.
Still, Maven will take it. For the first time in his life, he feels like he's doing something on his own. Some people might call our cause sick and messed up, but it isn't to us. It isn't to Maven. Even if it terrifies me sometimes.
He's taking down the father who's never loved him, tearing down his family's corrupt dynasty.
He's certainly not walking in Cal's shadow.
I don't bother saying something encouraging to Maven. Not as I rap my knuckles against Shade's apartment door three times and wait patiently beside my boyfriend. I don't let go of his hand.
The door flies open on my third knock. It comes open so fast that a gust of wind hits the pores on my face.
Diana Farley leers back at me and Maven. The scar along her jawline stretches a little as she smiles. Her features are as hard as ever, and I can't decide if the scarlet robe that she wears over a sweatshirt that says 'BROOKLYN' is intimidating or not. I should've brought mine to match her.
Shade stands at her side with an arm wrapped around her back. He smirks at Maven.
Past the couple, I find Tyton, Ella, and Rafe seated at Shade's kitchen island. I hear the sound of Kilorn's voice in the living room, muttering to someone else. Other voices mingle with his.
I guess we have a full house of Scarlet Street Fighters tonight.
"So, are you guys busy tomorrow night?"
While there must be a million things that Shade wants to say to us, I wasn't expecting a question.
I turn my head to my partner. In spite of Farley's spitting-fire gaze, Maven's hand stays in mine. He tilts his head as he regards Farley, pretending for all of the world like he isn't afraid of her. "I guess not."
I'm not busy either. Cal has to go to some high society party tomorrow night, so we rescheduled our lesson for Thursday. I'll still have time to fit in a short lesson with Julian up at the library too.
I raise a brow at Maven. "You aren't? Why aren't you going to that party with Cal?"
Maven shrugs, ignoring Shade and Farley for a moment. "I need a date." He smirks. "Cal and Evangeline are going together. I didn't think you'd want to go, and honestly, I don't either."
Not knowing what to do with two lovesick, teenaged Street Fighters on their hands, Farley and Shade scowl. Shade glares at Maven just like he did at brunch, and Farley looks about ready to pull out a knife and end our relationship right here.
From inside, Tyton smiles at me. His stormy eyes glimmer.
Hey, Princess, he mouths, winking at me.
Luckily for Tyton, Maven misses it.
"The party at the Plaza Hotel. That's the one just off from Central Park, right?" Farley asks. "I hear it's going to be a big thing. All of high society's going to be there. The Calores, the Samoses, the Cygnets . . . they'll all be there. The mayor's even supposed to make an appearance. I'm surprised you managed to get out of going, Maven."
Crap.
Farley and Shade wear conniving looks now.
There's no good reason why Farley's heard about the high society party at the Plaza Hotel. Knowing Farley, it's a feat that she even knows where the Plaza Hotel is. Farley's a Brooklyn girl.
Maven shrugs again. He's looking a little nervous now."Cal's going. As long as my brother's there, no one will miss me at the Plaza. I asked, and my dad told me I could have the night off from high society."
Shade laughs a little.
"Well tell Mister Calore that you changed your mind. You're going to that party, Maven."
Farley laughs next.
"And you're bringing your girlfriend too."